Chap­ter XIII begins by illu­mi­nat­ing how the Vril-ya have woven their spir­i­tu­al beliefs into the very struc­ture of their lives, mak­ing reli­gion a qui­et strength rather than a source of divi­sion. Their wor­ship is nei­ther cer­e­mo­ni­al nor over­ly com­plex, but it is deeply root­ed in sin­cere rev­er­ence. The idea that the divine is ever-present, per­ceiv­ing even the most fleet­ing thoughts, grants them a strong sense of inner dis­ci­pline. Rather than appeal­ing to an exter­nal force through elab­o­rate rit­u­als, they focus on inner clar­i­ty and align­ment. This qui­et, inward spir­i­tu­al­i­ty fos­ters humil­i­ty and thought­ful action. For them, liv­ing right­ly is the truest form of wor­ship.

Their con­nec­tion to vril is cen­tral not just to their sci­ence but also to their the­ol­o­gy. The ener­gy they mas­ter is viewed not only as a phys­i­cal force but as a sacred link between mind and cos­mos. Thought itself, when shaped by truth and good­will, is believed to reach the Cre­ator instant­ly. This belief dis­cour­ages deceit and ele­vates con­tem­pla­tion. Because of this, prayer is often silent, woven into dai­ly moments rather than bound to for­mal occa­sions. Thank­ful­ness is prac­ticed not as oblig­a­tion but as recog­ni­tion of one’s place in an ordered uni­verse. Grat­i­tude, they believe, is the foun­da­tion of eth­i­cal behav­ior and emo­tion­al health.

Unlike many sur­face soci­eties, the Vril-ya do not argue about reli­gion. Their faith does not divide them because it avoids rigid dog­ma. They dis­cour­age defin­ing the divine in rigid terms, see­ing such attempts as lim­it­ing and even dis­re­spect­ful. In their view, the Infi­nite can­not be cap­tured by lan­guage or imagery with­out dis­tor­tion. The divine is bet­ter under­stood through liv­ing just­ly, think­ing clear­ly, and main­tain­ing inter­nal har­mo­ny. Their sacred texts, if any exist, are not dis­cussed; instead, eth­i­cal con­duct and wis­dom car­ry more author­i­ty than writ­ings. As a result, they expe­ri­ence few­er con­flicts over belief and main­tain a social uni­ty root­ed in mutu­al respect.

This spir­i­tu­al sim­plic­i­ty cre­ates emo­tion­al resilience. Because they view life as guid­ed by a wise force and every event as pur­pose­ful, anx­i­ety about suf­fer­ing or loss is reduced. Tragedy is met not with despair but with trust in unseen jus­tice. Chil­dren are raised not only to rea­son but to believe that good­ness aligns with truth. The absence of reli­gious con­flict con­tributes to their social tran­quil­i­ty. While their tech­nol­o­gy empow­ers them immense­ly, it is their faith that tem­pers that pow­er with restraint. The more con­trol they gain over nature, the more they acknowl­edge the mys­tery behind its laws.

This bal­ance between rea­son and rev­er­ence gives their civ­i­liza­tion a rare har­mo­ny. By not insti­tu­tion­al­iz­ing reli­gion, they avoid cler­i­cal cor­rup­tion or reli­gious hier­ar­chy. Each cit­i­zen is seen as equal­ly capa­ble of spir­i­tu­al insight, just as each can con­trol vril accord­ing to their train­ing. Tem­ples, if present, are sim­ple spaces for reflec­tion rather than sites of con­trol. Fes­ti­vals are com­mu­nal but under­stat­ed, designed to uplift rather than impress. Their moral codes grow from this shared sense of pur­pose, not from fear of pun­ish­ment. Even their legal sys­tems reflect this spir­i­tu­al eth­ic, favor­ing repa­ra­tion over revenge.

As the nar­ra­tor observes all this, he feels both admi­ra­tion and unease. The peace of the Vril-ya is unde­ni­able, but it is so com­plete that it chal­lenges his assump­tions about human nature. Can a soci­ety so free from doubt still be free in thought? He won­ders whether their cer­tain­ty leaves room for indi­vid­ual struggle—the kind that has birthed so much art and insight above ground. Yet he can­not deny their achieve­ments, their bal­ance of pow­er and humil­i­ty, their abil­i­ty to live with­out fear. In this calm, he sens­es strength—not pas­sive sub­mis­sion, but active har­mo­ny with a high­er law.

Through this chap­ter, read­ers are invit­ed to recon­sid­er their own def­i­n­i­tions of faith. Is reli­gion meant to explain or to ele­vate? Must wor­ship divide peo­ple into doc­trines, or can it uni­fy through a shared com­mit­ment to kind­ness and clar­i­ty? The Vril-ya offer one answer, show­ing that belief, when inter­nal­ized rather than imposed, can pro­duce not just order but joy. And per­haps, in this reflec­tion, lies a chal­lenge to the reader—to find with­in their own soci­ety a path toward sim­pler, deep­er belief.