Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 48: We Don’t Have a Religion but Apparently We’re Holy Now

Chapter 48 - We Don’t Have a Religion but Apparently We’re Holy Now

I woke up to chanting.

Which, in a dungeon, is never the noise you want to start your day with.

It wasn't evil chanting. No blood. No sacrifice. Just five kobolds gathered in a semi-circle around the flame pit, mumbling what sounded like a bedtime story and passing a gourd of soup like it was divine nectar.

I stared.

They didn't stop.

One of them noticed me, paused, and whispered, "Sovereign's Breath protect you."

I turned around and went back into the tarp shelter.

Quicktongue found me five minutes later, face-down in a basket of half-folded relay sheets.

"You okay?"

"No."

"New disaster?"

"No."

"Old one?"

"Worse."

She leaned on the doorframe. "Ah. The ritual thing again?"

"They're singing about soup, Quick. Soup."

"It was a good soup."

"They said it was blessed."

She nodded solemnly. "It was very good soup."

Apparently, culture had decided to speedrun itself while I wasn't looking.

In the last two days, Ashring had accidentally invented:

1. A call-and-response patrol ritual.

2. Three ceremonial phrases.

3. A minor feast calendar.

4. A golem named "Blessed Ember" who beeped every time someone swore near the fire.

I tried to cancel all of it.

The system didn't care.

[Cultural Practice: Confirmed]

[Mythline Drift: +3]

[Flame Doctrine – Tier 0 Registered]

[Dominant Symbols: Fire, Shelter, Improvised Cutlery]

"I didn't approve a doctrine," I said.

[That's not how this works.]

Embergleam was having a worse day than me.

Which, statistically, was hard.

She'd healed someone. Loudly. With some yelling. And a thrown poultice. Standard procedure.

Someone saw it.

Told someone else.

Now there was a kobold in the medical tent carving "Ash-Sister Ember" into a wooden bowl while humming something dangerously close to a hymn.

"Stop them," Embergleam said.

"I tried," I said.

"They're praying to the salve."

"I know."

"They gave the moss bin an offering."

"I know."

She stared at me. "You're the Sovereign. Fix it."

"I also had to approve our new defensive motto yesterday."

"What is it?"

"'Hold the Line Like It's On Fire.'"

She blinked.

Then sighed.

"I hate that I like it."

The kicker came after noon.

Three figures approached from the south trench—half-elf by the ears, taller than any of us, cloaked in dirt-hardened travel robes that still somehow managed to look smug.

They didn't draw weapons.

They didn't shout.

They just walked up to our outer relay post and asked to speak with the Sovereign of the Flame.

Not the Sovereign of Ashring.

The Flame.

I stood in front of them with my least ceremonial stick and the expression of someone who had rebuilt a trench wall twice and still hadn't had breakfast.

The leader stepped forward.

She had silver-thread hair pulled back into a knot, deep moss-colored eyes, and the sort of facial structure that probably got her mistaken for a shrine guardian at least once a month.

She bowed.

Then said, "You carry the node-seed."

I blinked. "I carry a shovel. And rage. That's it."

There was a pause like they were mentally rewriting their script.

I am chaos. I ruin conferences. I win.

"We felt the ignition pulse. The rebirth wave. The mythline thread coalesced enough to reach our warded paths. That makes you a sovereign-flame vector."

Quicktongue, beside me, whispered, "She just called you a walking campfire."

I nodded. "That tracks."

They wanted audience.

Not in the fancy court sense.

Just... a conversation. A seat near the fire. Maybe tea.

They came with no weapons drawn, no scrolls rolled, no titles given. Only a woven thread-insignia: a spiral over a split leaf.

System pinged once, soft.

[External Recognition: Granted]

[Third-Party Myth-Path Detected – Alignment: Curiosity]

[Warning: Intersecting Belief Structures May Stabilize into Permanent Identity]

I turned it off with a claw jab and a mutter.

The half-elves sat like they'd been born to it—quiet spines, relaxed knees, zero dust on their cloaks despite the fact that I'd definitely seen one of them fall into a trench.

They didn't talk much at first.

Which would've been fine, except that everyone else did.

Quicktongue offered moss tea like we were hosting a treaty delegation.

Stonealign brought out a chair made of actual matching planks and nearly cried when they complimented it.

And one of the younger kobolds tried to give them a prayer-stone someone had carved with my face on it.

The face had horns.

And seven eyes.

I had none of those.

Unless exhaustion counts as an extra pair. Then I might be at eight.

I accepted the tea anyway and pretended to be someone qualified to lead anything other than a construction site.

"You're not what we expected," said the lead half-elf.

"Neither are you," I replied. "We were betting on mole priests or moss cultists."

She smiled faintly. "Those come later."

That wasn't comforting.

They didn't come with demands.

They didn't even come with messages.

They came because they'd felt something. When I died. When I came back. When the flame cracked the system clean open and let something old breathe through it.

"You're forming a node-seed," one of them said, running her fingers through the air near the fire. "Or being formed by one."

"We're just rebuilding a wall," I said.

"And worshiping the process."

I glared. "No one here worships anything."

Behind me, someone sang the second verse of "Ash-Sister Ember and the Healing Stick."

I hissed.

Embergleam did not take it well.

She came storming in during the third cup of tea, glared at everyone, and dropped a satchel of half-finished poultices on the ground.

"No one is allowed to write songs about medicinal salves," she barked. "They're for wounds. Not inspiration."

The half-elves were delighted.

One of them tried to sketch her mid-rant.

"Stop mythologizing me!" Embergleam shouted.

"Too late," I muttered.

After the sun-cycle dimmed, the lead half-elf stayed by the fire.

We didn't talk much. Just watched it burn.

Not in silence, exactly. Just... no noise that needed names.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I said eventually. "If you think this is all some divine awakening, I promise you—it's just burnt moss and spite."

"Spite," she said, "is a valid foundation."

She reached into her satchel and placed a folded bundle beside me. Fabric, dyed in spirals, stitched in copper thread.

"For recognition."

I tilted my head.

"For when you visit," she clarified.

I stared. "Visit where?"

"Our flame. Our node. Our roots are older, but they've waited. If your people are ready, we'd receive you."

She smiled—not with superiority, but something softer.

"We'd like to learn what kind of myth you're becoming."

---

After they left, I stared at the fabric. Then the fire.

Then the system.

It didn't ping.

Just glowed, faint and steady, like it was thinking.

No question. No demand.

Just... potential.

And the soft sound of something very old, just beginning to breathe again.

Ididn't move.

I just whispered to the fire, "Please don't make me a prophet."

The flame crackled like it was considering it.