Supreme Viking System-Chapter 72 - 75: Plan

The council chamber was not where Arthur expected to be judged.

There were no banners snapping in torchlight. No skulls nailed to beams. No priests muttering oaths. What waited for him instead was warmth, silence, and wood.

The doors opened without ceremony.

Arthur was escorted inside—not pushed, not chained. The Enforcers halted at the threshold, hands folded, eyes forward. They did not follow him in.

The chamber smelled of oil, resin, and worked timber. Not incense. Not blood. Craft.

At its center stood a table unlike any Arthur had seen in any hall of kings.

It was not round. Not rectangular. It had no ceremonial symmetry.

It was a map.

A vast slab of oak and ash joined seamlessly, its surface carved in relief. Coastlines smoothed by fire. Rivers cut deep and dark, inlaid with a different grain so they caught the light. Mountain ranges rose subtly from the surface—not exaggerated, not mythic, but precise. Islands dotted the seas like deliberate punctuation.

Markers rested in shallow sockets: small carved towers, ships, sigils.

Arthur stopped walking.

His breath left him without permission.

"This..." His voice sounded smaller than he intended. "This is the world."

"Yes."

Anders’ voice came from the far side of the table.

Arthur looked up.

Anders stood there without crown or cloak, sleeves rolled, hands resting lightly on the map as if it were a thing he used every day—which, Arthur realized with a chill, it was.

"This is Midgard as it is," Anders said. "And as it will be."

Arthur stepped closer despite himself.

He recognized coastlines. The familiar curve of Britannia. The broken teeth of Norway’s fjords. Denmark—Jutland—clearly marked, ringed by ports. Sweden’s forests rendered in raised grain. Rivers he knew only from Roman records cut cleanly through Germania.

Ten cities were marked with larger sigils.

Ten.

Each ringed.

Each connected.

Arthur’s eyes followed the lines—roads, canals, routes he had never imagined possible. Inland cities tied to the sea without reliance on seasons. Fortresses positioned not at borders, but at junctions.

"This isn’t symbolic," Arthur said quietly.

"No," Anders replied. "It’s operational."

Arthur’s fingers hovered over the marker that represented Skjoldvik. He did not touch it.

"How long," he asked, "has this existed?"

Anders’ gaze stayed on the map. "Long enough."

Arthur swallowed. "England."

Anders’ eyes flicked up—not sharply, but with faint curiosity. "What about it?"

"Why England?" Arthur demanded. "Why land here? Why provoke a war you didn’t need?"

Anders’ expression did not change.

"England is not special," he said. "It is accessible. Divided. Poorly integrated. It sits between older powers who believe the sea protects them."

Arthur felt the words land like measured blows.

"It is," Anders continued, "next."

Arthur straightened. "So you intend to conquer it."

"Yes."

No flourish. No heat.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose. "You speak of conquest like a craftsman speaks of tools."

"I am a craftsman," Anders said. "Empires are built things. Not passions."

Arthur’s voice tightened. "And after England?"

Anders placed his palm flat on the table.

"Every inch of Midgard."

The words were quiet.

They were absolute.

Arthur laughed once, short and disbelieving. "You’re a boy."

Anders met his eyes then.

Arthur had faced warlords, tyrants, zealots. He had faced men who believed themselves chosen by gods.

This was different.

There was no hunger in Anders’ gaze. No need to be believed.

Only certainty.

"You mistake scale for madness," Anders said. "I am not here to burn the world. I am here to finish it."

Arthur felt a cold creep along his spine. "Finish it how?"

Anders moved his hand slowly across the map, tracing a path from Scandinavia through the isles, across the continent.

"War will not end," he said. "Not because men are cruel—but because systems are fragile. They break, and men fight over the pieces."

He looked back up.

"I am removing the fragility."

Arthur shook his head. "You can’t rule the world."

Anders’ mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. An acknowledgment.

"I don’t need to rule it," he said. "I need to standardize it."

Arthur stared. "You talk about people like components."

"I talk about people like they deserve stability," Anders replied. "Food. Warmth. Roads that don’t vanish in winter. Laws that don’t change when a strong man dies."

Arthur’s hands clenched. "And those who resist?"

Anders did not answer immediately.

Instead, he walked around the table and stopped directly across from Arthur, close enough now that Arthur could see the fine scars at his knuckles. The weight in his posture.

"Then they will be absorbed," Anders said. "Or sidelined."

Arthur’s voice dropped. "Or destroyed."

Anders met his gaze evenly. "If necessary."

Silence stretched between them.

Arthur broke it. "Why bring me here?"

Anders’ eyes flicked briefly back to the map—then returned.

"Because England needs a steward," he said.

Arthur stiffened. "You want me to kneel."

"I want you to govern," Anders replied. "For me."

Arthur barked a laugh. "You expect me to betray my people."

"I expect you to preserve them," Anders said. "Under a system that will outlast both of us."

Arthur’s anger flared. "And if I refuse?"

Anders did not raise his voice.

"You will live."

Arthur frowned. "Live?"

"You will be housed comfortably," Anders continued. "Fed well. Kept warm. You will walk gardens. Read. Speak to visitors."

Arthur’s stomach tightened.

"And you will be displayed," Anders said, calmly, "as a king who chose pride over continuity."

Arthur felt the weight of it then.

Not death.

Irrelevance.

"A pet," Arthur said bitterly.

"A warning," Anders corrected. "Martyrs inspire rebellion. Survivors instruct."

Arthur stepped back as if struck.

"You’d cage me," he said.

"I would preserve you," Anders replied. "There is a difference."

Arthur looked back at the map.

At England.

At how small it was.

"How long do I have?" he asked.

Anders shook his head. "I’m not rushing you."

Arthur turned sharply. "Why?"

Anders’ gaze softened—not with mercy, but with something colder.

"Because time favors me," he said. "And I want your choice to be real."

Arthur’s eyes traced the unfinished edges of the map—blank spaces where cities had not yet been carved.

"This isn’t done," Arthur said.

"No," Anders agreed. "It’s begun."

Arthur swallowed.

Anders stepped back, giving him space again.

"Consider it," Anders said. "England will be governed either way."

He turned toward the door.

"History," he added, without looking back, "has already moved past refusal."

The doors opened.

Arthur was left alone with the map.

With the carved rivers.

With the future etched into wood.

And for the first time since his capture, Arthur felt not fear—but the crushing realization that whatever he chose next would not stop the world from turning.

Only determine whether he would turn with it—or be remembered as something the world carried forward without.