"Sir Scala, the medical officer of the camp, is in that room. Go and report." Captain Cole pointed toward a cabin not far away and instructed Rowe.
Rowe nodded and made his way over.
Knock, knock.
"Enter."
Rowe pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside. A tall and thin middle-aged man sat behind a cluttered desk, reading over a stack of papers. The desk was covered in documents, scrolls, and medical records, giving the room a slightly chaotic appearance.
As the camp's chief medical officer, Scala was responsible not only for battlefield medicine but also for various administrative duties, making his workload heavy.
Rowe stepped forward and presented his identification. "Lord Scala, I'm the new healer—Rowe Garrison."
Scala took the document and glanced over it. Then, without a word, he walked over to a wooden chest, rummaged through its contents, and retrieved three items—a small handbook titled 'Regulations of Camp No. 3,' a key, and a dagger.
"The key is for your quarters," Scala explained, handing it to Rowe. "Your room number is inscribed on it. The doctor's residence is in the eastern wing of the camp."
He then held up the dagger. "This is for self-defense. The Skrins frequently attempt raids on our camp. Most of the time, our patrol soldiers handle them before they breach our defenses, but there are occasions when they slip through. If that happens, we all need to be prepared."
Scala's words were calm but carried a weight of experience. Just as he was about to continue, his gaze fell upon the warhammer strapped to Rowe's back. His expression shifted slightly.
"A warhammer?" Scala frowned.
Rowe adjusted his grip on Verrigan's Fist. "Ah… this was a gift from a friend. For protection."
Scala's eyes lingered on the weapon, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice measured.
"This is no ordinary hammer." His fingers twitched slightly as if sensing something in the air. "I can feel the magic pulsing from it—fire magic, specifically. Your friend must be quite generous."
Rowe hesitated before nodding.
Scala exhaled. "Listen carefully, Rowe. Combat is not the duty of a healer. No matter how powerful that weapon is, your priority is to let the soldiers protect you. Understood?"
"Yes," Rowe replied immediately.
Scala nodded in approval and returned to his seat, already absorbed in his work again. "Go."
---
Rowe exited the medical office and made his way to the doctor's residence. The building was a three-story wooden structure, its exterior blending seamlessly with the surrounding forest.
Vanaheim was rich in vegetation, with its dense forests providing an abundance of wood. As a result, most structures here were made from sturdy, enchanted timber.
Rowe glanced at the number engraved on his key, located his room on the second floor, and pushed open the door.
Inside, the room was small but functional. A single wooden bed occupied nearly half of the space, leaving just enough room for a table and chair near a modest window.
Curious, Rowe walked over to the window and peered outside.
His breath hitched.
Beyond the glass lay an endless expanse of greenery—rolling hills covered in lush, vibrant forests, stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance, towering mountain peaks rose toward the sky, their slopes blanketed in thick vegetation.
The air smelled fresh, untouched by pollution or industry.
High above, exotic birds soared through the sky, their feathers a dazzling array of colors he had never seen before. Some were massive, their wingspans rivaling those of dragons.
Compared to Asgard, with its peculiar floating landscapes and celestial architecture, Vanaheim felt more… organic. It was a true planet, vast and filled with diverse races and creatures.
The Vanir, or Vanir Gods, were the dominant race here, revered by the locals as deities. However, they were not the only inhabitants. Other intelligent races called this realm home, including the Skrins, trolls, and Kronans.
So this is Vanaheim…
---
A voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey, are you new here?"
Rowe turned away from the window to see a blond young man standing at the doorway across the hall. He had a lean build and youthful features—probably no more than a few decades old, possibly even underage by Asgardian standards.
"Yes," Rowe answered.
The blond approached with a friendly smile. "I'm Sigurd. I'm also a healer here. What's your name?"
"Rowe."
Sigurd studied him for a moment, then leaned against the doorframe. "You know, this is a mixed camp—Asgardians, Vanir, and others. But I don't see many Vanir here."
Rowe frowned. "I was wondering about that too. Shouldn't the Vanir Gods be more distinct from us?"
Sigurd chuckled. "You'd think so, right? But the Aesir and Vanir actually share a common ancestor."
"Wait… you're saying they look exactly like us?"
"Yep. If you met a Vanir warrior in camp, you wouldn't even realize he wasn't Asgardian—until he told you."
Rowe nodded in understanding.
It was worth noting that the term 'God Race' was used broadly to describe powerful humanoid species. However, the exact definition of 'Godhood' was a hotly debated topic among the divine realms.
The Aesir and Vanir adhered to a strict set of criteria for godhood:
Humanoid in appearance.
Highly intelligent.
Naturally strong and resilient.
Capable of surviving extreme environments, including space.
Free from major biological weaknesses.
Based on these standards, races like Frost Giants and Dark Elves were excluded from godhood, sparking centuries of contention.
It wasn't a matter of morality—after all, morality was subjective. The Aesir viewed the Frost Giants as barbaric, but the Frost Giants saw the Aesir as ruthless invaders.
The real disqualification came from physical flaws.
Frost Giants were highly vulnerable to heat, while Dark Elves suffered from extreme light sensitivity.
Dark Elves were particularly afraid of bright environments, to the point where they needed special masks and armor to shield themselves from light exposure. Ordinary Dark Elves would never dare to step into daylight unprotected.
Because of this glaring weakness, their power had dwindled over the centuries.
In contrast, the Aesir and Vanir were highly adaptable, with no significant biological limitations—making them the dominant God Races.
---
As the conversation shifted, Rowe asked, "Sigurd, how long have you been in Vanaheim?"
Sigurd stretched. "Almost a year. I heard Vanaheim was rich in medicinal herbs and relatively safe, so I volunteered."
"And? Was it what you expected?"
Sigurd sighed. "Well… the herbs part is true. Just look out the window—plants everywhere. But this place isn't as safe as I thought."
Rowe raised an eyebrow. "Because of the Skrins?"
Sigurd scoffed. "The Skrins? No. They're weak—their strength and intelligence are about the same as a fifteen-year-old Asgardian. I could easily take them in a fight."
Rowe frowned. "Then what's the problem?"
Sigurd's expression darkened. "Their numbers. There's no end to them. You kill a dozen today, and a hundred more come tomorrow."
He shuddered slightly. "And they're disgusting. I mean… truly disgusting. I've never seen a race so utterly filthy—in body and soul."
Rowe studied him carefully.
Sigurd's face twisted in genuine disgust as he recalled something.
"All I can say is… the Skrins, from soul to flesh, are nothing but vile, depraved creatures."