Building a Kingdom as a Kobold
Chapter 74: Apparently We Can’t Just Walk Away From False Gods

Chapter 74: Apparently We Can’t Just Walk Away From False Gods

We saw the smoke first. Not battle smoke. Not the greasy, blood-bitten kind that clings after a fight. This was domestic. Stale. Someone cooking something badly over a fire that wasn’t hot enough. I hated how easy it was to tell the difference now.

Cinders was the first to say it out loud. "That’s a stew fire. Too many damp roots, not enough fat. I can smell the waste from here."

Relay coughed. "That’s a thing you can smell?"

Cinders didn’t answer. She just moved a little faster, tail stiff. The rest of us followed.

The village was human. Small. Four huts, two lean-to shelters, and one fire basin dug into the middle of the packed earth like someone had read about a central hearth once and tried to recreate it from memory. They’d gotten the shape mostly right. They’d even etched something into the outer rim—a spiral mark and three short lines extending from one edge. I stopped walking when I saw it.

Because it looked like mine. It wasn’t. The lines were too wide, the spiral spun inward, and the base wasn’t reinforced. It wasn’t dangerous. Just wrong. Like a sketch of a story told secondhand.

"Please tell me we didn’t invent a cult," I muttered.

Glare raised an eyebrow. "Maybe they just copied what worked."

"Which part?" I asked. "The burning, or the part where everyone expects you to save them?"

They saw us coming. No shouts, no fear. Just a quiet sort of watchfulness. Like we were something they’d already prepared for.

A woman stood up from near the fire. Her apron was covered in soot and her hands were wet with root broth. She didn’t smile. She just looked relieved.

"You came back," she said. Then turned to Cinders. "Did I lay the fire wrong again?"

Cinders blinked. "What?"

"You said it needed to breathe more, last time. I tried—really—I cut the root thinner and didn’t salt it too early, but it still burned bitter."

Cinders opened her mouth, then closed it.

"We’ve never been here before," I said.

The woman frowned, confused. "But the spiral—" She pointed at my shoulder.

"You match the seal on the plate," she said.

Inside one of the huts, a child sat with a chunk of charcoal and a piece of cracked tile. He was tracing shapes—over and over again. Little spirals, not quite closed, next to lines meant to mimic fire runes.

He looked up when we entered. Then he pointed at my cloak.

"You’re her," he said. "The first one. The one they copied from."

I didn’t answer. Because I could already see where this was going.

They weren’t reverent. That would’ve been easier to dismiss. They were expectant.

One man handed me a slab of bark-etched signs. A copied trade record from a traveler who passed through months ago. It listed Ashring-made tools, spiral-marks, and "fire-calmed bone glaze." There was a line circled in black soot:

"Ashring method—spiral always closes right. Fire must be seen to listen."

I looked up.

"Where did you get this?"

"A merchant," he said. "Said it came from the source. From where the fire first learned to speak."

That was a sentence that needed to be punched, not spoken.

But I didn’t. Because none of them meant harm. They were just trying to rebuild. And they’d used me to do it.

Cinders sat near the cookpit. Watched a young girl stir a pot with exact, practiced loops.

"Clockwise," Cinders said. "That’s not wrong. But it’s not right, either."

The girl hesitated. "Should I stop?"

Cinders shook her head slowly. "I don’t know."

It was quiet as dusk hit. Not calm. Just... waiting.

I stared at the fire in the center of the square, where someone had drawn a chalk line around the basin in an attempt to mirror a thread-circle. The spiral was there, again. Misshapen.

Relay leaned in and whispered, "They don’t even know what it means."

"No," I said. "But they’re using it anyway."

One of the elders approached me. His hands were empty, but his back was straight. "You’re the one who started this, right?"

He said it like he was asking if I was the baker who sold the original bread recipe. Not a ruler. Not a flame. Just... someone responsible.

"We didn’t change much," he said. "Only the pieces we had to. We know it’s not perfect."

Behind him, the fire crackled. Too low. No resonance. Wrong fuel. Wrong balance. But it still burned.

"Is it close enough?" he asked.

I looked at the spiral again. Didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

The constructs didn’t arrive loudly. They didn’t tear through trees or shriek into the sky or brandish anything dangerous. They just... walked.

Two of them. Quiet. Measured. From the northern edge of the village, past a stack of fire-smoothed stones, through the fields without paths, feet making soft crunches in the loam like they’d done it before.

I stood first. The others followed.

Cinders stepped in front of the girl with the pot. Glare moved beside the elder. Flick was already gone from view.

The villagers didn’t scream. One of them waved.

"They come sometimes," someone explained. "Usually when the fire gets muddled. They don’t like it messy."

I blinked.

"You let them?"

"If we try to stop them, they break the pit. If we let them walk it, they fix it."

I looked back at the basin. Fix. That’s what they thought this was.

The constructs weren’t fast, but they were purposeful.

They reached the basin and tilted their heads. One reached into the flame. Clawed hand rearranged the base logs. The other scraped a new spiral into the ash around the edge. A clean one. Too clean. Uniform curves, mathematical spacing. A symbol that had nothing to do with hunger or warmth or grief.

I stepped forward.

The first construct paused mid-motion. Turned.

[Authority Detected – Thread Conflict]

[Correction Routine Paused]

[Awaiting Clarification Input]

[Local Fire Status: Unverified Original]

For a moment, I thought that was it. That they’d freeze or vanish or fall over.

Instead, the second one pulled back. Then it bowed. And stepped aside.

"That’s new," Flick said from behind a post. "Did you do something?"

"I existed in the wrong place," I muttered.

Relay stepped beside me. "They’re waiting for you to fix the fire."

"No. They’re waiting to see if I match the one they copied."

The basin still burned. Quietly.

I crouched next to it. Touched the rim. It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm the right way. Like the heat didn’t go deep. Like it just sat there, pretending.

The villagers watched me like I was about to pass judgment.

I almost walked away.

Then a small hand tapped my shoulder.

I turned.

The child from earlier held out a clay plate. Round, misshapen. Scored with a spiral in dry soot.

"I made this one today," he said. "Is it better than the old one?"

I took it gently. The spiral curved inward. Not as sharp this time.

"It’s not about better," I said quietly. "It’s about why."

He tilted his head.

"Why what?"

"Why you made it."

He thought for a second. "Because the last one didn’t work."

That night, I sat near the fire as the village settled. No formal ceremony. No welcome feast. Just quiet meals and attempts at order. They’d rebuilt their whole culture from fragments and guesswork. And now they expected me to either confirm it or start over. I didn’t know which would be worse.

I wandered past the cookhouse, where they stored trade goods. Found a shelf lined with broken tools and old trader slabs.

One caught my eye.

Carved in crude lines: a copy of the Ashring trade seal. Spiral and name. Except the name was spelled wrong—three letters off. Probably translated through three dialects and a merchant who couldn’t write.

And under it, in neat ink:

"Method from Ashring. Trade with trust. Flame will correct."

They didn’t make a god. They made a manual. And now they thought I was here for the warranty.