CHAPTER 380: HIS PENANCE

Marlon stepped out of the training hall, the scent of sweat and steel still clinging to his tunic. The cool air of the corridor greeted him like a whisper from the past as he entered a quiet chamber where time itself seemed to pause.

There, mounted on the stone wall, was a painting that had hung unchanged for over a decade: The Norse Genealogy. A tribute to the stalwart bloodline of Northem’s defenders. It was more than just oil on canvas—it was history immortalized. Dozens of faces stared back at him —the great men of the House of Norse, each was a portrait of courage, of sacrifices made at the borders where kingdoms often bled. It was a wall of of honor to the Norse name, generals, warriors, legends.

His grandfather was the eldest in his generation and so was his father. The Norse ancestral manor belonged to them and he was the heir to this chamber. He was supposed to protect the legacy of the name.

He stepped closer, his chest rising with a shuddered breath.

Slowly he went down on his knees and silent tears streaked down his weary face.

"Great Grandpa... I’m sorry. I did wrong."

His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. His eyes stung, the burn of regret and unspoken guilt turning them red. In the painted eyes of Beor, he saw not just a war hero, but the same gentle soul who once knelt beside a boy with trembling hands and guided them in the art of the sword. There had never been favoritism—just love. Just patience.

Beor had treated Marlon and Odin with the same unwavering kindness. But Marlon knew he had faltered in the years since. He saw it now—his failures—etched into the silent gaze of the man who had once believed in him.

His gaze shifted, below Beor’s portrait, to the solemn figure of his own grandfather—a man of exacting standards and iron will. The kind of man who measured love in achievements and set expectations like mountain peaks. It was he who drilled into him the tenets of strategy and competition, always pushing, always comparing.

Marlon’s eyes locked once again onto the weathered countenance of the bearded elder, eyes sharp as winter stars. He looked like Odin, but it was not Odin. It was Beor

, their great-grandfather. The man who had shaped the foundation of their family’s strength. The one Marlon had admired all his life.

Only two in their generation were chosen for military tutelage—Marlon and Odin. Yet it was always Odin who shone brighter. Odin who succeeded. Odin who led. And he became his shadow, the second best.

And yet Beor never looked at him with judgment nor with displeasure just like his grandpa and father did, but treated him more kindly and taught him harder despite his advanced years.

"I brought shame to your name, Great-Grandpa," Marlon murmured. "But don’t worry. I will do everything in my power to redeem it."

That night, beneath a heavy cloak of stars, Marlon stood in the doorway of his daughters’ room, watching them sleep. Their small faces were peaceful, untouched by the weight he carried. He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead in farewell, his heart heavy with both love and duty.

Before dawn, he descended into the right wing of the estate—the underground quarters—where his young son lay asleep. Marlon stood in the doorway for a long moment, drinking in the sight of the boy’s steady breathing, as if etching it into memory.

Then he turned and left without a sound.

But behind him, Merlin’s eyes opened, glinting in the half-dark. Silently, he watched his father’s figure disappear down the corridor.

Outside, Seveir, his loyal aide, awaited him. He bowed with practiced grace, but his eyes lingered on Marlon’s face—something had changed. There was steel there now. Purpose and determination.

"Everything is set, General," Seveir said.

General Marlon nodded. "Let us ride South." He said with quiet resolve.

...

Meanwhile, in the newly renovated town hall of Carles, General Turik stood in awe. The once-crumbling structure had been reborn—gleaming marble pillars rose from the polished floors on both levels, their grandeur unblemished. Even the timber beams above had been reinforced with fireproof enchantments or ingenuity beyond his understanding.

Turik adjusted his armor and made his way to the multipurpose hall. The space was vast, capable of hosting over a hundred men with ease. On one side stood an elevated platform for speakers, while rows of beautifully crafted wooden chairs lined the hall—each foldable, stackable, and designed with uncanny foresight.

He chuckled softly. Who came up with this? The design was clever and brilliant.

Trykes and bicycles were parked neatly outside the hall—strange contraptions he had ridden earlier that day with both amusement and awe. These weren’t just tools of convenience, they were symbols of progress.

How had General Odin accomplished all of this in such a short time? Turik wondered.

Before he could dwell further, his deputy approached with urgency. "The Estalian and Zuran commanders are assembled, Supreme General. They await your word."

He stepped up to the platform, scanning the faces of the commanders—war-hardened men from two great kingdoms.

Then, he spoke.

"Fellow commanders, it is with immense pride that I commend all of you for the unprecedented victory at Carles. Together, we achieved what many thought impossible."

His voice grew stronger, echoing across the hall.

"We have taken Carles—and Northem must now be drowning in its shame."

"I admit that Northem may have advanced in terms of economy. It is all the more reason for us to win this war because the spoils are way beyond you can imagine."

"The trykes and bicycles are amazing and I am sure you have tried them. I don’t want to give credit to our enemies but how did they think about these?"

"We must win these war. Let us take Northem and place them under our feet."

A thunderous applause filled the entire hall. Turik’s eyes glinted and his lips curled into a sly grin.

He loved the accolades, the honor and the glory. Oh how he reveled in his luck. Odin, the thorn in his flesh was personally plucked off by the crown prince of Northem.

"My dear commanders take heart! Their greatest war hero was banished. Northem will be an easy prey."