Chap­ter XIV presents a pro­found look into the spir­i­tu­al and moral out­look of the Vril-ya, whose view of exis­tence stretch­es beyond the lim­its of phys­i­cal life. They believe that once life is grant­ed, it can­not be extinguished—it mere­ly trans­forms. This trans­for­ma­tion does not hap­pen again on Earth but in oth­er planes or realms where each stage offers greater con­scious­ness, joy, and refine­ment. Such a belief rejects rein­car­na­tion as tra­di­tion­al­ly imag­ined, replac­ing it with a con­cept of per­pet­u­al ascent. The soul’s jour­ney, in their eyes, is not cycli­cal but upward. Suf­fer­ing, loss, and even death are seen as tem­po­rary shad­ows cast upon an unfold­ing, eter­nal light.

Their under­stand­ing of divine jus­tice is equal­ly expan­sive. Rather than imag­in­ing a remote deity allow­ing harm through indif­fer­ent laws, they view the Supreme Pow­er as deeply aware of every being’s path. Jus­tice, they say, is not always vis­i­ble in this life, but it is guar­an­teed in the total scope of exis­tence. Each hard­ship is part of a cor­rec­tion, not a pun­ish­ment. From the small­est insect to the most sen­tient mind, all expe­ri­ence is over­seen by a wis­dom that adjusts and ele­vates. Their the­ol­o­gy dis­miss­es ran­dom­ness as illu­sion and per­ceives every out­come as mean­ing­ful with­in an eter­nal con­tin­u­um. Evil, then, is not denied—but rede­fined as a con­di­tion tem­porar­i­ly nec­es­sary for deep­er align­ment with truth.

This out­look shapes their way of liv­ing. Because they believe every crea­ture pos­sess­es a sacred thread of pur­pose, they show rev­er­ence toward all life. Ani­mals are not exploit­ed, plants are cul­ti­vat­ed with care, and con­flict among sen­tient beings is con­sid­ered a sign of moral imma­tu­ri­ty. Their cities, homes, and cus­toms reflect this spir­i­tu­al archi­tec­ture. Author­i­ty is exer­cised not through dom­i­na­tion but through insight. The wealth­i­er do not rule the poor­er; they sim­ply car­ry more respon­si­bil­i­ty. Har­mo­ny is upheld by the belief that jus­tice is not man-made but divine­ly guaranteed—so peace must be prac­ticed here and now, in prepa­ra­tion for what fol­lows.

Aph-Lin and Zee share these beliefs with­out fanati­cism. There is no need to con­vince, only to explain. Their faith has no rit­u­als, no church­es, no priesthood—it exists in their deci­sions, their archi­tec­ture, and even their ges­tures. To them, kind­ness is the­ol­o­gy enact­ed. The social equal­i­ty among the Vril-ya is not ide­al­is­tic but log­i­cal: if all life pro­ceeds toward high­er forms, no one is less­er in worth—only at a dif­fer­ent phase. Their belief grants dig­ni­ty to all posi­tions in soci­ety, regard­less of wealth or phys­i­cal pow­er. Com­pas­sion becomes not just moral, but rea­son­able. Even their tech­no­log­i­cal supe­ri­or­i­ty is mod­er­at­ed by humil­i­ty, know­ing that all strength must serve the col­lec­tive ascent.

This belief in indi­vid­ual evo­lu­tion, span­ning across unknown futures, elim­i­nates the need for com­pe­ti­tion. Progress is inter­nal. The race is not against oth­ers, but toward clar­i­ty and self-aware­ness. Thus, they view ambition—so dom­i­nant in the upper world—as a residue of mis­un­der­stand­ing. Seek­ing fame or dom­i­na­tion is like try­ing to rule over one’s shad­ow. True hon­or, they sug­gest, lies in mas­ter­ing the self. Their world­view dis­cour­ages cru­el­ty because they see no sep­a­ra­tion between the soul of a bird and the soul of a man—only dif­fer­ences in devel­op­ment. Respect, then, becomes instinc­tive, not enforced.

What impress­es the nar­ra­tor is how these ideas fil­ter into dai­ly life. Unlike abstract creeds above ground, the Vril-ya’s beliefs are prac­ti­cal and lived. Their restraint in using vril pow­er, their refusal to exploit ani­mals, and their com­mit­ment to fair­ness in pub­lic sys­tems all stem from this spir­i­tu­al log­ic. One does not need to believe as they do to admire the results. The nar­ra­tor, though skep­ti­cal, can­not deny the ele­gance of a soci­ety that func­tions so smooth­ly. Where human civ­i­liza­tions argue about rights, the Vril-ya act on them. Where oth­ers pun­ish, they pre­vent. Their god is not angry or aloof—it is present in every action tak­en with wis­dom and mer­cy.

In these reflec­tions, the nar­ra­tor sees not just a dif­fer­ence in belief, but a mir­ror held up to humanity’s flaws. The Vril-ya chal­lenge the assump­tion that suf­fer­ing is unavoid­able and hier­ar­chy inevitable. They sug­gest that with enough under­stand­ing, even pow­er can serve peace. And that per­haps, civilization’s final goal is not con­quest or inven­tion, but the cre­ation of a soci­ety so just, even its qui­etest mem­ber feels sacred.