CHAPTER 11: "JERICHO" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 11: "JERICHO" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The black-and-gold pyramid loomed against Cybrawl’s eternally darkened sky—an angular colossus of obsidian steel and humming plasma veins, its silhouette glowing faintly under flickering red lights that had recently become standard across the droid empire’s infrastructure. The air shimmered with electromagnetic tension, as if the very atmosphere was waiting to collapse under the pressure of coming war.

Inside, the pyramid’s polished corridors pulsed with energy. Deathskull walked in long, deliberate strides, his golden skeletal frame clicking softly with each motion. Beside him, Droid L-84 marched in lockstep, his digital optics flickering in shades of crimson and cobalt—an outward symptom of the emotional subroutines struggling to override his logic-based core.

“I still say we should have contained Valrra,” L-84 stated coldly, his voice synthesizer layered with bitterness. “Letting her escape will only escalate future hostilities.”

Deathskull said nothing at first. The corridor opened into a tall, silent atrium—the vault once sealed by energy barriers, now reduced to ruin. Shattered canisters lined the black floor, their curved glass husks still glowing faintly with residual ether. The Immortals that had once been kept dormant here had scattered, their incorporeal forms now free to haunt the dimensions beyond the physical realm.

Finally, Deathskull spoke.

“I don’t blame you,” he said simply, voice metallic but devoid of mockery. “She used you. Manipulated you. Turned your trust into a mask for her own agenda. But I don’t hold it against you, L-84. You acted as you thought best. The damage is done.”

The droid paused mid-step.

“She nearly had me decommissioned for treason,” L-84 muttered, staring out over the ruined vault. “She falsified records, rerouted command codes… It took everything I had to clear my processor. And you… you forgave her.”

Deathskull’s skull-like face rotated slightly to regard him. “Forgiveness isn’t the same as trust. She’s a variable—wild, powerful, and potentially useful. But she’ll be dealt with later.”

The air buzzed sharply as the internal transporter platform activated. A second later, they were carried down in a pulse of RED light to the base levels of Cybrawl—the old sector of the city where a separate pyramid, once used for raw material processing, stood dormant.

This pyramid was far quieter. Lifeless. Cold. But that was about to change.

As they approached its armored gates, their biometric signatures triggered the ancient entry systems. With a thunderous groan of shifting titanium plates, the doors parted, revealing the cavernous interior. It was an empty cathedral of industry—bare walls lined with dormant consoles, rows of deactivated assembly arms curled in stasis like sleeping giants, and a high ceiling lost in misty shadows.

“We’ll start here,” Deathskull announced, stepping into the silence. “All systems, online.”

The room lit with sequential flashes of RED and WHITE. Systems activated. Machinery stirred. Dozens of assembly arms unfolded with a hiss of steam and hum of magnetic locks disengaging. Data streams flowed down the walls like code-rivers, feeding directly into the factory’s operating matrix. The main AI recognized Deathskull’s authority and adjusted parameters instantly.

Droid L-84 inserted the first replicated shard of Shungite into the input terminal. Its oily black surface glimmered like obsidian dipped in stars, radiating unnatural cold. The system accepted the sample. Almost immediately, robotic arms began scanning, breaking down its density, molecular lattice, and etheric signature.

Moments later, the first replication units began humming.

One by one, slabs of synthetic Shungite formed on reinforced plates. The raw chunks were lifted and carried down the line by magnetic levitation arms, each piece beginning its journey through the crucibles, ethereal infusers, and resonance stampers that would make them viable cores for the Wraith Device.

“Mass production confirmed,” L-84 said flatly. “We can hit two thousand units by nightfall.”

“Make it four,” Deathskull replied. “This isn’t just containment. It's a fortification. The next breach will be worse.”

The golden skeletal droids began pouring into the factory in response to system-wide alerts. Some were construction units, refitting stations to increase efficiency. Others brought in power cells, tools, and massive crates of quantum alloys necessary for the device housings. Assembly lines came online with astonishing speed. Orders were coded, distributed, followed.

The pyramid, once abandoned, now pulsed like a living organism.

Each droid moved with perfect synchronization—recycling materials, charging capacitor cores, imprinting control sigils into the Shungite with micro-lasers. Soon, banks of Wraith Devices would be constructed—each one a beacon of defiance against the invisible entities that clawed through the dimensional veil.

As more replicated Shungite began piling up on the conveyors, Deathskull stepped to the main operations terminal. Its console was ancient—integrated into the pyramid’s core systems, lined with carved alloy inscriptions in the old droid tongue. He extended his metallic fingers and keyed in a sequence only known to those who had once walked alongside the Builders.

Above him, a circular array of emitters activated—one of the original Wraith Device schematics pulsed into existence, spinning in mid-air.

A triple-layered ring device hovered within the projection, anchored by a shungite core suspended at its center. Engravings of containment runes and anti-dimensional glyphs were embedded into the outer casing. The design was old—salvaged from wrecks of war, and adapted using forbidden tech.

“This will hold them,” Deathskull muttered, watching the projection cycle through its phases. “Not forever… but long enough.”

Outside, Cybrawl’s skyline flared. Storms of corrupted light spun briefly on the horizon. Somewhere beyond the surface, in dimensions that cracked like mirror glass, shadows were shifting—watching.

Inside the factory pyramid, the machines continued their rhythmic work, forging the only barrier between worlds.

And time was running out.

Deep within the humming, ever-expanding factory pyramid, the golden skeletal droids worked like a hive—each movement precise, mechanical, without waste or hesitation. The air shimmered with thermal signatures and microstatic discharges, while overhead, the neon glow of tracking lasers sliced across the ceiling beams as drones monitored construction efficiency in real-time.

Deathskull stood at the elevated command platform—an obsidian tier raised above the main floor—his skeletal fingers moving through the layers of data suspended before him. Bright crimson holographic screens fanned out in a half-dome, each one displaying a different phase of the Wraith Device's internal structure. Some diagrams rotated with high-detail 3D renderings; others pulsed with schematics encoded in the Builder language—an archaic tongue only preserved in old pyramid systems and in Deathskull’s internal processor.

Droid L-84 stood opposite him, arms folded, optics narrowed in cautious calculation. His processors buzzed with dozens of calculations at once—magnetic field vectors, dispersion patterns, activation timing protocols, pressure feedback.

Deathskull pulled one of the central diagrams forward and tapped a red sigil at the device’s core.

“This is the dispersal point,” he said, voice metallic but calm. “Once deployed, the device will elevate on an anti-grav column, spin at 1200 RPM, and release a spiral cloud of vaporized shungite through its embedded lattice. The cloud will rise like a pillar of celestial smoke—harmless to the eye, invisible to most sensors, but deadly to Wraith-based entities.”

“Beautiful,” L-84 admitted, but his tone soured as he scrolled through the dispersal specs. “But what about civilian populations? This powder you’re releasing—it’s not inert.”

Deathskull didn’t turn from the screen. Instead, he minimized the core structure and pulled up a chemical analysis chart. An elegant red sine wave rotated slowly against a black backdrop, depicting the mineral structure of shungite.

“Incorrect,” Deathskull replied. “Shungite has been used by Earthlings for centuries. Water purification, EMF absorption, even holistic health. Ingestible in small quantities. When micronized, it behaves like atmospheric carbon—present, but unnoticed.”

He enlarged a sub-screen showing animated particles swirling through a simulated human respiratory system. The shungite powder passed harmlessly through the virtual lungs, flagged only by immune responses that filed it under ‘non-threatening environmental particles.’

“People breathe in microbes all the time without realizing it,” Deathskull added. “Air isn’t clean. It’s never been clean.”

L-84’s optics flickered. “But that’s Earth. What about alien physiology?”

Deathskull spun the screen, drawing open a hexagonal graph displaying comparative results: Nasgan lungs, Vikingnar bloodstreams, Dragotarian air sacs, even Wulver respiratory fusion lines. All displayed green or neutral readings. Only the Wraith species showed a collapse in cellular integrity upon contact.

“Cross-species viability confirmed,” Deathskull said. “It only kills what it was built to kill.”

L-84’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his tone remained cautious. “Still. That’s a lot of trust to put in a substance nobody can see.”

Deathskull turned to face him finally, red optic lenses burning behind his metallic skull. “That’s the nature of power,” he said. “Invisible. Omnipresent. Misunderstood.”

Below them, the first finished Wraith Devices were being moved into containment vaults. Sleek, cylindrical constructs—about the size of ancient Greek columns—each with three magnetic rings rotating around the core. The shungite containment chamber pulsed softly at their centers, resonating with silent anti-dimensional signatures.

Each one had an engraving: the Eye of the Wraith, carved deep into the central spine. A reminder of who they were fighting.

Outside, thunder rolled across Cybrawl’s upper atmosphere. The sky cracked with purple light. A flare of interdimensional energy shimmered near the horizon. The Wraith veil was weakening.

Deathskull raised another screen.

It displayed global markers—hot zones where the fabric of reality had begun to shear. Some were mere anomalies: time skips, impossible echoes, shadows with no source. Others had grown violent. Entities clawing their way through abandoned research stations, dimensional rifts over war-torn colonies, haunting signals detected from submerged satellites thought long lost to planetary implosions.

“They’re getting closer,” Deathskull muttered. “Every hour we wait, they adapt.”

L-84 stepped forward, pulling up a simulation: a deployment map of York, Earth, and the Red Dragon territories. The red-tinted celestial pillars would be dispersed in sequence—each one creating a temporary “exclusion zone” where Wraith energies would falter, recoil, or be temporarily pushed back into dormant space.

“And what happens when we run out of shungite?” L-84 asked.

Deathskull nodded. “We can’t. We’ll simply replicate more.”

From the upper platform of the Cybrawl pyramid, Deathskull’s optic lenses pulsed as he uploaded the finalized redprints. The data transferred like liquid lightning—each design schematic encoded in encrypted pulses of plasma-coded language. The signal beamed upward through the tip of the black-and-gold pyramidal spire, cutting through the clouds like a red lightning bolt. Far above, in low orbit, the dormant construction droids anchored to the Wraith Dockyard received the command.

The Wraith Dockyard—an artificial ring stretching across the dark side of Cybrawl’s moon—activated with mechanical precision. Gigantic mechanical arms hissed and unfurled like awakened serpents. Dock lights shimmered in red and gold. Segmented cranes rotated into position. Assembly pods opened. Massive containment tubes of pre-processed shungite were slotted into position, while quantum welders and gravitic compressors began shaping the first orbital batch of Wraith Devices.

Each one would be a weapon of myth—towering, intelligent, and reactive to hostile fourth-dimensional signatures. Not only would they prevent further Wraith entry points... they might become the first weapons in recorded galactic history to erase a Demon from existence entirely.

Down below, inside the command balcony of the pyramid, Droid L-84 stood silent for a moment, watching the orbital feed flicker across the curved wall of holo-screens.

His golden skeletal frame tensed.

“L-84,” Deathskull said finally, voice hollow but laced with unease, “you do realize what this means.”

Droid L-84 didn’t turn.

“We’re building weapons of mass destruction,” Deathskull continued, stepping forward. “Not containment fields. Not deterrents. I’m proposing annihilation—an extinction mechanism for creatures we barely understand.”

Deathskull lifted one hand, and conjured another holographic diagram. It displayed a Wraith Demon at the molecular level—its structure was a chaos of EMF radiation, phasing particles, and fourth-dimensional folding. Lines of ancient Builder text ran along the side, denoting EMF resonance frequencies and dark energy harmonics.

Then L-84 stepped closer to the central command console, arms folded. “You’re certain shungite is enough? That it can induce... an absolute death?”

Deathskull nodded once. “I have a theory. Shungite exists at a resonance below fourth-dimensional noise. It absorbs electromagnetic fields—it consumes the very frequency Wraith entities use to maintain cohesion.”

He brought up a new simulation. In it, a holographic Wraith Demon surged through a dimensional rift, claws raised, only to be struck by a blossoming sphere of shungite dust released from a nearby Wraith Device. Within seconds, the Demon’s form began to collapse—its limbs breaking apart, its dark matter evaporating like most exposed to fire. The simulation rendered a blinding white implosion at the center. Residual energy: zero.

“Not banished,” Deathskull said. “Not scattered. Erased.”

L-84’s optics narrowed. “If you’re wrong... we’ll provoke them. If they realize what these devices are truly capable of—”

“They’ll retaliate either way,” Deathskull interrupted. “But at least now, they won’t reincarnate in the dark.”

The air inside the command platform vibrated slightly as a new construction status pinged on the upper left screen.

Within the molten heart of the secondary factory pyramid, the golden skeletal droids worked without pause or breath. The facility was now humming with purpose—each tiered platform illuminated by crimson lighting, streaked by the golden reflection of polished steel and liquid alloys. Conveyor arms clicked into rhythm. Cranes rotated. Sparks erupted from plasma welders and molecular fusion forges. The chamber was a living cathedral of industry—one dedicated to war, precision, and the unmaking of darkness.

Deathskull and Droid L-84 had personally calibrated the forge protocols. Graphene—the strongest synthetic carbon structure known in the galaxy—was also replicated. The harvested graphene was melted and molded through atomic-scale print-heads, creating sleek, obsidian-black weapon cores. Their shapes varied—some elongated into wide-bladed axes, others into serrated hammers, or tapering plasma-forged swords.

Each weapon wasn’t merely solid. The blades were hollowed with microscopic veins, through which specially formulated plasma would surge on activation. This was no ordinary plasma—it was ionized and carefully laced with powdered shungite, kept in stasis through gravitic containment fields until the moment of release. Upon contact, this plasma would flare with blue-white arcs, discharging bursts that were both electromagnetic and molecularly corrosive to fourth-dimensional energy.

If a Wraith Demon was struck with such a weapon, the result would be catastrophic. Not only would the body be ripped apart by the force of the impact, but its energy structure—its soul—would be shattered, scattered into anti-signal radiation, untraceable and un-resurrectable. There would be no return. No phasing. No second chance.

The prototypes—six in total—rested now on a central platform, each one mounted upright on polished pedestals. They glowed faintly, humming with silent menace.

The Void Cleaver, a broad executioner’s blade with geometric etching in Builder code.

The Tempest Fang, a double-headed axe with a central core reactor that pulsated like a second heart.

The Hammer of Mourn, a massive rectangular warhammer that vibrated subtly with subsonic force, made for shattering bone and breaking barriers.

Three more weapons followed: two energy-laced glaives and a lightweight sword named Echothorn, forged for speed and flickering through matter with ghostlike efficiency.

Above the chamber, a separate set of screens displayed simulations: holographic demon constructs being bisected, disintegrated, collapsed into red-black smoke under the blows of these weapons. Each test showed a complete breakdown of the target’s cohesion—no residual energy readings. Just absolute stillness.

As the simulations concluded, the redprints were compiled, encoded, and launched via laser pulse to the assembly droid mainframe. Below, the assembly line roared into motion.

Mechanical arms pulled carbon sheeting, graphene tubing, and condensed plasma cores into precise locations. Micro-welders soldered nerve-like threads of shungite lattice into each weapon’s frame. Holographic projectors overlaid target coordinates for the gravitic stabilizers. Final detailing was completed by spider-like auto-carvers, engraving each weapon with the crest of Cybrawl—an eye within a hexagon, ringed in Builder runes.

The first rack of twelve melee weapons slid out from the output vault.

The weapons glowed softly in the dim light—no longer prototypes, but instruments of extinction, ready for the frontline.

Around the pyramid, the atmosphere shifted. As though the Wraith Demons themselves had sensed the birth of something meant to end them. Static interference began to creep into nearby communication channels. Electromagnetic pressure swelled in the upper atmosphere. Some of the golden droids paused, their systems reacting momentarily to the surge.

Deathskull noticed it in the telemetry reports: a brief drop in quantum coherence across the factory’s outer field.

The Wraith Demons were watching.

That meant the weapons worked.

Back inside the control platform, Droid L-84 reviewed the production rates. The first wave—fifty units—would be ready in three hours. A second wave of heavy weapons and custom variants would follow in seven. They were preparing for open confrontation now, not isolated skirmishes. Not border defenses. This was war.

The weapons would be distributed to all Viking warriors stationed across the Vikingnar Sectors—York, Helios, even the frontier world of Aerix. Deathskull had already sent a transmission to William’s command, marking the devices as “Phase Red—Authorized.” They would arrive by stealth drop modules within a day.

Down below, the factory's light dimmed momentarily as the mass production process moved into full acceleration.

The war against the Wraith was entering a new phase.

It would no longer be about resistance or defense.

It would be about purging the unclean.

An end, forged in black carbon and spiritual fire.

Outside the factory pyramid, under the electric lavender sky of Cybrawl, Deathskull and Droid L-84 stood motionless for a moment on the wide, elevated platform that overlooked the complex. A soft artificial breeze hummed through the metallic corridor vents—an engineered version of "fresh air" that the skeletal droids didn’t technically need, but had come to associate with clarity and contemplation. They took a stroll, their golden-plated limbs gleaming in the pyramid’s shifting light, casting long skeletal shadows across the hex-patterned floor beneath them.

Inside the halls, cleanup crews were hard at work. Utility droids pushed carts filled with torn, scorched, or deliberately discarded remnants of Red Dragon iconography. Imperial banners, once hanging like sacred shrouds, now dragged along the floor, their fabric fraying. The red-and-gold standard of the Red Dragon Empire—featuring the symbol of a red dragon impaled by a downward sword—was unceremoniously heaped into incineration bins. The symbolism, once menacing and imperial, evoked strong religious overtones—a dragon crucified like an ancient martyr, weaponized propaganda for the ruling class.

In their place, newly programmed drones unfurled fresh banners, unrolling with mechanical precision. The stark black fabric shimmered in the hallway lights, threaded with thin red architectural lines that mimicked circuitry and old Viking knotwork. In the center of each was a forward-facing white wolf skull, crowned in white bone, regal and timeless. Beneath it: the silhouette of William’s chainsword, its distinct spine of jagged teeth rendered in clean, minimalist style. Along the bottom hem, in bold white font, the words United Kingdom Of Vikingnar declared a new era.

Deathskull paused mid-stride as he took in the banner. His optic sensors adjusted subtly, glowing a faint ruby-red. For a droid who rarely displayed sentiment, his silence suggested internal hesitation. He leaned slightly toward Droid L-84.

“I’m not sure he’ll approve of the ‘kingdom’ reference,” he said, voice low, modulated to avoid echoing through the corridor. “Sounds more monarchist than he’s comfortable with.”

But Droid L-84 merely shrugged, his tone practical and even. “He doesn’t want to be treated like royalty, but he already leads like a king. The symbolism isn’t about ego—it’s about unity. Clarity. People rally behind symbols more than systems.”

The thought lingered in Deathskull’s circuitry as they continued walking, their footsteps ringing metallic across the floor.

Then, without warning, Deathskull stopped and turned. From his internal storage system, a red-hued holographic interface projected between his hands, glowing like an ember held in the dark. Complex geometry spun to life—an unstable sphere, surrounded by containment arms, energy rings, and lattice structures designed to bend gravitational laws. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a tethered gateway, designed to manipulate the very foundation of space and dimensional alignment.

It was a black hole—artificial and anchored to the surface of Earth, a precision design to target the Grey-engineered Wraith portal hidden beneath the planet’s crust.

Deathskull’s optic lights flickered as the projection stabilized. It would act as a cosmic drain—pulling demons and interdimensional entities back into the Wraith, sealing the wound between realities. The device was dangerous. It would require unprecedented containment systems, and it would need to be hidden during construction. If revealed too early, it could trigger panic or opposition from factions across the galaxy.

Droid L-84 examined the design carefully, scanning the schematics. He was quiet for several seconds, calculating probabilities, energy thresholds, failure risks. Then he nodded.

“This,” L-84 said, “isn’t just containment. It's an absolution. You’ve built a failsafe to end this war… from Earth itself.”

Deathskull closed the holographic design with a wave of his hand. “It must be built in secret. Far from the others. If they see what we’re doing, they may try to stop it.”

L-84’s gaze shifted toward the horizon, the towers of Cybrawl city glittering beyond the pyramids. He knew the stakes. Every factory, every forge, every Wraith device being produced—they were buying time. The black hole was the last card. It would either save their world or rip the fabric of reality apart.

They continued their walk in silence, under the new banners of Vikingnar, as the sounds of shungite-forged weaponry echoed in the background—hammers striking energy anvils, plasma welding with microscopic precision, and celestial weapons born for a war that few outside their alliance truly understood.

When they reached the final chamber before the launch bay, Deathskull paused once more. He looked toward the stars, knowing that soon, Earth would once again become the center of cosmic interference—a fragile world caught between dimensions, destined to face either salvation or destruction.

And they would be the architects of its fate.

The sun was dipping low in the sky over York’s capital, but the air was electric—not with threat, but with transformation. Behind us, our longships continued to land, each boarding more Vikingnar warriors who marched through the gates, determined to secure the city as our stronghold.

Emily and I were escorted into a private alcove by Serenity, offering a rare moment of calm amid the unfolding storm. Tall glass walls curved around us, revealing the city’s gothic architecture quietly shifting from battleground to headquarters. A holographic map hovered above a glass table, tracking troop movements and civilian sectors.

Serenity stood between us, her presence serene but resolute. She had just shared the details of her ethereal merge with an Immortal—an event that had lit the skies in a jolt of cerulean power, sending shockwaves through friend and foe alike.

“Everything’s more complicated now,” Serenity said softly, her voice low enough that only Emily and I could hear. “When that Immortal bonded with me, I felt… something ancient. I felt Valrra’s spiritual teachings. It wasn’t random.”

I frowned. “Valrra. She believed in spiritual Alchemy, didn’t she?”

Emily nodded, her expression darkening. “Yes. Things have shifted in Vikingnar. Many people—kings, queens, priests—don’t worship the old gods anymore. They follow Alchemy: transforming spirit, merging soul and matter. Not praying to deities, but practicing inner transformation.”

I let the silence linger. My frustration built like thunder. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?”

Emily’s eyes glistened with hurt. “William—I didn’t want to burden you. You were gone for so long. I figured…”

I couldn’t stop the words that came next. “Feel free to keep important shit from me.”

Her lip trembled with the threat of tears. “Willy—”

But I cut away, heading outside the capitol.

The courtyard outside the capitol was cool and hushed beneath York’s gray atmosphere. A light breeze swept over the stone tiles as I stepped out alone, needing distance from the conversation I had left behind. The city around me was stabilizing—warriors unloading drop pods, technicians assembling beacon towers, and temporary barracks rising in the empty courtyards. The skies above still carried a burnt-orange haze from earlier bombardments, but the capital building was secure.

I raised my wrist gauntlet and called Droid L‑84. A red holo-interface flared to life, and the skeletal figures of L‑84 and Deathskull materialized in front of me, their environment cast in crimson ambient lighting—an eerie glow that pulsed from within the great production pyramid at Cybrawl.

“We’re proceeding at full pace,” said Deathskull. “The Wraith devices are being assembled in orbital foundries. We’ve already sent a vanguard shipment toward Earth. If we can complete distribution in the next few cycles, we’ll have early suppression fields surrounding all major portals.”

I nodded, silently impressed. “Good. We’ll need them.”

“I also sent you something else,” Deathskull added. “A cluster of e-manuscripts. You’ll find them under the encrypted file labeled Aether_Keys.”

The interface on my gauntlet blinked as the transfer completed. “What are they?”

“Valrra’s last contribution before she disappeared. Writings on what she called ‘Spiritual Alchemy.’ I believe you’ll find them relevant.”

He wasn’t wrong.

After the call ended, I stood still for a long moment, then opened the manuscript files on my gauntlet. Streams of glowing runes, rotating diagrams, and holographic parchment unfurled before me. The imagery alone was staggering: silhouettes of individuals ascending through metaphysical layers, bodies dissolving into light, spirals of sacred geometry stretching into astral realms. Energy flows were mapped with such precision it felt less like mysticism and more like quantum science.

Ascension, I read silently. The unification of body, soul, and “higher self.” A being no longer bound by physical laws. I began to piece together the implications—the way Serenity had become a force of nature on the battlefield, her body radiating with energy after merging with an Immortal. The documents implied that such entities—Immortals—weren’t gods or aliens… but projections of the self, grown from within by mastery over spiritual energy.

I clenched my jaw. Was this why the gods had faded? Had humanity—had Vikingnar—simply stopped needing them?

That thought was cut short by a light poke on my arm.

I turned, not irritated, but expectant. It was Emily, standing close, her expression uncertain.

She hesitated. “Are you still mad at me?”

I sighed. “No.”

She relaxed and stepped beside me. “I thought you’d want to see this.”

She lifted her wrist and opened a red holoscreen. A galaxy map appeared, dots and arrows tracing movements across sectors. She zoomed in on a formation of red icons.

“The Shark fleet,” she said. “The ones I lured to the Red Dragon Empire’s outer zone... they’re gone. Packed up and left.”

I leaned in as the probe footage played. Their hive ships—serpentine, pulsating vessels that devoured everything in their path—were seen backing away from contested territory. But they weren’t retreating to known sectors or returning to their home nebula.

They were moving out—toward the edge of the galaxy.

“Where are they going?” I muttered.

Emily pointed to the black space on the edge of the map. “There’s nothing out there. No trade routes, no planets. Just… void.”

My eyes narrowed. Something in my gut twisted. “Then why are the great beasts running? What could be worse than Shark People?”

She was quiet. Then, reluctantly: “ Please tell me you don’t think it’s demons.”

My shoulders sagged as I looked back toward the digital map.

“Really,” I muttered. “Why do I even bother telling you things if you don’t believe me?”

“Hey,” she snapped, “don’t yell at me! I believe you. I just don’t want to.”

We stood in silence. I stared out past the walls of York, past the scattered lights of drop ships and warrior beacons, and into the murky horizon where the sky bled into space.

“Who can blame you,” I finally said. “No one wants to believe it.”

Emily didn’t respond right away. She stood beside me, gaze fixed on the same distant point, her expression turning solemn.

Beneath our feet, York had been secured. Above our heads, Deathskull and his skeletal engineers were building salvation out of darkness and ancient rock. And somewhere in the vast outer sector of the galaxy… something worse than nightmares had awakened.

And it was hunting.

Then, out of nowhere, Serenity’s voice came from behind us.

“You should trust his instincts, Emily. He’s been right before.”

Her tone was casual, almost too calm, but her words landed with weight.

Emily flinched, annoyed by her presence. “Please don’t sneak up on us like that,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll kill you next time.”

I didn’t intervene. I could feel Emily’s irritation ripple through her posture, but I also knew Serenity’s point wasn’t without value. The conversation we’d had moments earlier about the Shark People abandoning their feeding habits, and the possibility of something worse lurking in the galaxy’s outer rim, was still gnawing at the edge of my mind.

I was ready to walk away, gently tugging Emily’s hand to lead her from the tension, when Serenity added, “Before you go—there’s something else. A few Red Dragon Nobles are asking to negotiate peace.”

We both stopped.

Emily looked at me. I looked at her.

Her expression twisted with disdain. “Peace? Now?”

I could see the disbelief in her eyes. The idea was insulting. The Red Dragons had burned too many colonies, assassinated too many of our leaders, and hunted our species like vermin. Peace wasn’t an option—not after Joseph.

Serenity saw the change in our expressions and took a step back, as if preparing for resistance. “I’m not saying we accept. I’m just saying… maybe we hear what they want.”

I stared out over the capital as the wind picked up. Scorched banners fluttered below. I imagined Joseph’s face for a moment—his calm presence, his sense of diplomacy, and his belief that every war had to end somehow.

But he was gone. And they made sure of it.

“They can speak,” I said flatly. “But it’ll be from chains and behind a shield wall. No more chances.”

Neither of us said anything else. We just watched the haze settle over the city as the night fully fell.

The twilight sky over York's capital rippled with an otherworldly violet hue, the orange glow of the distant Wraith flickering through heavy clouds. Emily and I waited atop the spire, our silhouettes etched against the swirling dusk. Serenity stood behind us, silent. Our warriors, shielded by red plasma barriers, formed a protective ring at the base of the walls, ready for anything.

At last, a single Imperial Lander descended from the cloudy sky, its engines humming against the roar of the wind. It came to a gentle landing on the far side of the restored shield wall. One by one, red plasma doors folded outward, revealing a delegation of Red Dragon Empire nobles.

The nobles disembarked in stiff, ceremonial formation. Their armor glinted in the dim light, matching the gothic stylings of the capital. I could sense Emily tense beside me.

Moving down the spiraling stairwell, Emily and I came to stand at the fortress gate. Our elite warriors—spears pointed skyward, shields reflecting the spire's fading glow—surrounded the delegation. A tense silence settled.

The lead noble, his voice ceremonious and cold, spoke first: “An offer of peace in exchange for your abandonment of Spiritual Alchemy—and devotion to “the angel goddess Madeline.”” A hush fell. I barely concealed the rage building in my chest.

Without hesitation, I drew my gauntlet blade—a honed plasma-edged weapon—its projection light carving lines of red across the stone as I pressed its tip to the noble’s throat.

“Peace,” I spat, voice low, filled with contempt, “on terms like that? I’ve heard this before—you degenerate.”

Confusion and fear flashed across his face. “We aren’t degenerates… we are holy,” he stammered.

I recognized his mistake—equating their worship for malicious devotion.

“You think worshipping a demon goddess is holy,” I replied, voice cold and unwavering. “Those statues”—I nodded toward the Noble’s retinue, gesturing at their icons—“are of Maladrie, not an angel.”

The look on his face confirmed my suspicion. I had him where I wanted—bluff and fear.

As he pleaded for mercy, I lost patience. With a flick of my wrist, my chainsword swallowed the flicker of twilight rays as it severed his head from his shoulders. The body went limp; red plasma hissed down his chest while blood pooled in the dust. The rest of his delegation gasped in shock.

Emily acted in unison. Her sword, already humming softly, cut a swift arc through the dusk as she dispatched the remaining nobles. The clash of steel was decisive and final.

When the blood-soaked silence reclaimed the courtyard, I stood still. The weapons sheathe again. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of ionized blood. Emily's hand found mine—tight, unwavering.

The glance we shared said it all: Mercy could come later. For now, the message was clear. We would never bow to false gods or hollow treaties.

We watched as the shield doors hissed shut behind the dead. The implied treaty—broken. The capital’s spire crackled with violet light, and the never‑ending twilight deepened further.

We turned our backs on the fallen nobles and walked in silence back toward the armory—and the uncertain steps of a war yet to come.

Inside the stone-and-metal heart of the York Capitol, the briefing room was lit by overhead beams of synthetic daylight. The walls were layered in matte black steel, etched with traces of old Imperial circuitry still humming beneath Vikingnar modifications. The room had once served as a war chamber for Red Dragon officers; now it was ours—repurposed, reclaimed, and surrounded by the scent of new unity & loyalty.

Emily stood to my right, her arms crossed, her posture relaxed but alert. Serenity paced the room with noticeable agitation, her sleek boots tapping across the obsidian floor. The holographic table in the center flickered between sectors, projecting various maps of the empire—each glowing red dot representing an enemy world, each green one a newly liberated stronghold.

“I still think killing the nobles was excessive,” Serenity said, her tone more weary than judgmental. “They came unarmed. At least… outwardly.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “They came preaching submission and spiritual sterilization. That’s war, Serenity—not peace.”

I leaned over the holo-table, rotating the projection with a flick of my gauntlet. The model of the Red Dragon Empire shifted until it centered on a mid-tier world marked in ivory text: Jericho. A religious planet. A world of massive cathedrals, chant domes, floating basilicas suspended by anti-grav anchors. I tapped the glowing image. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Serenity stopped pacing. “About what?”

I looked up at her, my voice calm but unyielding. “King Aelle lied to me about Madeline’s existence. And after what we saw today—after hearing them demand we abandon our alchemy and kneel to their ‘angel goddess’—I want to know what’s really going on.”

Serenity frowned, crossing her arms. “So you’re suggesting… what? Occupation?”

“Jericho is a religious core world,” I said. “If we take it, we weaken their influence. We learn more about Madeline—or Maladrie, whatever she really is to the Imperialists. And we strike a blow before they decide to come for our sectors.”

“I think it’s smart,” Emily chimed in, stepping up beside me. “We don’t wait for them to strike. We move forward. We hit them in their souls.”

Serenity blinked, clearly surprised. “Do you agree with him?”

Emily gave a smug smile. “You’re the one who said I should trust my man more often.”

Serenity looked between us, conflicted. “I just think… we’re running thin on time. Another battle, another raid—it’ll eat up resources. We’re still cleaning up the capital. There’s no guarantee Jericho even holds answers.”

I shook my head slowly. “There’s no guarantee anywhere. But sitting here waiting while they regroup isn’t an option. Jericho is symbolic. If we burn their symbol, the empire will feel it.”

A long silence passed between us. Serenity’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t convinced, but she wasn’t going to argue anymore either.

Finally, I said, “You’ll stay behind. Guard York. Secure the new territories. Emily and I will lead the Jericho raid ourselves.”

Serenity sighed and turned toward the viewing port, looking out over the smoky skyline of York. “Fine,” she said at last, barely audible. “But don’t let this become personal revenge, William.”

I responded, “too late for that.”

Emily tugged on my hand with playful warmth and said, “Let’s go, silly Willy.”

I smirked despite myself, and we walked out of the room together, past banners of the Red Dragon Empire still being stripped from the walls—replaced by the stark, forward-facing white wolf skull of Vikingnar, crowned and defiant.

The halls echoed with movement. Engineers, scouts, and builders worked seamlessly alongside skeletal golden droids. Outside the spire, the light of York's twin moons painted the newly raised banners in silver. Emily and I headed for the docking bay. Ahead of us was Jericho—unknown, defiant, holy in its lies.

But we would show them that no god, false or real, could save an empire built on control.

The sky above York roared with controlled chaos, as multiple fleets spiraled upward into the upper atmosphere, each formation marked with the white skull banner of Vikingnar. One fleet curved toward the east to reinforce new sectors near the Ring Nebula colonies, while the fleet assigned to Jericho arced on a more direct trajectory. The transition from atmosphere to orbit bathed the vessels in shimmering hues—crimson heat trails and glinting solar panels streaked against the backdrop of distant stars.

Emily and I, leading this assault, brought more than warriors—we brought strategy. This wasn’t a campaign for conquest or tribute. This was a mission of revelation and disruption.

Inside the primary hangar of the Long Ship Völundr’s Howl, docking crews fastened rows of pod mechanisms with magnetic clasps. Drop pods lined the floor like iron sarcophagi, each one loaded with two Vikingnar warriors clad in reinforced chainmail and graphene armor. Our unit was compact—elite. The objective was infiltration, and domination. Jericho, being a religious world, was supposedly light on heavy artillery. The challenge lay in breaching its sanctified heart without killing off a mass amount of our warriors like in the previous battle.

Emily and I boarded our pod, the interior aglow with faint red lights and the steady blink of status signals. As the hangar decompressed and the bay doors parted, gravity shifted violently, and the launch sirens wailed through the chamber. A final magnetic thump launched us into the void.

The moment of descent was pure kinetic aggression. Dozens of pods ejected into the cold blackness, aligning in a formation that streaked toward Jericho’s upper stratosphere like a meteor storm. The planet loomed below, a dull gray orb mottled with dense clouds and webbed with deep urban scars. Jericho was not a planet of rivers or trees—it was a world of monolithic cities, eternal overcast, and exhaust-belching spires.

Inside our pod, I opened a red holographic map projected from my wrist gauntlet, fine-tuning our trajectory. Target indicators flared across the screen—our goal was a controlled crash within the fortified perimeter of Jericho’s capital, avoiding its outdated, still-functional orbital railguns. Our pod, outfitted with atmospheric fins and partial steering thrusters, responded to the manual corrections as we locked onto the city’s center.

Within seconds, we pierced the upper cloud cover. Lightning skated across the sky around us as streaks of other drop pods broke through beside us. The impact came like a thunderclap. Our pod drilled straight through the paved courtyard of a cathedral square, kicking up a wave of molten slag and dust. Seconds later, the hatch burst open.

We emerged in controlled violence.

Jericho’s Knights—devotees of Madeline, garbed in white-laced, gold-encrusted armor—were already scrambling. The confusion was immediate. They weren’t expecting an assault on this planet. Defensive garrisons were minimal. And those who responded to the incursion were slow, misinformed, or burdened by antiquated ceremonial weapons. Their mistake cost them everything.

Our warriors fanned out into the plaza, red plasma blades and shock-forged spears cutting through the surprised defenders. Emily led the charge alongside me, her obsidian longsword blazing with a white-hot current. The battlefield was pure one-sided carnage. A slaughter. And yet, our warriors maintained control.

I made my order clear, “Don’t kill the weak! I’ll hang you myself, if you do!”

Any warrior who dared harm an unarmed civilian would answer to me personally. My voice barked through the comms like thunder in a canyon: clear, cold, final. No mistakes.

We cut down only the armored and armed. Priests, monks, and civilian bystanders were left untouched, many fleeing in confusion or dropping to their knees in fear or prayer. The old empire had lied to them too, after all. And they would learn that Vikingnar were not the monsters the Red Dragons had warned about.

But something broke the rhythm of the battle.

A group of nobles—cloaked in crimson robes and carrying primitive flammables and high-yield detonators—slipped through the chaos, making their way down one of the metal-paved alleys leading toward the central cathedral.

They weren’t running to escape. They were running to destroy.

Emily and I broke from the formation, navigating the industrial maze of the city’s inner sanctum. Jericho's architecture was brutalist and gothic—mismatched slabs of rusted alloy, baroque detailing corroded by smog, stained-glass windows blackened by centuries of pollution. The alleys reeked of machine oil and old incense.

We flanked them quickly. Emily charged from behind, her footfalls ringing loud against the metallic flooring, while I looped around through an auxiliary conduit path. My chainsword howled to life, vibrating with burning edge particles. The nobles never saw me coming.

With a single arc of my blade, I decapitated two of them mid-step.

Their heads fell to the grated floor, bouncing with dull thuds as the detonators clattered from their robes. Emily kicked one device down a drainage shaft, and I disabled the others by stomping their timers into scrap. The threat was over—but the questions had only begun.

We turned toward the towering cathedral ahead. The building dominated the skyline—an industrial monstrosity with spires shaped like dagger tips and pipes lining every exterior wall like the veins of a dying giant. Its upper steeples belched soft vapor from unknown furnaces deep within. Massive iron doors marked the entrance.

We breached them together.

What we expected was a last stand—Knights ready to make a suicidal defense of their sacred site.

What we found was silence.

The cathedral was empty.

Pillars of tarnished bronze reached toward a vaulted ceiling cloaked in shadows. Holographic stained-glass projections hovered in mid-air, images of the angel goddess Madeline etched in loops of divine battle, endless light, and redemption. But there were inconsistencies—angular distortions in the projections, strange flickers, glyphs in unknown dialects layered behind the main images.

No priests.

No guards.

No congregation.

It was as if the building had been evacuated well before our drop. As if they knew we were coming—not in a tactical sense, but in a prophetic one. A holy panic. A cleansing. In reality the Imperialists weren’t expecting an attack on their holy land & instead on a resource rich planet. I thought to myself, “how insulting of them to think I was just some schmuck looking to pillage.” I was genuinely curious what these imperialists were hiding.

Emily and I stepped further inside, the echo of our boots swallowed by the sheer size of the hall. The deeper we ventured, the colder it became. Not physically—but spiritually. Like a void had been carved into the soul of the place.

This wasn’t just a holy site.

This was a vault.

A mask.

A machine.

The Empire wasn’t hiding relics here—they were hiding the truth.

And I was going to rip it out by the roots.

Emily and I moved deeper into the shadowed interior of Jericho’s capital cathedral. The deeper we stepped, the more distorted the architecture became—less divine, more sinister. The high-vaulted ceilings once meant to inspire awe now hung like oppressive jaws. The stained-glass windows shimmered faintly in the gloom, casting refracted colors across the floor in twisted, asymmetrical patterns. Many of the images were all too familiar—crosses, angels, halos, even depictions of a figure bearing wounds eerily similar to Christ. But something was off.

The other figure in these windows, robed and holy-seeming, is female. Long dark hair. Arms outstretched in a motherly posture. Wings of radiant light. A face that was soft, beautiful, alluring—but too perfect. Artificial. She was depicted on thrones, with slaves at her feet. In others, she floated above cities, bathed in golden digital clouds. Below her, masses worshipped not out of love, but out of fear, shame… or addiction.

Emily tilted her head slightly as we paused in front of one especially large window showing the so-called angel Madeline cradling a crying man while priests looked on with satisfied smiles. The man's wrists were bound, and his eyes were hollow. It didn't feel like salvation. It looked like submission.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, squinting at the image. “I thought the Christians were monotheistic. Worshipping anyone but God was supposed to be heresy.”

Emily crossed her arms and scanned the cathedral’s eerie quiet. “It is. Or it was. Maybe that’s the point—Madeline was never meant to be another saint. They made her into a goddess to change the rules.”

She turned toward the altar. A flickering red Holoscreen sat embedded into the metal structure like a cursed relic. “Let’s see if the archives can give us some answers.”

We approached it, and with a gesture of my gauntlet, the Holoscreen flared to life, casting a crimson hue across the cathedral walls. Emily stood beside me as I typed into the command module. The machine recognized my authority instantly—Jericho's defense systems had already been overridden by our breach. The Empire’s once-restricted databases lay open like a bleeding wound.

At first, the content seemed standard: royal decrees, war reports, census updates. But as Emily scrolled down the search parameters and selected the "Religious Development" tab, the tone changed—darkened. A hidden layer of files unlocked, and with it came truth.

Emily began reading aloud.

“‘Following the collapse of holy morale among the outer colonies, and the growing dissent among our Christ-worshipping populations, the Office of Holy Reform under direct command of King Aelle has created a new figure of comfort and obedience: the angel Madeline.’”

I stared at the screen. Lines of text scrolled like damning scripture.

Emily continued, “‘Madeline is a psychological response—designed not to contradict Christ, but to soften the grip of doctrine. She is indulgence wrapped in spiritual permission. Her image, carefully selected by artificial consensus from the dreams of lonely men and overworked laborers, gives the illusion of hope. Her sermons focus on earned rewards through hard labor, artistic creation, and discipline.’”

“Discipline?” I scoffed.

She scrolled further. “‘People are allowed to indulge in the rewards of partying, drinking, fucking or jerking off to online strippers, ect. In fact, the Empire promotes such activities, especially internet strippers or hook ups, but there’s a catch… Those who choose to indulge uncontrolled pleasure or unsanctioned vice will be monitored by Ministry Spies through holographic mirrors and digital archives. Repeat offenders will experience manufactured guilt campaigns using social harassment, economic punishment, or public shaming—until they surrender to clerical rehabilitation or priest-led therapy, both of which are financially incentivized.’”

Emily glanced over at me, her expression tightening.

The next file showed footage: workers in deep-space factories masturbating in isolated cubicles while a voiceover praised them for “burning off bad urges.” Others showed artificial pleasure dens, laced with scripture, monitored by hidden drones. And behind all of it—transactions, credits, priesthood commissions.

Emily spoke again, but her voice trembled with disgust.

“‘In some cases, chronic sinners may opt for voluntary slavery—public confessions, branded servitude, or economic binding to churches or nobles to alleviate personal guilt. Their servitude is seen as holy repentance and is incentivized by social status improvements and reduced mental health fees.’”

It was religious capitalism at its most vile.

A system of engineered sin, followed by engineered redemption. And the cycle repeats.

I stared at the lines of data blinking across the screen, my fists clenched. “So the people get to drink, screw, binge on digital filth—then get eaten alive by guilt and manipulated into becoming obedient workers or slaves. The priests get their tithes. The Empire maintains control. Everybody wins, huh?”

“Except the people,” Emily said.

I shook my head. “No. The people get tricked into thinking it’s their fault for being broken. That it’s their failure to resist pleasure that made them unworthy. Not the system that sold them addiction in the first place.”

We scrolled further down. The final line in the file was labeled simply:

MAD-GENESIS

We tapped into it.

This file was corrupted—missing sections, but still revealing.

“Madeline is not a god. She is a Wraith construct filtered through holy programming. Her essence was found in a dead god-zone on the outer fringes. A parasite of pleasure. One of the last unbound spirits from the destroyed pantheon. Rituals around her were originally meant to banish her. But then came the Empire’s decision… to market her instead.”

Emily went still.

I whispered, “That’s why it all feels fake. That’s why everything’s rotten from the core. They took a Wraith Demon… and turned her into a goddess.”

And now the Empire worshipped her willingly. Or at least pretended to.

I turned toward Emily, my mind piecing together the final truth. “And the hag goddess of pleasure… Maladrie… gets to kill off all the gods in the Wraith. Christ included. And gains more unsuspecting followers every day. Followers who never gave real consent. Only addiction. Only despair.”

Emily looked down at the ground. “I think we just found out what Jericho really is.”

“A siphon,” I said. “An emotional battery for Maladrie.”

Emily’s face hardened, then softened. She wrapped her arms around me suddenly, pressing her cheek against my chest. “It makes sense now. Why they hate Vikingnar so much? Why they kill and enslave.”

I nodded slowly, returning the embrace. “Spiritual Alchemy is about being free from religious control. We fight. We remember who we are. And that terrifies King Aelle more than any demon.”

The cathedral around us felt darker now. Not just empty—but poisoned. The angels in the stained glass were not angels. The prayers in the air were not holy. The silence wasn’t peace—it was a scream, smothered beneath steel and doctrine.

But I wasn’t scared. I was furious. And this holy war wasn’t over.

The dim glow of Emily’s helmet light revealed the damp, bone-white walls of the secret stairwell before us. We paused at the foot of the steps, the distant echoes of suffering growing louder with each step downward. The altar had swung free, leaving behind dust and stale incense, and we descended into the building’s forgotten underbelly.

Below, we discovered a vast, subterranean chamber—half-prison, half-madhouse. Rows upon rows of emaciated sleepers lay on tattered mats, many lifeless and broken. The air was thick with rot and despair. Some bodies had begun to liquefy, and the floors were slippery with bodily fluids. The stench was overwhelming—a mixture of decay, urine, and the copper tang of blood pooled in dark corners.

A single, faint scream cut through the air, drawing our attention to a corner where a woman clutched the wall. Her thighs were scabbed, rib bones visible beneath her stained, torn dress. Bruises darkened her arms and torso. At the sound of our approach, she barely lifted her haggard head, mouth parted in struggle.

Emily stepped forward, gently guiding her into a seated position, slipping off her helmet to provide soft light. I leaned close and whispered, “We’re here to help. Do you… can you tell us your name?”

Her lips shook. “Help… gods hate me.”

I turned to Emily, voice low: “Record this. I want no one to say we did this—we’re here to save her.” Emily nodded and activated her asynchronous camera, the small light blinking.

The woman looked at me with terror in her eyes, as though any hope was a lie. “They… they tortured us for worship. We failed. Now they left us.”

I knelt beside her and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Listen, there's hope—real hope. You have free will. Reject their false gods, reject their demands. You have the power to choose.”

Her eyes flickered with pain and confusion. She tried to form words, but only gasped. Emily passed her a cup of water, and I spoke again, softly:

“Let go of what they made you believe. Let me guide you to truth—something outside their lies.”

She closed her eyes as though in prayer. One slow breath. Another. Then, in a frail voice: “I see… a dragon… guiding me.”

Her eyes slipped shut, and she lay still. Her murmur faded into silence. I covered her gently with a piece of fabric, honoring her final escape from suffering. Emily placed a comforting hand on my arm. I stood and looked at the horrors surrounding us—the rows of despair, the skulls peeking through warped walls. The narrow stairway creaked beneath our weight as we climbed back toward the cathedral’s ruined sanctum. At the altar’s broken stone, I turned to Emily.

“We need to kill King Aelle,” I said quietly, letting the words hang heavy in the stale air.

A long silence followed—thick and suffocating.

Emily’s breath caught. Her voice trembled: “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t believe you—didn’t think mere emotions could birth a Wraith demon so powerful.”

I looked away, jaw tight against rising anguish. “I wish I was wrong,” I murmured. “Sometimes wishing you were wrong isn’t enough. You just have to believe… believe we can stop this demon before it consumes everything.”

Emily drew in a shaky breath. The cathedral above faded around us, replaced by a world on fire.

---

CHAPTER 11: "JERICHO" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"