The shack groaned under the weight of another storm.
Wind pushed through the broken shutters like a dying breath. Rain tapped against the roof in slow, irregular patterns—like the beat of a giant heart buried beneath the Gutterrun slums.
Baelgar didn't move.
He was laid on a heap of straw and cloth scraps, eyes wide, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other curled against his chest.
His stomach rumbled.
He ignored it.
Karst was asleep.
Laid out in the far cot, shirtless again, one leg half-dangling over the side.
The empty flask beside him still dripped onto the floor. He wouldn't stir until morning.
Good.
Baelgar turned slightly. His gaze shifted to Mirka.
She sat by the hearth, clutching a half-filled bottle of red-brown liquor, humming that broken hymn again. Her eyes were puffy. Her lips cracked.
But tonight… she hadn't screamed.
She hadn't struck him. Not yet.
And for once, she seemed… almost human.
Her eyes wandered as the flameless hearth glowed faintly with the storm's reflection. A pile of old rags and junk sat beside her.
Within it, books.
Cracked leather-bound volumes, some with torn spines, others with pages yellowed and curling. One had a symbol etched on the front—a triangle of wings surrounding an eye.
Baelgar's eyes narrowed.
Books. Real ones.
She kept them.
He shifted, propped himself up slightly using his elbows. His limbs had grown stronger this week—subtle gains. His muscles responded better now. Faster.
He crawled silently, his body small and low like a creature used to shadows.
Then paused at her side.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were glazed.
But she wasn't drunk enough to forget her memories. Not yet.
He waited.
Then chose his moment.
"What… is that?" he asked softly, his voice dry but precise.
Mirka blinked.
Looked down.
Stared at him.
"Did you speak?"
Baelgar nodded once.
Her face twisted. A tear slipped down.
She reached toward him, slowly, almost gently.
"You can talk?" she whispered.
"Yes."
A pause. Then a broken sob left her lips.
She pulled him into her arms—clumsily, as if he were both treasure and trash.
"You're... not cursed. You're not. You're just smart. I knew it."
He didn't resist the embrace.
He let her cry.
Let her rock.
Then, softly:
"Books. What's inside them?"
Mirka looked down again, eyes hazy.
"Old things. Religion. Guild stuff. Some war stories. One of 'em talks about nobles… how they used to live."
"Read it," he said.
She blinked.
"Now?"
He nodded.
"Please."
She smiled—softly, bitterly. Then reached for the smallest book. Its cover was flaking. The first page fell apart as she opened it.
But she read.
Badly.
Slurred.
Stumbling over every other word.
Still… he listened.
He learned.
And she kept going.
Until the bottle emptied.
Her voice slowed.
And then—she dropped the book. Slumped against the wall.
Her eyes closed.
The room fell silent again.
Baelgar pulled himself out of her arms. Rolled gently to the floor.
He sat.
Cross-legged.
Back straight.
One hand supporting his chin.
His eyes locked on the books beside the fire.
Faith. Nobility. Power. That's what lies within those pages.
He tapped his fingers against his chin.
Then closed his eyes.
The System pulsed.
[Cult Expansion Pathway: Updated]
You have chosen to name your path.
Religious Cult Name: The Imperial Cult
Worship Structure: Centered on YOU
Position: Living Emperor
Title: Divine Sovereign, Flame of Conquest
Scripture: Not Yet Written
Relics: None
Followers: 0
"From the slums, you shall rise. Through force, faith, and fear, your name shall be carved into the bones of kingdoms."
Baelgar smiled.
The name had come to him effortlessly.
Imperial Cult.
He would not build a religion around some ghost in the sky. Or a dead god in a tome.
It would be his image they bowed to. His name they whispered in prayer. His hand they kissed.
And every kneeling fool would feed the System.
It was all strategy. Faith as fuel. Obedience as a resource.
A holy machine built from ambition and memory.
He looked back at Mirka.
She slept now, curled like a dog, wine still wet on her breath.
"You'll forget I spoke," he murmured. "You always do."
He turned away from her.
Crawled back to his straw.
The next day, Karst woke with a grunt and a spit.
"You feed the thing?" he grumbled.
"There's porridge left," Mirka muttered. She looked at Baelgar briefly, confused, then dismissed him.
She didn't remember the night before.
Baelgar expected nothing less.
He made no effort to repeat himself. He wouldn't speak again for days.
Speaking was a tool—like a blade. Use it wrong, and it rusts.
The weather outside was worse.
Rain had turned to sleet.
The Gutterrun slums were flooding.
Children screamed as water ran through the cracks in the walls. Men coughed blood into buckets. The dead were dragged quietly into the alleys, left beneath blankets of mold and mud.
But Baelgar sat upright.
Hands folded in front of him.
His mind turning faster than ever.
He had begun to listen. To memorize voices. To count how many guards passed by the slum gates each day. To track the coughing fits of Karst and Mirka. To note when the rats were bold, and when they stayed hidden.
Patterns. Weaknesses. Routines.
And every night, he returned to the books.
Not to read them—yet.
But to stare at them.
To test his own patience.
To measure how long he could focus on a single goal without movement.
To teach his mind that control was everything.
The System pinged again.
[Mental Fortitude +1]
You have trained your Willpower through silence and discipline.
Charisma increased to 4
Intelligence increased to 4
He allowed himself a single breath of satisfaction.
Then closed his eyes.
You feared I would cry, scream, beg like a child.
But I am not your son.
I am your reckoning.
Baelgar laid down, fingers gently interlocking over his chest.
The rain whispered above.
And somewhere outside—far from the Gutterrun, past the 13 nations of Fyr, across the noble towers and ancient temples—another kingdom crowned another prince.
But none would ever matter more than the child in the filth.
Not in time.
Not when the Imperial Cult would rise.
[End of Chapter 5]