Chapter 6: The Dawn of Terra Isekai

With the final embers of Arunafeltz's old order smoldering into the abyss of history, the once-holy land stood on the precipice of a new era—one not ruled by prayer and outdated dogma but by steel, industry, and the unyielding will of the Netherward Realm. The conquest had been swift, merciless, and absolute, a theological vivisection performed with the surgical precision of drone strikes and armored battalions. The Pope's gilded throne was now little more than a twisted husk of melted gold and shattered piety, its former occupants scattered—some dead, some hiding, and the lucky ones already indoctrinated into their new faith with the efficiency of a factory assembly line.

There were no illusions of resistance now. The once-proud Paladin Orders had been humbled—those who still drew breath had traded their banners of righteousness for new uniforms, embracing the Holy Triumvirate with the eagerness of men who understood that adaptation was the difference between a martyr's grave and a warm bed. The Alchemists, formerly the secretive masters of arcane science, now worked under the watchful eyes of Netherward engineers, their ancient formulas repurposed for something far more useful than turning lead into gold—like synthesizing fuel, manufacturing pharmaceuticals, and, of course, brewing the kind of high-yield explosives that could level a city block with a single alchemical miscalculation.

Arunafeltz, once an isolated theocracy clinging to divine authority with the stubbornness of a drowning man clinging to a boulder, had been reshaped into the first official Realm of The Netherward Realms of Terra Isekai—a name originally coined in jest by some nerdy officer who had read one too many Japanese light novels. Yet, like all good jokes, it took on a life of its own. The scholars and bureaucrats adopted it, the soldiers embraced it, and before anyone could argue, it had been stamped onto official documents, etched onto maps, and printed on recruitment posters. A new name for a new world, one where faith had been dethroned, and pragmatism reigned supreme.

And so, the first chapter of this new world began—not with a holy decree, nor a celestial prophecy, but with oil rigs dotting the shores of what was once sacred land, with geothermal power stations rising from Thor's Volcano like modern-day temples to industry, and with mining operations scarring the earth in search of gold and lithium, the true divine treasures of any empire worth its salt.

A Realm Reforged

The lands of Arunafeltz were no longer mere territories ruled by robed elders clinging to the past like barnacles on a sinking ship. Theocracy had been disrobed, quite literally in some unfortunate cases, and replaced with something far more tangible—bureaucracy, backed by the promise of military force. The ancient domains, once defined by prayer and paranoia, had been reforged into Counties, sleek and modern in name but governed with an iron grip by those who understood the real levers of power. The surviving Elders, once the self-proclaimed voices of divine will, found their roles reassigned. No longer were they the blind shepherds of a forsaken god, wandering in theological circles. Now, they were Counts, their robes traded for administrative uniforms, their hands forced onto the very leashes they had once held over their own people.

Of course, not all of them took the transition well. Some cried treason, others invoked divine wrath—one particularly dramatic fool even called upon his god to strike us down where we stood. I waited, tail flicking impatiently, as the silence stretched, the heavens utterly disinterested in his theatrics. It was only when a Predator drone reduced his chapel to a crater that the others grasped the new world order. Those who resisted met the fate of all relics that refused change: irrelevance or eradication. Sometimes both. Their scriptures and holy decrees were now useful only as kindling for the forges of industry.

The message was clear—faith was no longer the currency of rule. Power was. And power, in the hands of the Netherward Realm, was not a gentle thing. It was the cold calculus of governance, where steel and strategy outweighed sentimentality and superstition. Those who adapted found themselves with new lands to govern, new titles to boast of, and the comforting knowledge that obedience was rewarded. Those who clung to their old ways? Well, let's just say the newly established Department of Archaeology would be interested in studying their remains.

Beneath the newly raised banners of the Netherward administration, Arunafeltz did not just survive—it evolved. Cities were rebuilt, not as temples of prayer, but as bastions of progress. Roads, once mere paths for pilgrimage, now bore the weight of industrial convoys, their wheels carving new trade routes into the flesh of the land. The people, long conditioned to kneel before unseen deities, learned a new form of devotion—the kind that involved paying taxes, following regulations, and not questioning the benevolent hand that now held the leash of their future.

And thus, Arunafeltz was reborn. Not in fire and prophecy, but in ledgers and legal decrees, stamped with the official insignia of the Minister of the Interior and Realm Affairs—Princess Boninacarla Netherward, a woman whose idea of mercy involved an efficient bureaucracy and an unshakable belief that civil obedience was just another form of worship.

Inside the Minister's Office, Rachel

Princess Boninacarla sat at the head of a massive conference table, a mountain of documents stacked neatly before her. If efficiency had a human form, it would be her—sharp-eyed, dressed in a crisp gray uniform, and exuding the aura of a woman who could reorganize an entire nation before breakfast. Across from her sat Mhelfrancovince, the architect of conquest, his arms folded, exuding the smug satisfaction of a man who had just rewritten history. Nikkimae was beside him, barely suppressing her amusement as she scrolled through reports on her tablet. And then, there was me, Benetton, perched atop the table like the regal overseer I was, licking my paw as if this entire meeting was beneath me—which, frankly, it was.

"Alright," Boninacarla said, adjusting her glasses, "Arunafeltz has officially been reclassified as a Realm of the Empire. The former Elders have either accepted their new roles as Counts or… well, let's call it early retirement."

"By 'early retirement,' you mean a shallow grave or a one-way trip to the mines?" Nikkimae mused.

Boninacarla gave her a pointed look. "I mean they are no longer a concern to governance."

"A pity," I purred, flicking my tail. "I rather enjoyed their screams of theological crisis. Made for excellent entertainment. What's next?"

Boninacarla tapped her fingers against a document. "We've repurposed the old Church hierarchy to administer the new faith—the Holy Triumvirate. A fusion of Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism. We even had Pope Gregor undergo some… adjustments."

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "A simple memory wipe and implant. Now he's the most devoted worshiper of Jesus, Buddha, and Krishna you'll ever meet. Man practically glows with newfound zeal."

"I do appreciate efficiency," Boninacarla mused, scanning the reports. "Infrastructure projects are already underway. Thor's Volcano has been turned into the first geothermal energy station. Oil extraction is operational in Audumbla Grassland and Shore of Tears. Veins is yielding gold and lithium. Within five years, Arunafeltz will be unrecognizable."

Nikkimae sighed dramatically. "Ah yes, the sweet smell of capitalism replacing centuries of religious stagnation. Warms my heart."

Boninacarla barely glanced up. "Speaking of stagnation, we need to discuss Kaedwen. The neighboring kingdom still refuses diplomatic talks. Apparently, they see what happened here and believe they can resist us."

"Typical," I yawned. "Arunafeltz thought the same before their gods ghosted them at the worst possible time."

Mhelfrancovince leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement. "So, what do you suggest, dear sister?"

Boninacarla's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "We do what we do best. We let them think they have a choice… and then show them they never did."

"Ah," I stretched luxuriously. "I do love a good tragedy."

Mhelfrancovince chuckled. "Then you'll love what happens next."

And thus, the meeting continued, plans unfurling like the inevitable march of history itself—cold, calculated, and utterly indifferent to those who stood in its way.

A Pope's Rebirth

Faith, I've come to learn, is a lot like a house of cards. Delicate, fragile, and utterly doomed when exposed to a strong enough wind. Or, in this case, the telepathic precision of Mhelfrancovince, who had taken one of the most pious men in history and reduced him to a blank canvas upon which a new doctrine could be painted.

Pope Gregor, once the unshakable pillar of Arunafeltz's old theocracy, now stood as a living monument to the superiority of the Netherward Realm's will. Once, he had been an uncompromising servant of his singular god, a man who spoke in scripture and bled sanctity. Now? Now he was something new. Something better. He was ours.

It had been a meticulous process, like pruning a particularly stubborn bonsai tree—except the bonsai was a decrepit old man who had spent his entire life believing the sky would collapse if he so much as questioned the dogma drilled into his skull. Mhelfrancovince had been careful, precise, peeling away the excess layers of ancient nonsense with a surgeon's patience. Gone were the old fears of blasphemy. Gone was the blind devotion to a single, jealous deity who had been suspiciously absent in his hour of need. In their place? A new gospel. One of balance, enlightenment, and just the right amount of corporate-backed spirituality.

The Holy Triumvirate—Jesus, Buddha, and Krishna—had been woven into his psyche with the elegance of a master tailor stitching a fine suit. Jesus, the wise savior of the forsaken. Buddha, the bringer of serenity and enlightenment. Krishna, the playful and pragmatic god of divine mischief. Together, they formed the cornerstone of the new faith, a trinity that offered redemption, peace, and just enough morally ambiguous loopholes to keep the faithful entertained.

The transition was… smooth. A marvel, really. No divine intervention. No celestial wrath. Just the quiet efficiency of a man's entire worldview being overwritten like an outdated software update. Gregor, now reborn as the first High Pontiff of the Holy Triumvirate, preached with the same fervor as before—only now, his sermons were sponsored by those who had rewritten his soul. The faithful gathered in droves, their devotion unchanged, their prayers redirected. They knelt not before a vengeful deity who demanded unquestioning obedience, but before a trinity of spiritual guides who, in their infinite wisdom, encouraged prosperity, discipline, and, most importantly, an unwavering allegiance to their new masters.

The irony of it all was not lost on those of us who had orchestrated his transformation. And it certainly wasn't lost on me, as I lounged atop a velvet cushion in the grand halls of the newly consecrated High Temple, watching the old man give his first sermon.

A Conversation with the Holy Pontiff

I yawned, stretching luxuriously as Pope Gregor finished addressing the gathered masses. His voice, once quivering with self-righteousness, now carried a different tone—one of tranquil assurance, tinged with a reverence so deep it could have fooled the gods themselves. If, of course, any were actually watching.

As the congregation dispersed, the Pope turned, his aged eyes settling upon me. "Ah, the blessed one," he murmured, a newfound respect coloring his voice.

I flicked my tail, amused. "Blessed one, am I? Flattery will get you far, old man. But let's not pretend you came up with that on your own."

He knelt before me. Knelt. An actual, proper bow, forehead nearly brushing the polished marble floor. If I had been human, I might have gasped. But I am a cat, and thus, I remained delightfully unfazed.

"The Holy Triumvirate speaks through many forms," Gregor intoned, eyes glistening with reverence. "And they have chosen you as their earthly emissary."

I stared at him, incredulous. "You mean to tell me," I drawled, "that out of all the grand figures in existence—out of prophets, kings, and visionaries—you believe the great cosmic forces of enlightenment chose me? A black cat who enjoys warm sunspots and the occasional bit of sabotage?"

"The gods work in mysterious ways," Gregor said with unwavering conviction.

I could scarcely contain my amusement. "And what, pray tell, do these gods wish of me?"

He lifted his hands, trembling slightly, as if awaiting divine revelation. "To guide us. To ensure that we never stray from their wisdom. To remind us that power, when wielded with wisdom, is not a burden, but a blessing."

I sighed dramatically. "So, let me get this straight—you're placing the fate of an entire religion in the paws of a creature whose greatest concern this morning was whether the kitchen staff would remember to serve salmon instead of chicken?"

He nodded solemnly.

I tilted my head, considering this. On one hand, the sheer absurdity of it all was delicious. On the other, there were certain perks to being revered as a divine emissary. Preferential treatment, extravagant tributes, a legion of devoted followers at my beck and call… Yes, I could work with this.

"Very well," I declared, leaping gracefully onto the high altar. "But if I am to be the chosen voice of your gods, I have demands."

Gregor's expression remained devout. "Anything, blessed one."

I flexed my claws. "First, all temples shall be required to have heated cushions in every sacred hall. Second, daily offerings of premium fish. None of that dried nonsense—fresh cuts only. Third, all clerics shall be instructed in the sacred art of ear scratching, and I will be personally approving their techniques."

Gregor bowed his head. "It shall be done."

I gazed down at him, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. "Good. Then I suppose we can proceed with this whole 'holy revolution' business."

And thus, with the unwavering faith of an entire people at my command, I embarked upon the grand task of shaping a new era of devotion—one that, for once, truly understood what was worth worshiping.

The Rise of Industry

Ah, the sweet, metallic scent of progress. Nothing quite like it. Gone were the days when Rachel reeked of incense, desperation, and unwashed piety. The city that had once knelt in prayer now stood tall in steel and stone, its streets bustling not with cowled monks but with men and women of industry, their hands no longer clasped in futile devotion but busy shaping the world with hammer and quill. Faith had been repurposed, redirected, reforged into something actually useful.

I watched from a high window as the once-holy skyline was punctuated by rising towers, their glass and metal facades gleaming under the sun—a stark contrast to the crumbling relics of a bygone age still standing in the outskirts, waiting for the wrecking ball of inevitability. The grand cathedrals, once swollen with the bloated egos of their clergy, now pulsed with a new kind of devotion—dedication to knowledge, science, and the ceaseless march of civilization. Where once echoed chants of blind worship, now hummed the steady rhythm of machines, the murmur of scholars debating the mysteries of the universe, the authoritative bark of factory overseers ensuring that productivity remained at an acceptable level of ruthless efficiency.

I stretched luxuriously on the polished mahogany desk of Count Juddmarteen Coburn-Huang, the Minister of Trade and Industry, who was currently engaged in one of his favorite pastimes—pacing furiously while muttering about tariffs, quotas, and the unspeakable horror of supply chain inefficiencies. Across from him, his sister, Countess Jegathena Coburn-Huang, the Minister of Science and Technology, leaned lazily against the arm of a chair, flicking through the latest research reports with the air of someone simultaneously bored and amused.

It was a charming little family gathering.

A Conversation of Progress and Profit

Juddmarteen scowled at a set of documents in his hands. "We're expanding too fast," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Labor demands are rising, infrastructure needs doubling every quarter, and don't even get me started on the logistics nightmare of resource allocation—"

"I'm not getting you started on anything," Jegathena interrupted, flipping a page. "I'd rather eat my own research notes than listen to you whine about supply chains again."

I flicked my tail, watching the exchange with mild amusement. "Oh, do go on, Juddmarteen," I purred. "Your suffering is the spice of life."

He shot me a glare before sighing dramatically, as if carrying the weight of the entire economy on his shoulders. "It's not suffering, it's reality. We've gone from medieval barter systems to a full-fledged industrial revolution in record time. The factories are running, the workforce is mobilized, and the city's wealth is growing exponentially—but that kind of growth is a monster. If we don't control it, it'll devour us."

Jegathena finally looked up from her reports, an unimpressed smirk tugging at her lips. "You sound like a bishop warning about the dangers of sin."

Juddmarteen groaned. "Industry is sin. At least to the people who still remember when Rachel was a 'holy city.'"

"Oh, the poor souls," I drawled, stretching my paws. "Struggling to accept that enlightenment now comes in the form of scientific progress rather than mystical whispers from conveniently absent gods."

"They'll adjust," Jegathena said dismissively, waving a hand. "Or they won't. Either way, we're moving forward. The research division is finalizing plans for the first electromagnetic rail network, the medical sector is seeing unprecedented advancements, and our automaton prototypes are progressing faster than anticipated. Soon, we'll have workers who don't need sleep, food, or complaints about fair wages."

Juddmarteen pinched the bridge of his nose. "And that's exactly what worries me."

I raised an eyebrow—well, metaphorically, as cats are tragically deprived of expressive eyebrows. "You object to efficiency? Perish the thought."

"No, I object to dependency," he snapped. "We're rushing into automation, into advanced logistics, into a system so complex that if one piece fails, the whole thing crumbles. The old ways may have been inefficient, but they were simple. You break a wagon wheel, you fix the wheel. You don't rewrite the entire damn transportation network."

Jegathena rolled her eyes. "This is why you're in Trade and I'm in Science. You worry about consequences, I worry about possibilities. That's why progress works—it doesn't ask for permission, it just is."

"Oh, that's a comforting philosophy," Juddmarteen grumbled. "We're turning Rachel into a machine—a glorious, wealth-producing, innovation-fueled machine. But what happens when the people don't fit into it anymore?"

I licked a paw, pondering his words. "Then, dear Count, perhaps you should focus on making sure they do. A society that doesn't adapt gets left behind. Just ask the clergy."

Juddmarteen let out a dry chuckle. "I would, but they're all too busy working in textile mills now."

Jegathena smirked. "And you call that a problem?"

"Not at all," I purred, tail curling in satisfaction. "I call that progress."

And so, the city of Rachel rose—not on faith, nor prayer, but on the relentless drive of industry, the cunning of innovation, and the simple truth that power was best wielded by those who knew how to use it.

Harnessing the Wrath of the Gods

Thor's Volcano. The name alone used to inspire trembling in the devout and caution in the pragmatic. The old priests whispered that it was the forge of the gods, the gaping maw of divine judgment, a molten abyss where the faithless would be swallowed whole. Superstitious nonsense. Now, it was just another power plant. A rather impressive one, I must admit, but still—nothing more than a glorified furnace.

Once upon a time, the fools of Arunafeltz would have dropped to their knees in fear whenever the mountain rumbled, offering pitiful sacrifices to appease whatever celestial landlord they imagined dwelled within its fiery depths. And now? Now, the great and terrible volcano was nothing more than a battery, chained and bound by the will of industry. The empire's first geothermal energy station hummed with the power of the earth itself, its once-ominous glow no longer a warning of doom but a beacon of progress.

I perched atop a polished table inside the Ministry of Energy, my tail flicking lazily as I observed the humans engage in their usual dance of power, politics, and polite hostility.

A Conversation of Fire and Power

Duke Edgarius von Korallensburg, Minister of Energy and a man built like a stone fortress, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His daughter, Nikkimae, sat beside him, her expression the carefully curated balance of amusement and authority. Mhelfrancovince, as always, exuded the quiet menace of a man who could rewrite your thoughts on a whim. And then there was Baron Josephius Blindnow, the Deputy Minister for Energy Resource Development, whose name alone made him sound like he belonged in a tragic novel about misplaced trust.

"Gentlemen," Mhelfrancovince began, his voice smooth as silk and just as dangerous. "We've conquered faith, we've conquered commerce, and now, we conquer the elements themselves. Arunafeltz no longer prays to the volcano—they work for it."

Josephius adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. "A remarkable feat, Your Excellency. The geothermal plant is operating at full capacity, producing energy at an efficiency level beyond our initial projections. With further expansion, we could power not just Arunafeltz, but the entire northern region."

Edgarius let out a deep chuckle, the kind that belonged to men who had seen both battle and bureaucracy and found both equally tedious. "A fine thought, but let's not be too ambitious. The moment we declare total energy dominance, we'll have every neighboring state knocking on our door with demands and tariffs."

Nikkimae smirked. "And when have we ever been afraid of knocking neighbors?"

I stretched out on the table, luxuriating in the warm glow of their conversation. "Oh, don't be so dull, dear Duke. The real tragedy isn't our neighbors demanding energy—it's the fact that we've yet to monetize the priests' suffering. Imagine the tourism! 'Come see the former mouth of divine wrath, now available for guided tours and premium geothermal baths!' We could make a fortune."

Josephius blinked. "You're joking."

"Am I?" I purred.

Edgarius sighed, rubbing his temples. "Let's keep our focus on not turning the holy site into a carnival attraction just yet."

Mhelfrancovince leaned forward, fingers tapping idly on the arm of his chair. "It's not about power, not really. It's about control. The people of Arunafeltz once believed they were at the mercy of the gods. Now, they see that their lives are shaped by us. This isn't just about electricity—it's about breaking centuries of fear."

Nikkimae nodded. "And making a very lucrative industry while we're at it."

Josephius coughed politely. "There is, of course, the issue of maintaining stability. The land around the volcano is still considered sacred by some. We've… had some incidents. Protests. A few misguided zealots attempting to sabotage the facility."

"Oh, delightful," I mused. "Religious fundamentalists throwing themselves at industrial progress like moths to a bonfire. Very poetic."

Edgarius frowned. "They're a nuisance, but nothing we can't handle. That said, we do need to manage public sentiment carefully. If the people see us as defilers rather than innovators, we risk losing control of the narrative."

Mhelfrancovince steepled his fingers. "Then we shift the narrative. Make it clear that this is not a betrayal of their faith, but an evolution of it. Let them believe the gods have gifted us this knowledge, that we are not rejecting their past, but perfecting it."

Nikkimae's eyes glinted. "And if they refuse to believe?"

I let out a luxurious yawn. "Then they can enjoy a one-way pilgrimage into the volcano."

Silence. Then a few quiet chuckles.

Josephius adjusted his glasses again. "Jokes aside—"

"Oh, were we joking?" I interrupted.

Mhelfrancovince waved a hand dismissively. "Fear is a habit, and habits can be broken. Give it time. Soon enough, they'll be thanking us for the warmth of their homes and the bright lights in their streets, and they'll forget they ever worshipped the mountain in the first place."

Edgarius sighed, but there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. "A pragmatic approach, as always."

"Pragmatism is what keeps us warm at night, dear Duke," I mused. "That, and a properly managed power grid."

The conversation drifted toward logistics, expansion plans, and long-term energy policies—all very important matters, I'm sure, but far too dry for my refined tastes. I merely observed, purring contentedly as the future of Arunafeltz was shaped right before my eyes.

The gods were dead. But we? We were very much alive.

The Gods Weep, and We Profit

Ah, the Shore of Tears. A name drenched in poetic tragedy, evoking images of forlorn lovers, long-forgotten battles, and deities shedding celestial sorrow upon the land. In reality? Nothing but miles of dirt, dry grass, and misplaced sentimentality. But beneath that so-called sacred soil, slumbering like a dragon beneath its hoard, lay something far more divine than any relic, scripture, or weeping saint—oil.

The Audumbla Grassland and the Shore of Tears, once whispered about in hushed reverence by the faithful, were now a battleground of roaring machines and metal monstrosities that clawed at the earth. The priests, bless their hypocritical souls, used to proclaim these lands as "untouched by mortal greed." Well, consider them well and truly touched. The drills burrowed deep, piercing the flesh of the land, and in return, it bled a bounty so potent, so utterly irreplaceable, that kings and emperors had waged wars over it. Black gold, crude nectar, the lifeblood of civilization.

Where once monks had knelt in prayer, now stood derricks, towering steel obelisks of industry, their rhythmic groaning drowning out the last whimpers of faith. The faithful had spent centuries looking skyward for salvation, and yet, salvation had been beneath their very feet all along. Irony, you cruel and delightful mistress.

I sat upon a conference table, tail flicking in idle amusement as my human compatriots discussed the future of Arunafeltz—not in terms of divine will, but in barrels per day.

A Conversation of Blood and Oil

Mhelfrancovince leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his golden eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a man who had just won the greatest argument in history and had the receipts to prove it. "And that, gentlemen, is why Arunafeltz is no longer a backwater theocracy, but an economic powerhouse in the making."

Nikkimae smirked, swirling a glass of imported wine—now a trivial luxury, considering we had more money than their gods (who, by the way, were still missing, presumed irrelevant). "From relics to refineries. If the old priests could see us now, they'd have an aneurysm."

Mhelangelus chuckled, the sound deep and predatory. "Let them weep. Their gods aren't sending miracles, but our oil is powering them. If they're smart, they'll trade their rosaries for stock options."

Josephius adjusted his ever-present glasses, the poor man still attempting to maintain some semblance of bureaucratic dignity in a room full of people who shaped nations for sport. "The production rates are exceeding our initial projections. We've tapped into a reserve that could keep the empire's war machines and industries thriving for decades. If we expand further into the grasslands…" He hesitated, as if expecting divine retribution. When none came, he exhaled. "We could solidify ourselves as the primary supplier of oil for all of Terra Isekai."

I yawned, stretching lazily across the table. "A fine plan, dear Josephius, but you're forgetting the most important element of any empire's rise to power—monopoly." My eyes gleamed as I licked a paw. "Why sell oil when we can own the world that depends on it?"

Nikkimae hummed. "Benetton has a point. If we control the supply chain, we dictate the price. The fools in other nations will dance to whatever tune we play, and if they refuse?" She grinned, wolfish and lovely. "Well, let's see how their armies march without fuel."

Mhelfrancovince nodded approvingly. "A controlled scarcity could be useful in negotiations. Offer just enough to keep their economies breathing, but never enough to let them become self-sufficient."

Mhelangelus smirked. "And if they try to seize the fields by force?"

I rolled onto my back, paws in the air in a dramatic display of feline nonchalance. "Then we give them a true Shore of Tears."

Josephius coughed into his sleeve, ever the picture of diplomatic concern. "There is, of course, the issue of… perception. Arunafeltz still has a significant religious population, and some of them are—how shall I put this—less than thrilled about their holy land becoming an industrial hub."

Nikkimae snorted. "Oh no. What shall we do? Shall we summon the spirits of long-dead prophets to conduct a séance and beg for forgiveness?"

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "A few well-placed investments in their new temples should suffice. Let them believe this is their destined prosperity."

Josephius sighed. "Bribing the clergy?"

"Oh, dear Josephius," I purred. "It's not bribery. It's faith-based incentivization."

Mhelangelus laughed, raising his glass. "To our most holy endeavor."

Glasses clinked. The gods were silent.

And the oil kept flowing.

Gold, Lithium, and the Death of Gods

Ah, Veins. The name alone carried a poetic sort of irony—what was once a stretch of land where hermits and madmen whispered of divine visions had now become a glistening wound in the earth, bleeding gold and lithium into the hands of those who actually mattered. The priests used to claim the hills here pulsed with sacred energy, the heartbeat of the gods themselves. Turns out they weren't entirely wrong—there was something powerful beneath the surface. It just so happened that this power came in the form of raw, unfiltered wealth rather than celestial whispers.

Once dismissed as barren wilderness, Veins was now a miner's wet dream. The moment the first veins of gold were exposed—rich, unbroken streaks running through the hills like the gilded arteries of some long-dead titan—everything changed. Soon after, the real prize was discovered. Not just gold, but lithium, the lifeblood of industry, the foundation of batteries, technology, and an empire's future. One shiny metal to keep the elites entertained, and another to keep the world running. A perfect balance of decadence and necessity.

Gone were the days when this land was a haven for ascetics and mystics seeking enlightenment. The only enlightenment happening now was from floodlights illuminating the mines, working day and night to extract every last ounce of treasure buried beneath the dirt. Where once the hills had echoed with the wailing of prayers, they now thundered with the pounding of drills, the clanking of pickaxes, and the shouts of men who knew that every strike against the earth brought them one step closer to either fortune or an early grave. The old gods, in their silence, had been replaced by the new gods of industry, trade, and cold, hard profit.

A Meeting of the New Pantheon

I perched upon a high-backed chair at the grand table, tail flicking idly as I observed the humans in their natural habitat—plotting, scheming, and deciding the fate of nations with the same ease that I decide whether or not to push a glass off a table.

Mhelfrancovince leaned forward, fingers drumming against the polished wood, his golden eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a man who had just placed a winning bet on a sure thing. "With the expansion of the mines, our production output is set to triple within the next three years. The gold alone would have made this land valuable, but lithium? That puts us ahead of the entire continent."

Nikkimae smirked, sipping a glass of the finest wine—because, of course, no meeting of world-shakers would be complete without a touch of extravagance. "And to think, not long ago, this land was just a refuge for fools in robes and starving mystics. Now, we have kings and merchants tripping over their own feet just to get a share."

Mhelangelus, ever the pragmatist, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Not everyone will be pleased with this. The old religious factions are already whispering of 'desecration.'" He snorted. "As if those relic-huggers ever did anything useful with the land besides pray it into poverty."

Grand Duke Mhelvayne, the Grand Minister himself, let out a low chuckle. A man of cold efficiency and expensive tastes, he had once ruled over a city that relied on trade to survive. Now, he ruled over the beating heart of the empire's wealth. "Let them whisper. The moment they realize their prayers won't power a single furnace, they'll come to us begging for their cut. And if they don't?" He shrugged. "Well, history doesn't remember those who refused to evolve."

I stretched, letting out a dramatic yawn before lazily addressing the room. "Oh, I do so love these conversations. A great civilization, built atop the bones of old fools who thought divinity would sustain them. Spoiler alert—it didn't. What's that saying again? 'Faith can move mountains?'" My whiskers twitched. "I believe our machines are doing a much better job of that."

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "And with our lithium supply secured, we control the future of energy. Every kingdom that dreams of modernizing will need our resources."

Nikkimae swirled her wine. "And every king that dreams of keeping his throne will have to bow to us, whether they like it or not."

Mhelangelus cracked his knuckles. "If they don't, well… let's just say we have plenty of 'persuasive' methods at our disposal."

Mhelvayne leaned back, looking at the others with a satisfied expression. "Then it's settled. Veins will become the industrial heart of our empire. The wealth extracted here will fuel not just our machines, but our influence. The world will turn on our terms."

I flicked my tail, hopping onto the table with the grace of an untouchable deity observing the trivial concerns of mortals. "And to think, the old gods once claimed dominion over this land. I do believe we've done a much better job in their absence."

The humans chuckled, their glasses clinking in a silent toast to their dominion.

The gods remained silent.

And the mines kept digging.

A New Era, Forged in Fire and Bureaucracy

Arunafeltz, once a land shackled to the whims of faith and the fantasies of prophets, now stood as a monument to pragmatism, industry, and the fine art of squeezing every last drop of value from the earth and its people. The towering spires of once-sacred cathedrals had been repurposed into nerve centers of governance and economic strategy. Where priests had once whispered sermons, accountants now whispered about projected revenue streams and geopolitical leverage. The air, once thick with the scent of incense and the desperate pleas of the pious, now carried the sharp tang of molten steel, fresh ink, and the occasional whiff of bureaucratic incompetence.

Theocracy was dead. Profit had taken the throne.

No longer did Arunafeltz live in the shadow of the old gods, begging for miracles that never came. Now, it made its own miracles. And if those miracles happened to involve steam-powered factories belching black smoke into the sky, vast industrial complexes that pulsed like mechanical hearts, and legions of sharp-eyed administrators whose only divine inspiration came in the form of quarterly profits—so be it.

This was the age of power, and The Netherward Realm held the quill that was writing history.

And history, as it turns out, was being written in blood, steel, and balance sheets.

A Meeting of Minds (and One Magnificent Feline)

I, Benetton, the esteemed and vastly underappreciated black-furred mastermind of this entire empire, sat atop my usual perch—a polished mahogany table that probably cost more than the annual income of a lesser noble. My tail flicked lazily as I surveyed the room, filled with the usual suspects of power and ambition.

Mhelfrancovince, the ever-calculating architect of our grand expansion, sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, his golden eyes alight with that predatory gleam he always got when discussing conquest—not with swords and armies, but with trade deals, economic strangleholds, and the occasional "regrettable" military intervention.

Nikkimae, sharp as a razor and twice as ruthless, swirled a glass of wine, listening with the amused expression of a woman who had already calculated twenty ways to exploit a situation before breakfast.

Airanikka, ever the firebrand, leaned forward with her characteristic impatience, drumming her fingers against the table. "And what of Kaedwen? We have the industrial infrastructure. We have the political leverage. What's stopping us from taking it?"

Ah, Kaedwen. A land rich in resources and staggering in its ineptitude. The kind of place that would trip over its own feet trying to maintain sovereignty while balancing on the tightrope of regional politics. A deliciously ripe fruit, just waiting to be plucked—preferably with a firm iron grip.

Mhelfrancovince, ever the measured one, smirked. "Patience, sister. Kaedwen is already dangling over the edge of economic collapse. A few more nudges, and they'll be begging us to take over."

Airanikka scoffed. "Nudges? Why not just shove them?"

Nikkimae chuckled, setting her glass down. "Because, dear sister in law, shoving gets messy. And messes are bad for business. Besides, desperation makes for excellent bargaining leverage."

I stretched luxuriously, letting out a yawn that was equal parts genuine and theatrical. "Ah, I do love watching you all toy with the destinies of nations as if you were selecting horses for a race. Kaedwen, of course, being the horse with a limp that hasn't quite realized it's already been sold to the glue factory."

Mhelfrancovince shot me an amused glance. "A rather grim metaphor, Benetton."

I flicked my tail. "Only if you're Kaedwen."

Nikkimae smirked. "He has a point. Their ruling class is already drowning in debt, their economy is a patchwork of outdated policies and wishful thinking, and their military is… well." She waved a dismissive hand. "Let's just say I've seen more discipline in a drunken brawl at a noble's wedding."

Airanikka leaned back, arms crossed. "So, we let them bleed a little more, let them believe they still have a choice?"

Mhelfrancovince nodded. "Exactly. Then, when the time is right, we offer them salvation. Debt relief. Infrastructure. Security. All under the gracious, guiding hand of the Netherward Realm."

Airanikka sighed dramatically. "Ah, the old 'helping hand' tactic. How very… benevolent."

I licked my paw, considering. "A much cleaner approach than war, I must admit. Fewer bodies to step over. And, of course, less blood on the carpets." I glanced up, my golden eyes narrowing. "Though I assume we'll still keep a dagger under the table, just in case?"

Mhelfrancovince smiled. "Naturally."

Airanikka exhaled through her nose. "Fine. We play the long game. But if they get too desperate and try something foolish…"

Nikkimae's expression turned positively wolfish. "Then we remind them why it's better to join us willingly."

I purred in satisfaction, curling my tail around my paws. "Ah, manipulation, coercion, and subtle threats. My three favorite things."

The conversation continued, filled with strategic analysis, political maneuvering, and just the right amount of veiled menace.

The world was changing.

And the Netherward Realm was the one holding the leash.