Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 81: MISTAKE : SKIP THIS - PLEASE

Let’s get something straight: I did not authorize any temples. If anyone builds something with my name on it, I expect it to be a food storage unit, maybe a sensible latrine. Not this. Not whatever this is.

Temples mean followers. Followers mean doctrine. Doctrine means someone’s going to start translating my sarcasm as prophecy.

The ground smells weird before we even crack it open. Burnt bone and wet dust. Relay pinged it earlier—buried chamber under a flattened village, heavy with system tags. There was smoke, not the fire kind. The cold kind. The kind that’s arrogant.

Relay didn’t come with us. He said something about "pingback distortion", bolted into the trees like the forest owed him answers and ran off chasing static. Left a trail marker, though. He’s learning.

And now I’m kneeling in it.

The dirt gives way. A creaking snap, a soft thud, and then air escapes upward. The kind of breath that hasn’t moved in years.

Cinders winces behind me. "You okay?"

"No," I say. "No, I’m going to be completely not okay in about five seconds."

I lower myself down through the break. I should bring backup. I should call Quicktongue or literally anyone. I don’t. Because I’m stupid and tired and morbidly curious.

My claws hit stone. Smooth, clean. Old. I can feel the system scratching at me already.

[Thread Echo Present – Source: Sovereign Identifier]

[Verification Complete – Welcome, Firestarter.]

Oh no. No no no.

I say that a lot lately. It’s starting to feel less like a reaction and more like a lifestyle.

The chamber is circular. There are carvings on the walls—burnt in, not etched. Whoever did this wasn’t preserving anything. They were branding it.

There’s an altar. Of course there’s an altar. What else do you build underground when you’re a myth-sick mimic cult?

Altars are like mysterious cubes. You never want to touch them, but the narrative will emotionally bully you until you do.

And on the altar, right in the center, is a piece of bark.

No, not bark. Not anymore. It’s been lacquered over, pressed flat, framed in copper. I step closer. The letters are shaky, charcoal-smudged. I know them.

I wrote this.

"I don’t know what I’m doing but if I stop moving I think we all die," it says.

Oh come on. I’d like to file an official protest with the universe. That was not meant to be engraved on anything. That was meant to be forgotten immediately and buried under thirty bad decisions.

Cinders drops in behind me. I hear her boots scuff the edge. She doesn’t say anything for a long time.

"That... that yours?" she asks finally.

"Yeah. From day twelve. I was trying to get Bitterstack to stop crying."

"They enshrined it," she says.

I could feel my past self trying to crawl out of the text and slap me.

"Great. Fantastic. I’m a false prophet now."

There are more pieces. Bits of my voice. Things I shouted in the middle of cooking fights. Sarcastic remarks about bone structure. Half-finished blueprints I drew on the ground with a claw and immediately forgot.

All of it here. All of it preserved. All of it arranged like it means something.

There’s a spiral on the wall across from the altar. It pulses once when I look at it.

It’s special. I don’t mean mystic special. I mean structurally special. The lines fold into each other too fast. There’s no sense of center. Just loop after loop after loop.

Cinders shifts uncomfortably.

"That’s his, isn’t it?"

"Kind of," I say.

Scribbles drew in spirals. His were messy, yes, but they always went somewhere. This doesn’t. This is a trap pretending to be a path.

Which is basically what most advice columns feel like, except this one glows.

A statue catches my eye, half-hidden in the dust near the back. I think it’s a kobold at first. Then I look closer.

It’s me.

Sort of.

Clean cloak. Straight shoulders. Eyes that aren’t exhausted. Claws polished. Teeth even. She’s got a little pedestal. Says "Second Flame Sovereign" under it.

"Oh," I whisper "Second?".

Cinders puts a hand on my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything.

"I was dirty that day," I say. "I was bleeding. I had ash in my mouth. My voice cracked."

"I know."

"This one looks like she never had to fight over meat scraps."

"She didn’t."

I bet she also flosses regularly and knows how to maintain a healthy work-life balance. Monster.

I want to break it. I really, really do. But I don’t. Not yet.

The system pings again.

[Unauthorized Myth Fragment Detected]

[Conflict Risk: Elevated]

[Thread Divergence Map Incomplete]

"Map this," I mutter.

Cinders looks over the bark-slab again. "If someone found this without context..."

"Yeah."

"They’d think this was history."

I sit down. Right there on the cold floor, next to my bootleg statue and my panic writings framed like scripture.

And I laugh.

Not long. Not loud.

Just once.

It sounds hollow.

I don’t know how long I sit there.

Long enough for Cinders to start pacing in a slow square around the shrine. Long enough for the statue to stop looking like me and start looking like a stranger who wore my skin better.

Then the system coughs.

[Inflow Detected – Myth-Laced Signal Converging]

[Multiple Flame Threads Approaching – Source: Artificial Contour Anchor]

I blink. freёnovelkiss-com

"Contour anchor?"

Cinders stiffens. "We’re not alone."

I’m up before she finishes. Flame prickles behind my teeth. I scan the walls again. One of the seams near the spiral... it’s breathing. Just a little. Enough for heat to wobble.

Cinders draws her spoon.

It’s an artifact now. I’m not even going to unpack that. She holds it like a knife.

Which is a problem, because last time she used it like one, the stew tasted better and the target didn’t.

A crack splits the back wall.

And in walks a kobold.

Not one of mine.

Taller than me. Smoother scale. Expression like wet clay. He’s wearing robes. Deep red, the color of overcooked blood. There’s a mark burned across his chest—not mine, but close. It curves where mine angles. Softens where mine cuts.

He bows.

"Firestarter. We meet."

I want to punch him already.

"You’re late to your own desecration," I say.

He smiles. "This is not desecration. This is refinement."

I step forward, Cinders a breath behind.

"You’ve got five seconds to start making sense."

"I am not here for violence," he says. "We are simply updating what was started."

"You copied my words and stapled them to a wall."

"We preserved your moment. Framed your flame in context. You should be honored."

Oh no.

Oh, we’re dealing with one of these.

I should be sleeping. But here we are.

"I didn’t ask to be framed," I snap. "I didn’t light that fire for your pantheon."

"Still, you lit it," he says.

"And you turned it into branding."

He doesn’t even flinch. "You misunderstand. We’re offering inclusion. Your settlement. Your rituals. Even your system anomalies. They could be clarified. Stabilized. Integrated."

I know a scam when I hear one. That’s cult-speak for ’we’ve already rewritten the bylaws with your name on them.

"Into what?"

He opens his hands. "A broader myth-cycle. You’d have reach. Permanence. Protection."

"Permanence," I echo. "By letting you rewrite what we fought for?"

"We only polish. We don’t overwrite."

Cinders growls low. I hear her spoon creak.

The system chimes again.

[Diplomatic Encounter – Myth-Class]

[Parley Path Optional – Threat Analysis: Ambiguous]

[Note: This entity shares 42.7% glyph lineage with Sovereign Path]

He steps to the side. Gestures at the spiral.

"This loop is just a start. We believe in continuity. No more accidents. No more tragic collapses. Only steady ascent."

I stare at the spiral.

It’s still not the right one.

Still looping inward.

And if you follow it long enough, you start to forget where it began.

"I’ll pass," I say.

He tilts his head.

"You’ll regret this. When your culture fragments. When your signals distort. When the world forgets the shape of your fire—"

"No," I interrupt. "You don’t get to weaponize forgetting at me. I died already. We rebuilt from less than ash."

"You could have a place in history."

Great. Can I trade it for a sandwich and five minutes without being revered?

"I’m trying to survive Thursday."

That gets him. Just a flicker of confusion.

Cinders speaks, low and hard. "You’re not building safety. You’re burying us under your version."

He sighs.

"Very well," he says. "The invitation remains. But know this—there is a sovereign rising. One who understands the need for clean narrative. One who doesn’t choke on contradiction."

So does my urge to throw a rock at you. Of course if I wanted clean narrative, I wouldn’t have chosen fire as a hobby.

"Sounds boring," I say.

He turns. Walks back through the cracked seam.

Gone.

The spiral pulses once more.

And then the flames dim.

Cinders exhales slowly.

"That’s going to come back to bite us."

"Oh yeah," I say. "But not today."

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