24

Chapter: Vanaheim

"Captain Cole pointed to a cabin not far away. "Sir Scala, the medical officer of the camp, is in that room. You should report in," he said to Forseti.

Forseti nodded and proceeded.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Forseti pushed open the door and entered. Inside, a tall, slender middle-aged man sat, flipping through documents scattered across his cluttered desk. The camp's medical officer not only tended to battlefield injuries but also handled various administrative tasks.

"I'm Forseti Garrison, the new healer," Forseti introduced himself, handing over his identification.

Scala glanced over the documents, then rose to retrieve a wooden box. From it, he took out "The Third Camp Code," a key, and a dagger, handing them to Forseti.

"The key is for your room. The room number is marked. The healer's quarters are in the east wing," Scala instructed.

"...The dagger is for self-defense. The Scrins often attempt to infiltrate our camp. Though patrolling soldiers handle them in most cases, we must stay prepared for unexpected incidents," Scala remarked, mostly to himself. His gaze then shifted to the Fist of Verrigan in Forseti's possession, furrowing his brow slightly. "A warhammer?"

"Oh, it's a gift from a friend, for protection," Forseti explained.

"This isn't just any weapon. I sense magical energies, possibly fire-based... Your friend is quite generous," Scala observed thoughtfully.

He added, "Healing, not combat, is your primary duty. Despite its merits, let the soldiers defend you whenever possible. Understand?"

"Yes," Forseti acknowledged.

"You may go," Scala said, returning to his desk without looking up.

Forseti left Scala's office and headed towards the healer's quarters, a three-story wooden building.

Vanaheim's lush forests provided ample wood, making timber the primary construction material across the planet.

Consulting the key, Forseti located his room on the second floor and unlocked the door.

Inside, the space was compact, dominated by a bed occupying half the room, with the remaining area taken up by a small desk and chair. A window beside the bed offered a view of endless green forests and rolling mountains.

Occasionally, unfamiliar avian species flew by, some large, others colorful—unique to Forseti's experience.

Unlike Asgard's distinctive celestial realm, Warheim was a conventional planet, sprawling with diverse races. The Vanir Gods stood as the dominant race, revered by others as deities.

Vanaheim housed various races besides the Vanir—intelligent beings such as Scrins, Trolls, Kronans, and more.

"This is ..."

"Hey, new here?" a voice called from the open door.

Forseti turned to see a blond young man standing across the hallway, eyeing him curiously.

"Yup," Forseti affirmed.

"I'm Sigurd, also a healer. What's your name?" the young man introduced himself.

"Forseti," Forseti replied. "By the way, this is a mixed camp. Why haven't I seen any Vanirs?"

Sigurd chuckled, "You expecting them to look distinctive? Aesir and Vanir have a common ancestry."

"Any differences?"

"Only cultural ones," Sigurd shrugged.

"They're all gods, share a common ancestry. What sets them apart? You could meet a random person in camp and not guess if they're Aesir or Vanir beforehand," Sigurd explained.

It's worth noting that the term "God Race" referred broadly to powerful races, though specifics varied and often sparked debate.

According to mainstream belief, the Aesir and Vanir races defined true gods, marked by humanoid form, high intelligence, benevolence, robust bodies, space survival capability, and absence of major defects.

This criteria excluded Frost Giants and Dark Elves, deemed unfit by Asgardians—not solely for moral reasons but physical shortcomings.

Aesir considered them irredeemably evil, a viewpoint reciprocated by the outcasts themselves.

Their disqualification stemmed from environmental intolerances—Frost Giants to warmth and Dark Elves to light, necessitating protective attire to endure bright environments.

The mention of bright light agitated Dark Elves, and most avoided such exposure.

In contrast, Aesir and Vanir Gods were free from such vulnerabilities, demonstrating adaptability.

"Sigurd, how long have you been here?" Forseti inquired as they conversed.

"Nearly a year. Vanaheim boasts rich medicinal herbs, yet it's not as secure or comfortable as expected," Sigurd admitted.

"Why's that? Are Scrins formidable?" Forseti asked.

"No, they're weak. About as intelligent as Asgardian teens, easily defeated individually," Sigurd answered dismissively.

"But their numbers are daunting. Scrins may be repulsive—I've never seen such grotesque humanoids," he added, recalling with distaste.

"One thing's certain—Scrins are vile, from spirit to physique," Sigurd concluded.

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