"Go back and tell Ulfric this: if the Stormcloaks ever set foot in Winterhold Hold again, the College will wipe Windhelm off the map. He can fight his civil war with the Empire on his own.
"These five hundred men will be held here. If you want a prisoner exchange, one Stormcloak footsoldier for three civilians, one cavalryman for ten, one officer for a hundred civilians—and Galmar Stone-Fist is worth five hundred."
The College released two Stormcloak soldiers, put them on fast horses, and sent them riding hard back to Windhelm with the message.
Rebuilt Winterhold desperately needed people. Right now, it wasn't just that every trade still had to be revived—there was nothing at all. Everyone was so poor that all they had left were their houses. They ate nothing but fish and seafood every day; their tables were far too monotonous, their bellies lacked both fat and grain fibre. The wide land was empty and silent, just waiting for capable hands to get to work.
Skyl decided to stay in Winterhold for a while and play a little cross-world "lord management" sim—but he knew full well he was not cut out for that. To be honest, he wasn't interested.
In his previous life (let's just call it a previous life), he'd bought loads of management sims—things like Stardew Valley, Dyson Sphere Program, Frostpunk—and plenty of strategy games too, such as Hearts of Iron IV and Stellaris. He'd bounced off every one of them. In the end, just to make those purchases feel less like a waste of money, Skyl had fired up Cheat Engine, edited the game values, and maxed out all resources. The fun factor took a hit, sure, but there was no denying the brutal beauty of that playstyle. It felt good.
Skyl: play the game, don't let the game play you. [insert thinking-black-guy-meme here]
And the complexity of real-world administration was on a whole different level from any game. Which only made him less confident in his ability to run a mage nation.
He wasn't one of those webnovel protagonists who scheme and manoeuvre with ease, using intricate political tactics to crack open impossible situations in a tangled reality. But unlike transmigrators in alternate-history stories, he didn't need to grind out every tiny gain, struggling to develop under constant pressure from surrounding powers.
Skyl had said it long ago: he wasn't a hero. He was a god.
He could very simply "cheat" in real life, maxing out all the resources within his domain, and in doing so he could meet the material needs of his people. As for territorial security, there was no power in Fourth Era Skyrim capable of really provoking him—not for now. Anyone too blind to see that would receive a single warning; twice, and he'd wipe them out.
No fear of hunger, no fear of getting beaten—development was bound to be easy.
Skyl didn't see himself as superior because of this. Those who, in mortal flesh, could lead their people to reshape the world were the real tough ones.
It was just that, compared to letting his people stagger forward on their own, Skyl chose a path that better matched reality:
To sit in the mortal world as a god and spread his blessings wide.
In a fantasy setting, that choice was hardly unusual. The Elder Scrolls alone had a very famous example—the three half-gods of the Tribunal in Morrowind.
Thousands of years ago in Morrowind, there were three Dunmer powers: Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil. They stole the Heart of Lorkhan (the guy who got ripped in half) and gained power on par with the gods. Under their protection, the Dunmer survived disaster after disaster.
For example, in 1E 2920, the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon invaded Morrowind, and the Tribunal defeated him and drove him back to Oblivion. In the Second Era, when snow demons invaded, the Tribunal sank all of Morrowind beneath the sea and granted their subjects the ability to breathe underwater, drowning the invaders. The half-god Vivec once halted a "moon" that Sheogorath had hurled at the world, holding it fixed in the sky so that his city would be spared.
Those three were only borrowing stolen god-power and propping up their divinity by fooling the masses, yet they still displayed such unbelievable might. Even if they eventually faded into the mists of history, they left the Dunmer with a glorious epic that spanned three whole eras.
Skyl's situation was different from the Tribunal's. He had indeed stolen divine power, but he could supply it himself; he didn't need any external source of god-energy. With the Tower of Tomes, he didn't need a religion to maintain his divinity either. His divine power was self-sustaining, and his godhood was self-contained. There would be no crises of dwindling strength like those that struck the Tribunal.
The city he sheltered could endure forever, and the people he guarded would bask in his grace for as long as they lived.
Brelyna understood Skyl best. She was a Dunmer; the tales of the Tribunal's three half-gods were woven into her childhood. And she was a retainer of the King of the Tower, serving the sun in her heart.
"Skyl, whatever you decide to do, I'll always be there," she said.
"Maryon, are you interested in playing a game?" Skyl asked.
"What kind?"
"I'm calling it Winterhold Age. It's a sandbox management game."
Brelyna shook her head. "Please use words I can understand. Don't talk in riddles."
"I'll explain. Come with me."
Skyl and Brelyna strolled through the rebuilt Winterhold, following the main street toward the centre of the city. There, the ancient palace of the Ysgramor dynasty rose—a royal residence in ages past. Now, the ruler who sat here was Jarl Korir.
"It's really all bare foundations and empty frameworks," Skyl said, looking at the desolate streets and the hurried citizens. The road ahead felt long. "Any good suggestions?"
In a soft voice, Brelyna said, "Everything in the new Winterhold needs new names. The jarl's palace, the districts, the streets."
"Oh? Why?"
"Do you remember the history of this city? It's said that Shalidor built it with whispered spells. And you, as the undisputed leader of the College and the one who remade the city, have the right to leave your mark. So that everyone who comes to Winterhold in the future will remember what you did.
"Besides, a city that is politically new, with no historical baggage, won't be drawn into Skyrim's disputes."
Her meaning was clear. "Right names make rightful claims"—legitimacy lay in the name. Renaming Winterhold's historic buildings would weaken the jarl's inherited authority, making it easier for the College to govern, and it would also avoid disputes caused by leftover historical issues. The new Winterhold was not a completely blank slate; intangible dust from history still drifted through every corner of the city. Only by drawing a clear line with the past could you truly finish cleaning the place.
"Then let's start with this palace," Skyl said after a moment's thought, shaking his head with a wry smile. "I'm terrible at naming things. Do you have any ideas?"
"The Palace of the Midnight Sun—a place forever bathed in sunlight."
"But Winterhold only has the midnight sun in summer."
At that, Brelyna merely smiled and offered no explanation.
Skyl looked at her for a while, then agreed.
"Remember how I said I wanted to ask you to play a game?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Good. I'll build the sandbox first." Skyl took out a familiar object—a smartphone.
This artefact from the twenty-first century, imbued with magical power by his bizarre journey between worlds, had so far only been used by Skyl as a cross-world communicator. But it still had untapped potential. Until now, Skyl hadn't seen any need to develop it further.
Now, it was finally time for it to shine.
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