CHAPTER 14: "DEMONIC CHUM" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 14: "DEMONIC CHUM" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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We all made our way out of the cave—our footsteps clanging against the scorched stone as we emerged into the open, exhausted but alert. A low wind whipped across the plains, stirring the tall crimson grass that sprouted in patches across the dry terrain. The sky was bruised with late afternoon light—clouds swirling overhead, tinged with the greenish hue of this ancient planet’s atmosphere.

That’s when we saw them—upgraded Vikingnar ships parked just beyond the rocky outcroppings. Sleek, angular, and runed with glowing red symbols, they hadn’t been there before. They sat like sleeping dragons, their hulls gleaming as if freshly forged by celestial blacksmiths. The wind carried the low thrum of energy humming from their plasma cores.

And next to our old, beat-up Imperial transport—the one Emily had once called “Imperial slop”—was something even more unexpected: a brand-new crimson Drakkar-class lander, its hull sharp and ridged like the armor of some forgotten beast. Standing at its base was a towering figure, gold-plated and regal.

Deathskull.

But not the same one we knew.

His silhouette was now broader, more ornate—rebuilt with a Viking-style skeletal frame forged in gold. Thick scale armor covered his limbs, glinting in the dim sunlight. A Norse helm had been permanently fused to his head—fins rising back like a serpent’s crown. Embedded into his left forearm was a circular energy shield, and slung across his back was a secondary Viking energy shield, crackling faintly with red current. Every part of him looked like something pulled from the sagas—part divine warrior, part machine-god.

I blinked. “What’s another hero of Vikingnar doing here?”

Deathskull turned his glowing red eyes toward us. His voice echoed slightly, laced with new audio enhancements. “What’s with the warm welcome? I sensed immense psychic activity from this nature preserve. Something was calling.”

I stepped forward. “You’re not the same Deathskull I left back on Skaalandr.”

“Correct,” he replied. “My upgrades were necessary. The war has escalated. So has the symbolism.”

I gestured toward his shield. “You look like a figurehead now. Which brings me to my next point—you should be the face of the United Kingdom of Vikingnar.”

That made him pause. For a machine built without emotion, he actually looked stunned. His optical units pulsed once.

“You want me… to lead?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not just lead. Represent us. Be our crown, our unshakable center. Whoever programmed you did so with logic and good will. You don’t crack under pressure. You don’t break. You don’t lie. You’re selfless—a damn-near angel in a physical body.”

His systems whirred. The gold helm tilted slightly as he considered my words. “My only concern,” he finally said, “is the possibility of being worshipped as a god. That path leads to darkness.”

I shook my head. “Let the narrow-minded worship if they must. What matters is rallying them—giving the people hope. They’ll follow a symbol long before they follow politics.”

Deathskull’s glowing optics narrowed in thought. “Then perhaps this is the most logical course of action.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I need to ask about the progress on Earth—and at Cybrawl.”

Deathskull’s stance grew heavier. “Difficult. Luring the demon hordes to Earth is like chasing shadows. They are unpredictable. They rip through dimensions and strike without pattern.”

He paced slightly, the dirt crunching beneath his gold-plated feet. “But we have confirmed activity at the Imperial capital. They’re congregating—forming a nest. Our best course of action is to liberate more sectors, convert more Knights and Citizens. Build momentum.”

I nodded grimly. “So we go back to York to rally our troops. Then attack the capital.”

He turned toward Valrra, standing quietly beside Emily. “You don’t need to worry about incarceration,” he said, his tone suddenly gentle. “Droid L-84 has been monitoring your situation. He knew you weren’t to blame.”

Valrra’s shoulders dropped with relief, her ears twitching. “But how… how could he know?”

“There are variables we monitor. Patterns. Intentions. And sometimes… intuition.”

There wasn’t time for more questions. My gut told me York was in danger.

I turned to Emily and Valrra. “These are diplomatic clankers, let’s go.”

Without another word, the three of us followed Deathskull across the dry plains to the crimson Drakkar ship. Its hull opened with a hiss, revealing a deep interior lit with amber light and rune-bound controls.

We gave Haj Tooth and Saw Tooth a final wave. The two Shark Warriors stood at the ridge, watching in silence. Emily gave them a wink. I saluted them. And then we stepped into the future.

The ramp sealed behind us with a thunderous clang, and the ship’s engine growled to life. We were headed to York—and the next chapter of war.

The new Drakkar we were on creaked and hummed with a proud mechanical resonance as it breached Haj Prime’s cloudy atmosphere. Its hull shimmered crimson under the twin suns, its wings broad and armed to the teeth with pulse cannons and new energy sails that glowed with Wraith signatures. It wasn’t just a ship—it was a floating monument to Deathskull’s genius.

From our vantage point inside the cockpit, I stared up at the colossus above us—the Drakkar Commander. It hovered like a sky fortress, a hybrid of Norse grandeur and pure futuristic dominance. Jagged prow lines like an axe blade. Rotating magnetic hull rings. Thick bastions that pulsed with internal reactor light. I couldn’t help but mutter, “Deathskull’s work has leveled up.”

Emily glanced at me with a smirk. “Think he’s trying to impress you?”

“Honestly?” I replied, eyes glued to the metal titan. “If I weren’t so fond of you women, I’d marry the damn ship.”

Emily sighed. "Be nice to me Willy."

We approached one of the massive docking arms that extended from the belly of the Commander. The magnetic clamps locked onto our ship’s sides with a loud clang, guiding us smoothly into the primary bay.

The docking corridor hissed open, and warm artificial air hit us like a breath of home. There they stood—Christopher and the veteran Warriors from our last mission. Their armor had been polished, battle-worn pieces replaced with upgraded Wraith-plated gear. They cheered, raising fists and clanging weapons against armor. The Vikingnar were reborn, and I felt the weight of it. We weren’t just rebels anymore. We were builders of a kingdom.

I stepped forward to greet Christopher. “I see you’ve kept everyone alive.”

He chuckled. “I could say the same to you.”

Behind him, on the far wall of the bay, stretched a massive viewing window. I walked toward it slowly, Emily and Valrra behind me.

Floating out in the void was the rusted, pitiful hulk of our old Imperial shuttle. Once a symbol of forced obedience, now it was barely held together with burnt weld lines and fractured hull seams.

Deathskull’s voice came over the internal comms. “William, you still lead our warriors. Permission to fire?”

I grinned. “Obliterate it.”

A heartbeat later, the belly of the Commander ship opened with a low whir, revealing twin quantum lances. There was a blinding flash as red fire lanced through the vacuum, slicing through the Imperial ship like butter. Another shot followed—then another. Within seconds, it was gone. Just floating debris, and a few charred pieces scattering like embers in zero gravity.

Emily whistled. “Now that… that was satisfying.”

I turned to Christopher. “I guess you’re out of a job.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, saluting, and walking away. That’s the last we’ll see of Christopher, for now at least.

We followed the corridor deeper into the ship. The walls were lined with runes etched in glowing neon—symbols of our rise, our struggle, and the new alliance of machine and mysticism. Droids glided past with crates of new weaponry. Droid engineers barked orders from scaffold platforms. In the heart of it all stood Deathskull.

He was waiting in the control chamber—an elevated bridge wrapped in arched ferro-glass. Stars shined behind him. He turned as we entered, his gold skeletal frame shimmering with new engravings—Nordic swirls, dragon motifs, energy veins pulsating in his limbs. His helm had been permanently fused to his head, its jagged edges catching the starlight.

“King William,” he said with a subtle mechanical bow. “Welcome to your flagship.”

I smiled. “No. This is your flagship.”

He paused. “You were serious?”

“You heard me back on Haj Prime. You’re the best candidate to be the face of the United Kingdom of Vikingnar. Logical. Calculated. Compassionate… and you don’t explode under pressure.”

Deathskull's crimson eyes glowed slightly brighter. “But the people… they shouldn’t worship me, or any other deity. Plus we still need a more – democratic system.”

“Of course,” I replied, stroking my hairy chin.

Deathskull took a long pause, processing. “Then I accept.”

Deathskull, Emily, Valrra, and I left the control chamber to stretch our legs and explore more of the upgraded Drakkar Commander vessel. The ship thrummed with quiet power, every corridor lined with sleek metallic panels pulsing faintly with electric blue and violet veins. This wasn’t just a spacecraft anymore—it was a fully weaponized mobile fortress of the Vikingnar cause, and the craftsmanship of Deathskull’s red-prints was truly on another level.

We followed the soft clank of our boots through the corridors, passing by rows of chrome-plated plasma doors and engineering panels that were constantly shifting with living holograms—schematics, energy readouts, and tactical deployments all morphing in real-time.

As we neared the cargo chambers, we came across an open bay filled with movement and sound. A gathering of Viking Warriors, probably in the thousands, were escorting an impressive herd of creatures that looked like something out of prehistoric myth. They were massive—each easily the size of a large horse—with reddish-brown fur, black manes that ran from the tops of their heads all the way down their muscular, kangaroo-like tails. Their underbellies were pure white, and their snouts were long and thick with rows of sharp teeth that glistened under the artificial lighting.

Deathskull, standing beside us now, nodded toward the beasts with a faint hum in his voice. “These are called Dorse,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Descendants of the extinct Andrewsarchus, selectively bred and enhanced. Perfect companions for our Warriors. They’re fast, strong, and bond for life with their rider. Think of them as our answer to cavalry—only better.”

One of the Dorses let out a low bellow, pawing at the ground like it wanted to sprint down the length of the ship. The Viking handler beside it calmed it with a smooth pat on the snout, offering a glowing blue root-like treat that it crunched between thick molars.

“These will be gifted to our newest recruits,” Deathskull continued. “Every warrior who proves themselves gets one. We’ll deploy them anywhere we can. Urban or wilderness, they’ll adapt.”

Valrra's eyes glowed with interest. Emily looked stunned.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

Deathskull turned to me, “I’ll leave you three to your own business. I’ve got the manufacturing division to inspect.” And with that, he walked off, his armored footfalls echoing down the corridor.

After a moment of silence, I turned to Valrra. The question had been on my mind for a while. “Valrra,” I said, “what do you think about establishing Alchemy as the primary faith for our new civilization?”

She folded her arms and tilted her head slightly, studying me. “Faith… sure. But not worship,” she said firmly. “We should promote spiritual sovereignty. The age of gods and devils is over. People need to reclaim the authority of their own souls.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How will people feel about no gods?”

“No masters,” she replied, her tone almost ritualistic. “The people have already seen the devastation of worshipping deities. If we want to build a new empire of freedom, we must teach people to become masters of themselves. Alchemy, yes— not just a religion, a way of life. The moment we throw gods into the mix, it dies.”

Her words made sense. I was skeptical at first. The idea of building something without any deity felt risky. But the way she said it, and the conviction behind her voice… it started to sink in.

“Maybe you’re right. Gods aren’t immortal anyway,” I said. “Let’s give people something they’ve never had before—permission to become their own source of power.”

Valrra smiled slightly, satisfied, and then left to attend to her own duties.

That left me alone with Emily. We strolled quietly through the observation corridor, a long hall with floor-to-ceiling glass on one side that looked out into the abyss of space. In the distance, Haj Prime rotated slowly away from our ship.

I looked at her. “What do you think about telling people to stop worshipping gods?”

She leaned against the window, arms crossed. “I think it’s long overdue,” she said. “Faith should be in your own spirit, not in some invisible deity with a superiority complex. The idea of kneeling to something that demands obedience feels insane now.”

She turned and hugged me, pressing her cheek to my chest. “I’m proud of you for pushing that idea.”

I held her tightly. “It’s not just that. I think people are religiously fatigued. They’ve tried everything—cults, dogma, prophets—and nothing fixed the broken parts of them. Maybe what they really need is sovereignty. To stop outsourcing their inner power to external idols.”

Emily nodded slowly. “The people who claim to follow Christ… rarely live like him. And we? We’re out here fighting for actual peace, freedom, and truth—even if it’s brutal. That’s more righteous than any priest could hope to be.”

I laughed softly. “We fight actual demons.”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at me. Her expression softened. “I was selfish when I first met you,” she said. “I didn’t understand what you were going through. I saw you as someone who needed saving… when really, you needed vengeance. You needed your truth.”

“I shouldn’t have left you,” I admitted. “Back then… I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was running. That was selfish.” I said, as she kissed my cheek, and then looked into my eyes. I nodded. “Let’s not make that mistake again. Let’s share the revenge, Emily.”

Our lips met, and we kissed. Not as broken survivors anymore—but as the founders of something new, raw, and real.

Somewhere in the distance, the Drakkar Commander’s engines hummed louder, and I could feel that momentum was shifting. Something was coming. But for now, in this brief moment, there was peace between us.

Meanwhile, at the heart of the Red Dragon Empire’s capital—a metallic fortress carved into the mountains of a scorched, dusky world known as Draca—a storm was brewing behind the walls of the imperial citadel. Red skies rippled with artificial lightning overhead, crackling against the domed anti-orbital shield. Inside the Citadel’s highest spire, an opulent and dimly lit dining hall reeked of grease, smoke, and molten iron. The stench clung to the velvet curtains like decay.

At the head of a long obsidian table sat King Alle—cloaked in gold-laced red robes, eyes sunken, skin glossy with sweat and starting to turn a jaundiced orange. The royal medics claimed it was a side effect of his “divine treatments.” More likely, it was exposure to the Wraith and its unholy worship of the Demon—a desperate attempt to extend his reign indefinitely. His stomach growled again. In a slovenly fit, he tore into another heap of synthetically-engineered chicken wings piled high on a gold platter, smearing his fingers with crimson oil.

Across the table sat Edward Murray—slender, pale, and calm as a freezing lake. His left cybernetic eye blinked once, scanning the toxins wafting off King Alle's plate with disgust. To his right sat Nicholas Ferixson, tall and broad-shouldered in matte-black Knight armor. His long dark beard was tied into twin braids, giving him the look of a northern warlord—though his demeanor was rigid and quiet.

"You two," King Alle grumbled, between mouthfuls of meat, grease dripping down his chin, “are absolute losers.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the disgusting sound of Alle gnawing cartilage from synthetic bone. Edward leaned back in his seat, unfazed. Nicholas, however, looked up slowly. His eyes narrowed.

"We've kept the outer rim sectors locked down. Only the Helix System is showing resistance," Nicholas stated in a level voice.

"And what about Jericho? York!? Hm?" Alle sneered, tossing a bone over his shoulder where a cleaning droid immediately zipped in and caught it midair. "Those planets were ours, but now Vikings are preaching spiritual freedom to the peasants! Peasants!" He slammed a greasy fist onto the table, splattering chicken grease across his robes. “And Ragnar was killed by the Shark People, and how can beasts know how to attack our pawn? Our only way into the heart of Vikingnar society, dead!”

“We’re at war with evolving life,” Edward interjected, adjusting his sleeve. “The Hive is adapting. The Shark People don’t just eat everything anymore. They’re coordinating… tactically. Harvesting planets in controlled phases. If we provoke them without strategy, we risk exposing our interior territories.”

Alle’s eyes bulged. “I hate nature! I hate animals!” he bellowed, practically foaming at the mouth. “Cursed things are always interfering with my destiny! My divine rule! And now… William. That mutt and his cult of ‘freedom fighters’ now run Vikingnar. If they continue gaining support, we’ll never be able to enforce our faith upon the stars!”

Nicholas blinked once, hiding his scorn. Faith, to King Alle, meant total obedience to his insane interpretation of the “Madeline’s Doctrine”—a grotesque fusion of ancient imperialism, Christianity, and ego-mythology. It had less to do with spirituality and more with mind control through fear, censorship, and engineered guilt.

“What do you propose?” Edward asked, his tone thin and sharp as surgical steel.

King Alle stood and waddled to the holographic map of the galaxy, grease still coating his fingers. He stabbed a fat orange finger at the Vikingnar core world of York, zooming in with a voice command.

“We take York. In fact, Nicholas—send your best Knights. I want fire in the sky and blood in the streets. Make it look like an insurgent uprising—blame it on the Shark beasts, the anarchists, anyone. I don’t care. York must fall before they unify their colonies.”

Nicholas slowly rose from his seat, armored boots echoing against the obsidian floor. His face was stone, unreadable. But in his chest, his heart was heavy. The Vikingnar, for all their rebellion, were not tyrants. He’d heard whispers of what William and his allies were doing—liberating colonies, restoring peace. Even forgiving defectors.

But this was not the time to speak. Not here. Not under that gaze.

“As you command,” Nicholas said, voice tight.

Alle grunted. “Dismissed.”

Nicholas gave a slight bow and exited without another word. The armored door sealed behind him with a thunderous hiss, and the red glow of the hologram bathed the remaining men in flickering shadows.

Edward glanced toward the King, silent.

Alle sighed heavily and sat back down, taking another wing.

“He’ll obey,” Alle said, licking his fingers. “He’s not like the others. He doesn’t buy into the lies the underground press writes about me. He’s loyal.”

Edward raised a brow. “Loyalty and truth are often at odds.”

King Alle chuckled. “That’s what makes him useful. And when the blood clears and York is ours again… I’ll crown him Warden of the North Sector. Give him a throne and let him rot in it.”

Edward didn’t smile. “And what if he turns?”

Alle leaned forward, eyes twitching. “Then we burn him. Like all the others.”

A moment passed. King Alle let out a long, theatrical sigh and wiped his mouth with a velvet napkin embroidered with his sigil—a red dragon coiled around a throne of skulls.

“Now go,” Alle said, as he kissed Edward goodbye. Wafting his hand toward the chamber door like a lazy emperor. “You’ve got a war machine to grow and false flags to raise.”

Edward stood without bowing, turned, got a spank from the king, and walked into the shadows of the corridor beyond. His synthetic eye glowed red for a moment before vanishing into the dark.

Edward moved quickly through the dimly lit corridors beneath the Red Dragon Capitol, his shoes echoing against the cold metallic floor. The underground lab—hidden away beneath layers of restricted levels and surveillance systems—was silent, sterile, and suffocating. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he descended a final steel staircase and swiped his hand across a biometric scanner. The reinforced blast door unlatched with a low hydraulic hiss, opening to reveal the nightmarish playground that was Edward Murray’s private lab.

Inside, the scent of disinfectant was faint compared to the coppery tang of old blood that lingered in the air. Tables were covered with surgical instruments, vials of DNA samples, neuro-tethers, and containers holding preserved tissue. A chalkboard scrawled with complex gene diagrams and alien anatomy faced a towering chamber in the center—a makeshift operating theater flooded in white light.

Strapped to an upright lab chair was the Proboscis Monkey that I once rescued from the Wraith dimension—a relic of Earth, now violated in a place far from home. Its long nose twitched as it whimpered through clenched teeth, still conscious despite the sedation cocktail coursing through its veins. Electrodes were attached to its temples, and fluid-filled IVs dripped into its spine. Edward barely even looked at it.

“Test subject 173,” he mumbled, clicking a switch on the control console. “Neural cortex scan completed. Sample extraction begins.”

A mechanical arm swung into place beside the monkey’s skull, buzzing softly as a needle burrowed through the fur and into its brain. The monkey twitched violently. Edward narrowed his eyes, watching a tiny cylinder fill with shimmering gray-pink tissue.

He placed the vial into a cryo-tube and walked across the lab to another table. On it lay a dismembered Shark Hive Warrior—its upper half cleaved open, exposing bio-mechanical ribs and a dark fungal growth protruding from its stomach cavity. The mushroom pulsed faintly, its veins glowing a sickly blue. Edward was fascinated.

"Resilient, self-replicating, and it feeds on entropy itself," he whispered. "You're the future of warfare."

Donning a pair of holo-glasses, he carefully sliced a portion of the mushroom's root, placing it beside the monkey’s neural tissue on a graphene slider. He locked it into the microscope and peered through the digital interface.

His breath hitched.

Under magnification, the monkey's gray matter began reacting immediately to the fungal sample. Tendrils of bio-luminescent neural material reached out—merging with the plant tissue. Then, slowly, horrifyingly, the plant began to pulse in the same rhythm as the monkey’s brainwaves.

“Cognitive mimicry…” Edward whispered. “It's... adapting.”

He tapped several keys, running a diagnostic overlay.

“Wait… the plant tissue is replicating primate neurons. It’s forming memory structures. Synaptic bridges…”

He turned away from the microscope, stumbling back in disbelief. “It's thinking.”

A pause.

Then a grin.

"This… This changes everything."

In a flurry, Edward crossed the lab, inputting data into his encrypted journal. He saved the samples inside a shock-resistant containment unit, locked it, and sealed it inside his chest plates compartment. The monkey slumped over, unconscious but still breathing—its eyes twitching beneath the lids.

Edward didn’t even glance back.

He stormed out of the lab, back into the Capitol's lower halls, taking a private elevator up to the royal chambers. His mind was racing. The implications were limitless. With this discovery, King Alle’s dream of a bio-weapon army would no longer be a fantasy—it could become an empire of sentient, organic soldiers. Creatures that learned from pain, evolved through combat, and absorbed the memories of fallen foes. Or at least Edward is foolish enough to think so.

Meanwhile in York, Nicholas Ferixson stood tall, though his knees felt like they’d splinter beneath him from fatigue. He had marched with his Knights through bitter winds and alien forests, watched his men eat moss when the rations ran dry, and now, after his capture, was face-to-face with the same rebel forces he was once sworn to destroy.

Kyle Karlsson tightened his grip on the chains binding Nicholas’s arms and gave him a slight nudge. “Move,” Kyle barked. “No sudden moves, Red.”

Nicholas said nothing. His armor clinked softly with each step—a dull, almost hollow sound against the high-tech buzz and hum of the fortified gates ahead. York’s inner walls were laced with newly-installed defense emitters, and above them loomed towers of steel and stone, blending Norse design with futuristic precision. We had returned—Emily, Valrra, Deathskull, and I—and we brought something more terrifying than war machines. They brought conviction.

Inside the inner courtyard, where warriors polished plasma axes and Shungite-forged blades, where the banners of Vikingnar fluttered with renewed purpose, I stood with Deathskull, Emily, and Valrra at my sides. The air shimmered with the light of repulsor torches.

Serenity approached us, arms crossed and posture defensive. Her expression darkened at the sight of Valrra, her eyes flickering between suspicion and disbelief.

“What is she doing here?” Serenity asked, not unkindly, but with the edge of a soldier who’d buried too many friends.

“There’s no time to explain,” I replied. “She’s on our side now. And more than that—she’s seen the dark from within. She knows how deep it runs.”

Serenity glanced at Valrra again, then at Deathskull, who gave her a single nod. That was enough—for now.

Before another word could be spoken, the guards led Nicholas Ferixson through the gates. The murmurs stopped. All eyes locked on the high-ranking knight from the Red Dragon Empire.

He was bruised, but not broken. Dignified, despite his binds.

“Kyle,” I said, stepping forward. “Let him speak.”

Kyle yanked the chains loose. Nicholas rubbed his wrists and cleared his throat.

“I’ve come alone, with my Knights. Not to trick or trap. I want to defect,” Nicholas said plainly, his voice carrying the conviction of a man whose foundation had cracked. “I’ve watched King Alle rot in his own madness. He feasts while his people suffer. He worships control like a deity. I’ve had enough. We’ve had enough.”

Murmurs passed through our troops like static. Emily’s eyes narrowed, studying him. Valrra stepped closer, tense but curious.

“You’re one of his top dogs,” she said sharply. “Why turn now?”

“Because I’ve seen what he’s become,” Nicholas replied. “He doesn’t just want to control Vikingnar. He wants to erase it. Its people, its cultures, its free minds. I didn’t sign up for genocide. I signed up to protect the galaxy from chaos. Now I see that chaos wears a crown.”

I nodded slowly, then looked at Deathskull. “This is your call.”

Nicholas turned, now standing before Deathskull, who loomed with silent authority. His armored arms folded across his chest like iron gates.

“Deathskull,” Nicholas said, steadying his breath. “May I serve Vikingnar? Not just to overthrow Alle—but to help build something greater?”

Deathskull leaned in. His red mechanical eyes pierced through the knight like twin suns eclipsed by blood.

“This isn’t just about dethroning a madman,” he said, voice calm, deep, and deliberate. “It’s about burning out the sickness behind him. The Demons. The worship of Deity filled with malice. Are you willing to see this fight to the end, even if it means standing against everything you were bred to protect?”

Nicholas hesitated—just for a heartbeat. Then he nodded. “Yes.”

Deathskull stepped back and turned to me. “Leading warriors is your business. Get them ready. We leave at dawn.”

A buzz rolled through the courtyard as if a lightning charge had swept over the stone. Nicholas bowed his head. I motioned for Kyle to unbind him fully.

“Welcome to the real war,” I said, patting Nicholas’s shoulder.

Deep in the Shark People’s lair in the catacombs of Haj Prime, a different story is taking place. The sun—burning through the cavern's crevices—cast fractured light over the cracked statue of Christ, its face half-eroded but still eerily serene. At its feet stood two lone figures, shark-like in appearance but upright, sentient, and burdened with guilt.

Haj Tooth adjusted the ritual beads around her scaled neck. Her gills flared slowly as she knelt beside the base of the statue, where moss had started to reclaim the foundation. She stared into Christ's eroded eyes, haunted.

“I still hear their cries,” she said quietly.

Saw Tooth, her grizzled mate, slightly shorter but equally imposing, stood beside her with his spear resting against his shoulder. His voice was gravel and foam. “We were tools,” he said. “Tools of the Hive. Our thoughts weren’t our own back then.”

“It’s not a real excuse,” Haj Tooth muttered. “When the haze was slightly lifted by incarcerating a noble doctor… when we could feel again—slightly—we still obeyed. I still obeyed.”

Saw Tooth turned to her, his dark eyes reflecting the twilight. “You didn’t let William die during our enslavement to the hive mind.”

“It wasn’t enough,” she hissed. “I felt her pulse stop in my hands. Serenity.” Haj Tooth clenched a clawed hand into a fist. “She was barely breathing when we dropped her. We didn’t even know who she was. Nor cared.”

Saw Tooth stepped forward and wrapped his strong arms around her, resting his forehead against hers. Their dorsal fins brushed together—a tender gesture among their kind.

“We seek redemption now,” he said, voice low. “We’ll carve it out of the stone of this cruel galaxy.”

Before she could respond, the room split open like ruptured flesh. A wormhole, serrated and pulsing with infernal energy, tore through the atmosphere in a violent swirl of hellish orange and obsidian black. Out of the storm stepped Maladrie—a tall, flame-veined demoness clad in living armor that rippled like magma. Her eyes burned like twin collapsing suns, and behind her, stomping forth from the gate, were the Minotaurs—towering brutes of muscle and violence, with obsidian horns glowing orange at the tips. Their snorts were laced with embers.

Maladrie’s voice cracked across the open square like a thunderclap. “The only redemption you’ll seek is a beating, abomination!”

She pointed a clawed finger toward the statue. “How dare you cradle the corpse of my father? My father, you mutated filth!”

Then came the war cry. Deep. Demonic. Explosive.

The Minotaurs charged, their heavy hooves shaking the ground. Saw Tooth grabbed his halberd and stood his ground beside Haj Tooth. Sharkkin warriors emerged from the shadows, rallied by their former leaders' call. The first clash was like tectonic plates colliding—blades against bone, plasma against hide.

Minotaurs fought with volcanic rage, swinging massive flaming axes and maces. Shark warriors used curved blades, spines, and bioluminescent nets that fizzled against demon flesh. Screams tore through the air—both shark and demon.

Haj Tooth fought like a storm, her movements fluid, twisting through the battlefield like a predator in water. She sliced open a Minotaur’s thigh, but was thrown back by another, crashing into the base of the statue. Dust and fractured stone rained down.

“Saw Tooth!” she screamed.

Her mate had lunged at a Minotaur, stabbing deep into its gut—but another had snuck behind him. With one brutal swing of a double-bladed flail, it slammed Saw Tooth’s back. A sickening crack echoed as his dorsal fin snapped clean off, sending him spiraling into the dirt.

“NO!”

Haj Tooth tackled the Minotaur before it could finish Saw Tooth, goring its eye with her sharp dagger made of bone. It fell, screeching in rage. But it was too late. Saw Tooth lay bleeding, barely conscious.

Maladrie stepped forward, untouched by the carnage, her gaze locked on the statue. She lifted a hand. The air around it shimmered—time bent around her fingers.

The statue lifted from the ground with invisible force. Chunks of earth ripped free as if gravity itself had surrendered. The body within—petrified, crystalline, and glowing with faint godlight—began to pulse.

“Father…” she whispered. “You’ll rest in my palace beneath the Shattered Star. No more defilement.”

With a burst of hellfire, she vanished with the statue into the closing wormhole. The remaining Minotaurs followed, some dragging wounded comrades, others laughing at the carnage they left behind.

Silence fell. The ground was scorched. Sharkkin bodies were scattered like broken coral.

Haj Tooth crawled over to Saw Tooth, cradling his head. Blood oozed from his back, and his fin stump leaked dark plasma.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

Back at the heart of the Red Dragon Empire’s decadent throne room, golden light filtered through the stained-glass windows etched with scenes of conquest and false holiness. The air was heavy with incense—burning sap from the trees, a luxury most could never afford. Red velvet banners bearing the sigil of the serpent-wrapped cross hung like bloodied veils along the walls. At the top of a sweeping staircase, slumped over his golden throne as if it were a couch, sat King Alle.

His bloated form sagged in silk robes, skin sallow and touched with a bizarre, unnatural orange hue that had worsened over the weeks. His fingers—thick, ringed, and glistening with sweat—curled around Edward’s back as the two locked lips in indulgence. Edward, more composed but equally invested, stroked the back of Alle’s neck, whispering something inaudible into his ear. A servant droid lingered near the wall, holding a tray of roasted bat wings and fried centipedes, but neither man cared to eat. Their attention was entirely on each other—on power, and authority.

Then— space tore.

It didn’t happen with a sound so much as a sensation. The temperature dropped. The colored light turned pale. And from a twisted hole of obsidian flame and purple static, a silhouette emerged.

Maladrie.

Her heels clacked against the obsidian floor with a rhythmic authority, her figure towering and vile—terror wreathed in shadow and mist. Horns twisted like gnarled tree roots from her head, her eyes glowing like twin dying stars. Though she bore the monstrous form of a demon queen, her voice was smooth… familiar.

Alle’s lips peeled away from Edward’s, wet and twitching in disgust. “What in the Empire’s blessed name are you?” he barked, his voice trembling with fury and subtle fear.

Maladrie smirked, revealing razor-thin fangs. “Do you not recognize me, my King? It’s Madeline. You know… your daughter.”

Alle’s orange face was drained of color. “Lies… A Demon can’t be the divine daughter of Christ!”

Edward stepped forward cautiously, his voice clipped. “If you are truly Madeline… why show yourself now?”

“Because Nicholas Ferixson has betrayed you,” Maladrie hissed. “He’s joined the Vikingnar. He is marching on this very world with King William as we speak. You’ve lost control of York. And worse—he's earned the respect of Deathskull.”

Alle stood up, wobbling like a decaying statue, fat fingers clenched at his sides. “Ferixson… That slug. I gave him everything. I gave him trust.”

Maladrie circled the room slowly, long claws dragging along the tapestries. “Then burn the traitor. But if you want to stop Vikingnar, if you want to preserve your rule, you’ll need more than soldiers. You need Knights who can withstand the impossible.” She raised her hand, and a sphere of pulsing orange energy swirled into existence, filled with shards of Wraith-tech and tissue samples. “Allow me to grant your Knights this blessing.”

Alle eyed the sphere warily, then smirked with that same religious conviction that had driven so many mad before. “A test of faith,” he murmured. “Perhaps even divinity at work.”

Edward narrowed his eyes. “This… weapon you offer. What are its costs?”

“Only that you trust me,” Maladrie said sweetly. “Let me into your barracks. Let me bless your troops. And when the Vikings arrive, we will bathe in their blood and hold their bones up to the skies.”

Alle’s lips quivered with joy. “Yes! Yes!” he shrieked. “Do it. Make my Knights divine monsters!”

Maladrie bowed, but her smirk never faded. “It will be done.”

Alle spun around, his heavy robes flapping. “Edward! Launch the weapon! Now!”

Edward blinked. “Are you sure? We haven’t—”

“NOW,” Alle shouted, pointing to the polished onyx doors. “Let them see our holy vengeance descend from the stars!”

Edward nodded slowly, then bowed and exited the throne room with haste, long white coat trailing behind him. The doors slammed shut behind him.

Alone now with Maladrie, she stepped closer, inspecting the King with wide, obsessed eyes.

“God speaks through fire,” she muttered. “And you… You are his flame.”

Alle simply smiled, still unsettled by this encounter.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the decadent palace of the Red Dragon Empire's capitol, Edward Murray barreled down the spiral stone staircase that led to his personal lab. His footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridor, his breath ragged with excitement and the sting of the monkey bite still fresh on his hand. Blood trickled from the deep crescent-shaped wound, but Edward didn’t care. His mind raced with the implications of his last experiment. He had to finish it. He had to inject the serum—now.

The heavy steel doors of the lab hissed open as he slammed his palm against the biometric lock. Inside, the room buzzed with electricity, machines humming, sparks occasionally bursting from overworked consoles. The Proboscis Monkey, once docile and strapped to a surgical chair, was now snapping and snarling like a rabid animal. It wanted freedom, a faint pink luminescence glowed from its eyes.

"You’re the key," Edward whispered, sweat dripping down his brow. He clutched the syringe of the mutation serum in his left hand, the transparent blue-green liquid swirling like liquid plasma.

He approached with caution.

"Easy, you little bastard… Just one prick and you’ll make history."

But before he could plunge the needle, the Monkey screamed, a gurgling, unnatural cry, and lurched forward—biting down hard on Edward’s hand.

“AGH!” Edward shrieked, staggering backward, blood spraying across the sterile lab floor. The Monkey used the distraction to rip its restraints free, which were already chewed. With a furious screech, it launched itself across the lab, knocking over vials, smashing glass beakers, and finally diving through the thick lab window—shattering it in a hail of sparks and glass—and disappearing into the sulfur-scarred sky outside.

Edward clutched his bleeding hand, panting. “You’ll regret that, you diseased little—!”

Then he looked down.

In his other hand, the syringe was still clutched.

But the needle was buried in his thigh.

“Oh no…”

The plunger was depressed on impact when he fell. The mutation serum was gone. All of it—now coursing through his bloodstream.

A cold sweat broke out across his body. The walls of the lab seemed to pulse and stretch. He stumbled, grasping at a counter, knocking over trays of tools. “No… No, no, no—this wasn’t meant for me!”

Pain bloomed in his chest like wildfire. His vision blurred. The veins in his arms turned black and bulged. Edward fell to the floor screaming, convulsing as the serum surged through him. His skin began to bubble, blistering with pustules that burst into clouds of spores. His body convulsed violently as muscle mass exploded outward. His lab coat ripped apart as his ribcage expanded and curved. Warts spread like a plague across his torso, and his fingernails cracked and grew into thick, gnarled claws.

"MY MIND—MY MIND IS STILL HERE!" Edward cried out.

But it wasn’t.

His words devolved into snarls as his jaw cracked, reshaped into a grotesque muzzle. His nose expanded and curved downward into a horrid fleshy trunk. Tufts of wiry orange hair sprouted along his spine. His spine lengthened, causing him to stand half-upright like a twisted Neanderthal. His eyes burned orange.

He reached for a mirror, and what looked back was no longer human. It was a vile parody—a monster Proboscis Monkey mixed with fungal abomination. An accidental Troll.

The final, most humiliating transformation came with a wet plop as his genitalia fell to the ground—burned off from hormonal disarray caused by the spore's gender-erasing compounds. Edward howled in horror and rage, knocking over the microscope station in a blind rampage.

Just then, the lab door opened.

Teresa Gulliman, one of King Alle’s most loyal courtiers and resident alchemist, stepped in holding a clipboard. She barely had time to blink before she was face-to-face with the towering, dripping horror that had once been Edward Murray.

She let out a piercing scream.

Edward Murray—the Troll—froze. His beady eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, something of his old mind flickered with shame.

“GRRAAUGHHHH!!” was all he could manage.

The hulking beast turned, crashed through the already-shattered window, and leapt into the outside world, vanishing into the night like a nightmare escaping its cage.

Teresa stood frozen. The stench of spores filled the air.

She looked down at the scattered lab notes and saw a sticky note with “party night test shots” crossed out. Next to it was a tube labeled “Weaponized Myco-Primate Strain B”.

“Idiot…” she muttered, wide-eyed.

“I can’t believe that idiot confused his party needles with his experimental bio weapon.”

She looked back toward the window with a horrified sigh.

“King Alle is not going to like this.”

Far in the distance, a guttural howl echoed through the night, and birds fled the tree line. Something monstrous had just been born… and it was now loose in the empire.

And it had nothing to lose.

Meanwhile, our massive fleet soared through the void of space, a black ocean pierced by glimmering starlight, each vessel a gleaming testament to Vikingnar’s rising power. The colossal shadows of our Drakkar ships loomed like mythic beasts, each carrier and war barge brimming with weapons forged from the finest alien materials and burning with vengeance. The time had come to strike at the heart of the Red Dragon Empire — the planet Draca.

Ahead of us, the world of Draca loomed like a crimson eye in the dark. Its atmosphere shimmered with ion storms and haze, its surface cracked with lava veins and ancient industrial cities wrapped in the iron embrace of planetary fortresses. The skies above it were patrolled by the Red Dragon Imperial Navy, who had taken our arrival as an unmistakable act of war. Enormous capital ships — monolithic, rust-red dreadnoughts with towering engines and rows of magnetic cannon batteries — launched into formation to intercept our advance. Their hulls bore ancient emblems — the Dragon Sigil of King Alle — painted in blood-like strokes across oxidized metal.

But we were ready.

From within our Drakkar Carriers, the hangars hissed open, atmospheric containment fields shimmering as the Red Bird Warships took to the stars first, like flocks of hunting falcons. Their wings spread wide with folded solar fins, and their engines roared with cerulean fire as they took up defensive patterns. A beat later, the new breed of terror emerged — our Death Eagle fighters. Sleek and vicious, these next-generation combat ships ripped out of their launch bays in synchronized volleys, like predators loosened from their cages. Sleek as obsidian and glimmering faintly with blue plasma veins, they zipped forward with deadly speed, taking formation like a spearhead.

These weren’t your standard attack crafts. They were honed machines of conquest, crafted with graphene alloy skin — lighter than steel, but ten times stronger. Their aerodynamic fuselage curved with elegance, designed by A.I.-driven war architects for maximum maneuverability in zero gravity and atmospheric operations. Their pulse-thrusters gave them the agility to turn on a coin, perform evasive loops, and outrun nearly anything in the Red Dragon arsenal.

The Red Dragon Empire responded with their own swarm — waves of Black Bird fighters, obsolete remnants from a time when the Empire believed they could not be challenged. Their ships, clunky in comparison and slower to respond, surged toward us like a virus. But our Death Eagles were already slicing through them.

With the first exchange of fire, our Death Eagles fired twin laser bursts. The energy beams — neon-red pulses laced with antimatter particles — ripped into the enemy formation. The first hits stripped the Black Birds' outdated energy shields away in an instant, causing their power signatures to spike violently as their outer hulls were exposed to vacuum. With the second round of laser fire, the Black Birds split in two — their fuselages sheared cleanly as if by a monomolecular blade.

Explosions erupted across the starscape in silent flashes — blossoms of debris and fire drifting in the darkness. The heat signatures from each destroyed ship painted our radars with growing chaos, but our formations held. The Drakkar Commander, an AI hybrid mind interfacing with every Death Eagle through encrypted neural links, began to reposition our forces into wedge formations — compressing our attack pattern tighter against the approaching capital fleet.

In the distance, the Red Dragon flagship, Tyrannax, emerged. It was an enormous thing — nearly the size of a city, bristling with turrets and kinetic rail cannons. Its engines spat waves of irradiated plasma, and shield flares burst around its hull from our early probing attacks. The sight of it did little to deter our push. If anything, it drew us in closer. The Tyrannax was our primary target — the heart of the Empire’s orbital command.

More Death Eagles launched from our rear carriers, swarming forward in waves. At the same time, torpedo cruisers armed with gravity-tipped missiles began their siege maneuvers. The missiles glided through space with eerie grace, silent but devastating. When they hit, they ignited like stars dying — sending enemy cruisers spinning out of control, or collapsing their hulls inward from sheer gravitational pressure.

Below us, the surface of Draca came into view — a fractured landscape of megacities and volcanic ridges, defense towers blinking like cursed lighthouses. Planetary shield domes flickered into place, protecting key cities. Anti-aircraft batteries turned toward the heavens, locking onto our trajectory. We were not merely here to claim a sky; we were here to bring judgment from the stars.

One of our Red Bird warships, Odinhall, took a direct hit from a magnetized lance fired from a destroyer-class enemy ship. The lance bored into its core reactor and caused a chain explosion, the fiery wreckage tumbling into the gravity well of Draca. There would be losses. We had expected them.

Still, the enemy lines were faltering. The Death Eagles, with their superior maneuvering systems and high-frequency targeting beams, carved clean paths through the formations of Black Birds and Cobra Bombers. Each ship’s onboard AI worked in tandem with its pilot, anticipating patterns and correcting errors within milliseconds.

As the battle raged on, space debris began to form a glowing belt around the planet, like a mechanical ring of corpses. We continued to push forward. More Drakkar Carriers warped in from hyperspace in tight formations behind us, reinforcing our front line. The sky was no longer a battleground — it was a siege.

Far beyond the stars, we had waited for this moment. Now, we were making our stand. And though the Red Dragon Empire had their fire, we brought the fury of gods with us. The assault on Draca had begun.

And it would not end until the throne of King Alle was no more.

Although, the descent through Draca’s storm-thick skies was anything but smooth. Inside our drop pod, turbulence battered the hull like an angry god. Our original plan was to land directly within the capital walls, just like the last time. But this time… something was wrong.

A flashing alert pulsed on the pod's holo-display—SHIELD BARRIER DETECTED.

“Deathskull, we’ve got a problem,” I said, gripping the edge of my seat as the pod jolted sideways. “There’s an energy shield below the clouds. They’re blocking direct entry.”

He checked the instruments. “Damn it. They’ve reinforced their defenses. No way we’re punching through that.”

I slammed the comms open. “To all warriors in drop formation—divert your descent now! I repeat, DO NOT attempt to land within the city! Pull back!”

Outside the viewports, pods were scrambling, thrusters flaring in every direction. A few collided mid-air in a rain of sparks, others barely missed one another. I yanked the control lever, shifting the trajectory. Our pod veered hard to the left, scraping against another in a teeth-clenching graze. Alarms screamed.

Emily shouted, “Are we going to make it?—”

“We will!” I snarled, forcing the pod down through the lower atmosphere.

The ground surged up like a wall. At the last second, retros fired, and our pod smashed into the surface—just outside the capital walls. The impact slammed us against our restraints, but we were alive.

The hatch burst open, flooding the pod with bright, dust-hazy daylight and the burnt-metal scent of war.

I climbed out first, yanked my helmet off, and scanned the terrain. We were just a few yards from the capital’s monolithic walls—glowing with plasma runes and etched with demonic symbols. The energy shield pulsed above it, a shimmering dome in the sky, cutting off any aerial assault. But down here? This was our battleground now.

“Emily, Serenity, Deathskull—move out!” I called.

One by one, they emerged. Serenity raised her plasma scythe and scanned the horizon. Deathskull’s eyes glowed a deeper red than usual. He said nothing, but his grip tightened around his carbon-wrapped halberd. Emily took in the broken terrain, the silence before the storm.

Within seconds, more drop pods began to land around us. Hissing steam and hydraulic whines followed by the thunder of metal boots hitting soil. In the distance, Drakkar Carriers descended from the clouds like gods of war, hatches opening mid-air to deploy transport sleds and droid squads.

Our warriors gathered in formation. Rows of Viking Warriors lined the field, their war gear gleaming in the morning light—chainmale battle suits, photon-forged axes, and helms glowed with dark silver. More emerged behind them—Guardian Angels—formerly Demondroids, now reborn in golden skeletal forms clad in battle-worn Viking armor, their glowing eyes fierce with loyalty.

From the eastern ridge galloped the new cavalry—Nicholas and his liberated Knights, now donning Vikingnar armor over their older heraldry. But what caught everyone's attention were the Dorses—massive armored canids, each one a predator molded for war. Their teeth were alloy. Their hides were stronger in armor. Their loyalty is unshakable.

Nicholas rode to the front, his beast snarling beside him. He raised his visor and nodded to me.

I gave him a grin. “You see? We have respect for your beliefs, and your ways of doing things.”

He nodded in return. “Your people may be different, but your honor runs true.”

I whistled sharply—and from behind the carriers, she came.

A hulking Dorse, her armor had crimson lights running along her plated flanks. Her eyes glowed—intelligent, alert—and fixed directly on me.

Emily gasped softly. “Is that...?”

I held my hand out. “Honey.”

The armored canid sprinted toward me and stopped just shy of crashing into us. She lowered her head gently. I placed a gloved hand on her snout, then climbed into the saddle.

Emily stood stunned. “I don’t understand… How is she—? She was just a dog…”

I offered my hand to her. “Climb up. I’ll explain.”

She grabbed my wrist and swung herself up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her breath was warm against my neck.

“While we were away,” I said, “Honey got sick. Really sick. There wasn’t time to wait for her to recover naturally. I made an arrangement with Deathskull… her consciousness, her soul—whatever you want to call it—was transferred into this body. It was the only way to save her.”

Emily was silent for a long moment. Then she placed her hand on Honey’s armored shoulder.

“She remembers us,” she said softly. “I can feel it.”

I nodded. “She remembers everything.”

Honey growled—not with anger, but in affirmation. A loyal war-beast now, yes. But still our companion. Still family.

From the horizon, distant horns began to sound. Demonic war horns—deep, metallic, and unnatural. The enemy had seen us. I pulled my chainsword from my back and held it high.

After the long wait… it began.

The wind shifted—low and metallic, carrying the scent of scorched air and something else… something older. The field between us and the capital grew quiet, too quiet. The birds stopped circling. The ash settled. It was as if the world paused, inhaling with dread.

And then we saw them.

The gates of Draca creaked open—not like a mechanical operation, but more like the breathing of some ancient beast. Rusted steel groaned against iron hinges, and the sound echoed across the field like a dirge. Shadows shifted behind the open doors, and then—one by one—they emerged.

Knights.

But not ours.

They moved in perfect unison. Their formation was flawless—rows of ten, each row falling in behind the last with eerie precision. But these weren’t men anymore. The visors were gone, their faces exposed, as if they had no shame left. Their skin was no longer human, but mutated into leathery orange reptilian flesh. Their noses were nothing more than slits. Horned cheekbones jutted forward under their helmets, and their eyes… their eyes were pure black, empty voids—soulless, like dying stars.

“Corrupted Knights…” Emily whispered behind me.

I said nothing. I only stared as they continued to emerge—dozens, then hundreds. The ground trembled with their synchronized march. These were not humans corrupted by mere power. No. They had been offered something. And they had accepted.

Just behind them came something worse.

Figures with far too much elegance for a battlefield began to slink through the gates. Succubi and Incubi—demonic in form, humanoid in shape, but their proportions were unnatural, too tall, too lean, their motions like dancers drunk on blood. Their skin shimmered like polished obsidian. Eyes like burning coals locked onto our lines. Their smiles spread inhumanly wide as their clawed hands flexed in anticipation.

Some of them wore armor plated in gold filigree and black leather, sculpted to enhance their twisted allure. Others were practically naked save for the ceremonial chains and burning runes etched into their flesh. Their presence alone made some of our newer recruits stumble backwards.

But they didn’t stop coming.

A line of towering Demon Warriors, like flesh and steel hybrids, followed behind—each one standing nearly eight feet tall. Horned helmets, chainswords, plasma axes, and jet-black armor fused with bone. Their chests breathed like lungs, organic components swelling beneath the steel plates.

That’s when I saw Ragnar.

He emerged slowly, not at the head of the army but within its center—more like a priest than a general. His body had changed. His once-proud Viking armor was gone. In its place was orange skin streaked with reptilian cracks. Horns curled backward from his temples like a crown of fire. His eyes were no longer human—but burning pits of rage and betrayal. Twin plasma swords hung from his belt like fangs, and behind him dragged a cape that looked like it was made of smoke and writhing shadow.

Two Knights, Alex Jenkins and Joe Raphial, were among those who took a cautious step back. Their faces went pale, the tips of their spears trembling slightly. Alex looked at Joe and whispered, “What… what even are they?” Joe didn’t answer, his eyes fixated on the snarling faces moving toward us like a tide of nightmares.

“They’ve been here all along,” Alex added under his breath. “Living among us… in disguise.”

That’s when I stepped forward and turned back to address them. “You’re not wrong. They were always here. Hidden. Manipulating. Feeding on our peace like parasites. And now they’re showing their true forms.”

Joe looked at me, still shaken. “We didn’t know… we didn’t see…”

“They’re not gods,” I snapped. “They’re not unbeatable. They want your fear. Don’t give it to them. Turn it into hate.”

My words echoed. Not just through the ranks of Nicholas’s reformed Knights or the Guardian Angels who towered in silence—but through everyone. The Dorse-mounted cavalry, the Vikings with plasma axes and gunblades, and even the Drop Pod scouts in their exo-cloaks—all looked up, straightened their posture. Fear slowly shifted into something else. Not courage—but rage.

The Demon horde surged from Draca’s city gates—Corrupted Knights with reptilian, orange skin and soulless black eyes, flanked by Incubi and Succubi who hissed and snarled as they lunged. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their advance.

It was all I needed. I lifted my arm and gave the signal.

A hurricane of blood and steel erupted from our side. Viking warriors charged in unison, hooves stamping, swords flashing in the waning twilight. Defender droids marched beside them—our golden Guardian Angels—plasma shields raised and serrated swords ignited, their ethereal red glow cutting through the gloom. Nicholas’s formerly Imperial Knights rode heavily armored Dorse cavalry with newfound vengeance.

Emily and I rode Honey—now reborn in Dorse form—straight into the maw of the oncoming tide. Her armored frame thundered across the battlefield, crashing into enemy lines with savage force. Emily’s sword cut arcs of red light through twisted demonic flesh as mine—a revving chainsword—ripped through armor and bone. Our mounted onslaught carved a path of ordered destruction.

Deathskull, ever efficient, directed a squad of Guardian Angels. With laser precision, they hurled plasma javelins into foe ranks, collapsing demon formations. A coordinated pincer drove the dark forces inward, creating a death trap of converging blades and roaring steel.

The ground bucked beneath me, and with an explosive strike I was thrown from my mount. A hulking Demonic Minotaur towered above, its bronze hide scarred with battle, horns glinting in the embers of war. My gauntlets rattled as the creature’s cleaver struck with brutal force—steel and bone sang in a violent chorus. Limbs spun and disappointment took over—until I dodged low and sliced my chainsword deep into its throat. The beast jerked once and fell in a red-hearted collapse.

The battlefield trembled with an unnatural energy, the ground beneath us pulsing with the vibration of charging hooves and storming feet. Amidst the chaos, I spun on my heel, heart slamming in my chest as I caught sight of Emily just ahead—her eyes locked in a deadly gaze with someone I thought we'd never see again.

It was Page.

But not the woman I once knew from our encounter in the Wraith. This was a twisted version—something inhuman. Her eyes burned with a sickly orange hue, and her skin had taken on a pale, corpse-like sheen, veined with black tendrils of corrupted energy. Horns curled back from her forehead, and a subtle hiss escaped her fangs as she bared her teeth like a predator.

"I came here for your King," she spat with venomous amusement, her voice laced with supernatural distortion. It was no longer Page's voice—it was something darker wearing her memory like a mask.

Emily’s fury ignited like a plasma torch. She snarled, her sword already arcing through the air.

The blade kissed Page’s face in a flash of silver, slicing a gash across her cheek that sizzled as her demonic flesh recoiled. Black blood oozed from the wound like tar. Page staggered but smirked, licking the blood with a grotesque pleasure.

I stepped forward, ready to intervene, when an immense shadow moved across my path—blocking me like a wall of despair. It was him.

Ragnar.

Or rather, the husk of what Ragnar once was. Now he stood as a Demon Warrior, his body mutated and clad in cruel rusted armor. His skin glowed with ember-like cracks, and horns curled from his skull like a devil’s crown. His eyes—once full of purpose—were now pits of fiery orange, void of all humanity.

“You can’t save her,” he growled, voice thick with demonic resonance. “It’s just you and I now. How dare you desecrate your heritage by letting a machine rule the kingdom!”

I tightened my grip on my chainsword. “Heritage and culture are art—not a damn priority,” I spat.

Ragnar bellowed a guttural roar, and our blades clashed like lightning splitting the sky.

The duel was apocalyptic.

We collided in the middle of the battlefield, everything else fading into ghostly echoes around us. His infernal axe—massive and jagged, soaked in that cursed Shark Venom—swung with the strength of an earthquake. Every strike that grazed me burned and numbed, the venom working fast, seeping through slashes in my armor, into my veins. My breath shortened. My vision blurred. The world began to tilt, and I knew this wasn’t just a battle—it was a slow death if I didn’t finish it soon.

Ragnar pressed forward, each swing aimed to decapitate, to crush, to erase. I countered as best I could, ducking low and retaliating with slashes from my chainsword, its red blade shrieking through the air. Sparks and blood exploded on every impact. I activated the wrist blade on my gauntlet, knowing I needed to draw him in close.

He grunted in surprise as I blocked a downward swing and drove the Shungite-laced blade deep into the gap beneath his stomach armor. The cursed mineral hissed like acid against his corrupted flesh. Ragnar gasped, blood bubbling in his throat, but he refused to fall. With trembling limbs, he staggered backward, trying to reach a fallen spear nearby.

I could barely move. The venom had numbed my muscles, but rage kept my body upright. I stepped forward, the weight of destiny in my hands. With a final roar, I raised my chainsword overhead and drove it through Ragnar’s throat.

The scream that tore from his body was not his—it was something deeper, more ancient, as though the Demon inside him was being forcibly expelled. Black ichor sprayed from his mouth as he thrashed once, then collapsed. His body convulsed, then finally went still. The former war hero of Vikingnar lay broken, armor shattered, blood pooling around him in steaming rivers.

Around me, Demons fell—their momentum shattered by the loss of one of their strongest champions. But it wasn’t over.

More surged from the gates like a plague.

I turned, the numbness still spreading through my limbs, and caught sight of Emily, still locked in combat with Page. Their duel had become vicious. Page fought like a serpent—coiled, quick, venomous. Her blade, too, was coated with Shark Venom, and I saw the moment it slid past Emily’s guard, puncturing a weak point in her armor at her abdomen.

Emily gasped and stumbled, but didn’t fall.

Instead, she broke Page’s blade with a single strike—snapping it at the hilt. The sound echoed like thunder. Page stepped back, eyes wide, suddenly vulnerable.

Emily didn’t hesitate.

She surged forward, slicing Page’s arm clean off in a flash of steel. The demon woman dropped to her knees, howling, clutching the bleeding stump. Her voice cracked into pathetic sobs as she begged for mercy.

Emily stood tall, blood staining her dark armor. “Are you kidding me, hag?”

She swung once, fast and merciless.

Page’s head rolled into the dirt. Her body slumped over lifeless, demon ichor pouring from the stump of her neck.

I limped over to Emily as the battle raged around us. Blood and plasma stained the ground. Bodies of Viking warriors and demonic monstrosities littered the field, smoldering in the aftermath of energy blasts and blade strikes.

“We need to get inside the gates,” I said hoarsely, my hand clutching my bleeding side. “Now. Before they overwhelm us.”

Emily wiped her sword clean, her breath ragged. “Do you know how?”

I nodded. “We need to find Nicholas. If anyone knows a secret way into the city, it’s him.”

She gave a sharp nod, eyes burning with determination.

The battlefield outside the capital of Draca had transformed into a living nightmare—flames from laser cannons scorched the sky, the ruins of ancient stone buildings lay shattered across the wastelands, and smoke twisted upward in apocalyptic spirals. The air smelled like ozone and ash, burned flesh and leaking hydraulic fluid. And amidst the chaos, our forces surged like a tide of iron and will.

Nicholas, Alex, and Joe fought in unison, their armor reflecting flashes of energy blades and plasma fire. But the demonic forces were tireless—feral and grotesque creatures with elongated limbs, war-blades melded into their bones, and glowing symbols branded across their chests in infernal runes.

Nicholas swung his sword through the face of a horned Demonling, its blackened skull splitting open in a spray of violet fluid. His Dorse circled him like a shadow, blood-soaked claws slamming into another creature, tossing it aside like a rag doll. But then the ground quaked. A colossal Demonic Minotaur emerged through the ruins, ten feet tall with a labyrinthine crest engraved into its bone-white horns and an obsidian battle axe forged in Hell’s own forges.

Nicholas faced it alone.

The initial exchange was brutal—his strikes met with immense resistance as the Minotaur parried with its axe and countered with guttural roars. Sparks flew from the clashing of weapons. Nicholas ducked, rolled, and brought his blade down into the creature’s thigh, only for it to backhand him across the battlefield like a thrown doll. The blow cracked his chest plate and left him stunned.

The Minotaur raised its axe for the final blow.

Then—out of nowhere—Kyle.

The younger warrior sprinted forward and leapt, driving his sword deep into the Minotaur’s exposed side. The beast howled and swung wildly, sending Kyle tumbling back. It was about to crush him with a stomp when Nicholas’s Dorse charged in with fury.

The beast leapt, claws slashing into demonic flesh, its snarls echoing through the battlefield like a war drum. It sank its massive teeth into the Minotaur’s throat, and with one shake, crushed the creature’s windpipe entirely. The Minotaur gurgled its last and slumped into the dirt, twitching no more.

Nicholas limped over and scratched his loyal beast behind the ears. “Relax, boy.”

“That’s a useful animal you got there,” Kyle muttered, catching his breath.

That’s when Emily and I emerged through the smoke, plasma residue still trailing from our armor. “Nicholas!” I shouted. “We need access through the gates. Now.”

Nicholas looked toward the towering walls and snarling Demons pouring from the ramparts. “We need a distraction. The gate’s reinforced—controlled from within. We’ll never breach it without someone disabling it first.”

My brow furrowed. “We don’t have enough troops to split forces.”

Just then, the sky cracked open.

A ripple tore through the atmosphere like the arrival of a celestial beast. Above us, a hive-shaped vessel with jagged fins and coral-like plating descended. The liberated Shark People had arrived.

Swarms of them leapt from the vessel—barbed fins shimmering with oil and alien glyphs etched into their hardened scales. Their eyes burned with vengeance. They landed like meteorites among the Demon horde, slashing with biometal claws and shattering bones with teeth evolved for war.

They didn’t roar. They didn’t chant.

They tore.

Saw Tooth and Haj Tooth sprinted from opposite flanks, coordinating a pincer attack that drove the Demons inward—right into our kill zone. The cacophony of shrieking Demons was drowned beneath the rhythmic slaughter of our new allies. One Shark warrior bit clean through the head of an Incubus, while another used its claws to carve demonic runes off a Knight’s face before smashing it into the ground.

Emily staggered beside me. Her breathing was ragged, her visor cracked and fogged.

I felt the poison in my own system too. Shark Venom. It clung to the bloodstream like fire in the veins—paralyzing, dragging you downward into a half-dead fog. My limbs were heavy. My vision blurred. I could hear my own heart slow.

Haj Tooth took one look at us and reacted without hesitation. From a blackened pouch on her belt, she drew a bone needle. Without asking, she thrust it into my neck.

I snarled. “Stand down! Everyone, relax!”

Emily staggered back as Haj Tooth stung her next. Then…

Air rushed into my lungs like a tidal wave.

A cold rush exploded through my body—clarity, speed, rage. My senses sharpened. My thoughts were clearer than ever. The fatigue vanished in a heartbeat, and the poison that had rooted itself in my blood was burned away like oil on a fire.

Emily stood tall again. Her eyes lit with fury and focus. “What was that?”

Haj Tooth’s gills flared. “Antidote. Shark blood enhancer. Our strength is yours now.”

I grinned beneath my helmet. “Then we finish this together.”

We turned toward the capital gates. Fires burned in the towers. Demons retreated toward the last line of defense. Haj Tooth roared a guttural command, and her Shark warriors surged forward once more, devouring the retreating lines of the enemy like a school of piranhas tearing into a bloated corpse.

With the gates momentarily vulnerable, I raised my Chainsword and pointed forward. “Nicholas, lead the charge. Emily and I are right behind you.”

He nodded and mounted his Dorse. “Let’s end this!”

The battlefield stretched before us like the opening to Hell—scorched, littered with corpses, drenched in plasma smoke and Demon ichor. But our enemies were breaking. Our numbers were surging. And now we had blood, fire, and vengeance on our side.

Meanwhile, inside the obsidian-walled palace, where flames from molten crystal chandeliers licked upward like ancient spirits trapped in glass, King Alle stood at the edge of a tall gothic window. The war raged in the distance like a living tempest. Explosions of plasma and the dull hum of sonic blades cracked against the stone skies. Dark clouds from Wraith portals loomed overhead, swirling like cosmic maws salivating for flesh and glory.

His once-glorious royal garments now clung loosely around his aging frame, sweat dotting his brow like jewels of fear. His gloved hand trembled as he rested it against the glass, eyes darting nervously over the chaos outside.

Behind him, the dark echo of heels tapping against polished volcanic stone crept closer. Maladrie.

She slinked out from the shadows like some alien predator born from black fire. Her form was humanoid in shape but twisted—elegant robes of interwoven Wraith silk clung to her firm limbs, while her face—once alluring and humanoid—was now half-shifted into a horror of segmented jawlines and mandibles glistening with acidic saliva. Her voice dripped with disdain.

"You got somewhere to be?" she asked, one brow raised over her pupil-less, glowing red eyes. Her voice was sweet but sharp—honey over glass shards.

Alle flinched. "I—I have to get back to Edward," he confessed, the name barely making it out past his dry throat. “He… he doesn’t know what’s happening. I told him I would protect him.”

Maladrie’s eyes widened slightly, her head twitching with a spider-like tick. Then, a sound bubbled out of her throat—a disgusted half-laugh, half-growl. “Aw, You love him?” she said, as if the word itself offended her biology.

She stepped forward, grabbing the King by his collar, and slammed him back against a decorative iron beam carved with ancient Vikingnar glyphs—glyphs that cracked as if the very structure of honor and tradition shattered with the impact.

“Thanks to your love,” she hissed, “you got other women to rise against me—alongside the men of this realm! You broke the balance!”

"I didn’t plan this!" King Alle pleaded. “I just wanted to survive. You promised me power, a new kingdom… but this—this is slaughter!”

Maladrie’s jaws twisted in disdain. “You used to be strong, Alle. You used to take what you wanted. Now look at you—knees trembling, voice quivering over some pathetic human emotion…”

She leaned in, her breath smoldering with sulfur and hate. “Love is weakness.”

Without warning, her mandibles extended like scissor blades from her cheeks and sunk into Alle’s neck, piercing flesh and artery. She gripped him like a mother spider feasting on a disobedient mate. Alle’s legs twitched violently, his arms thrashing. His eyes rolled back as blackened veins crawled across his face, darkening under her parasitic drain.

Outside the throne room doors, Teresa—a royal scribe and longtime palace assistant—watched the horror unfold through the half-cracked doorway. Her hands were trembling, mouth agape. For a moment, her body locked in fear. Then rage sparked. Not just for Alle—whom she admired despite his mistakes—but for the kingdom, for the people burning outside, for the memory of peace they once had.

She burst into the room like a ghost of vengeance and scrambled across the floor toward the fireplace. Hanging on the soot-covered rack beside it was a ceremonial fire fork—ornate, three-pronged, and forged of iron so dense it glowed faintly red.

Clutching it like a divine weapon, Teresa lunged forward and plunged it into Maladrie’s chitinous back.

The Demoness howled—her scream tearing through the walls and shaking the throne rooms stained glass windows. Her claws released the King as she turned, flinging Teresa like a ragdoll across the chamber. She hit the wall hard, the sound of bone against stone echoing sickeningly. Blood streaked down her temple.

Maladrie ripped the fork from her back with a metallic shriek, black goo oozing from the wound. Without another word, she stormed out of the throne room, leaving claw marks scorched into the floor. The palace walls wept smoke as if mourning her presence.

Several long minutes passed. A faint crackling sound of fire, distant weapons, and dripping blood filled the silence.

Teresa stirred.

She groaned, her limbs aching, ribs most likely fractured, but her will unbroken. With great effort, she crawled to where King Alle lay slumped against the beam. His once regal eyes now stared upward, lifeless, cloudy with failure and sorrow. His hand still clutched a locket containing a photo of Edward.

Teresa's lip quivered as she pulled his hand over his chest and whispered, “You died a man in the end… not a king… but a man.”

She bowed her head in silence, even as the world outside burned.

Meanwhile, Nicholas led our blended force—Viking warriors, Shar warriors, Valrra, Emily, and I—through the hidden access beneath the capital. The tunnel was slick with ancient mold and lined with rumbling conduits pulsing with energy residuals from Imperial machinery. At its end lay a narrow hatch, cleverly concealed within rubble. With a swift shove from Nicholas, it snapped open, revealing the backside of the city wall. We emerged into the stench of smoke and ozone, stepping onto shattered cobblestone.

Haj Tooth’s Shark warriors and Valrra peeled off to flank a nearby guardhouse, while Emily and I took point with a handful of knights led by Alex and Joe. Nicholas slipped behind us to secure the breached hatch.

The city streets lay in chaos—burned-out vehicles fused with gothic steel, flickering algae lamps casting eerie green halos. The air was thick with ash and the distant sound of crackling Wraith energy.

Our advance was abruptly halted by a wedge of demonic foes—a small legion towering before us. Leading them were Kotus Pleasant, his face a contorted mask of horns, and Casey Zander, twisted into a corrupted shell of his former self. When he stepped forward, I snarled, full of contempt.

“You surrendered to perversion, and did nothing about it!” I spat as my blade glowed.

Casey's lips curled in a cruel smile, his voice twisted with obsession. “And you still trust your piece of metal for leadership?” His raised shimmering claws to strike.

I signaled Nicholas and his Knights to move. Before the gates could open fully, we leapt into battle. Steel clanged against corrupted armor, energy crackled, and Shark warriors lunged, tearing through demon flesh with predatory glee.

I engaged Kotus directly. He swung a massive spiked club, but I danced in close using the chainsword’s plasma edge to slash across his midsection, then drove a groin strike home. He howled—blood sprayed like rain. With a final roar, I crushed him down into the ruined pavement. “Quiet parasite,” I muttered, my breath ragged.

Meanwhile, Emily fought with feral precision. Succubi lunged at her with flaming swords coated in venom. She deflected blows, dismembered demons with her long sword, and spun with grace and deadly intent. Every strike she landed seemed charged with righteous fury.

Haj Tooth and her Shark Hive showed no restraint—teeth flashing, fins glistening with extracted demon venom. They tore into demonic ranks, chewing through corrupted limbs, dragging wings out of their torsos. Their powerful psychic presence rippled through the air, disrupting the wraith energy that gave the demons power.

From the palace steps, Maladrie appeared—sleek and deadly, her mandibles drawn like curtains splitting. Splintered crystalline crowns glowed beneath her crown, casting orange glimmers across cracked marble. She held her gaze on Emily and me with both disdain and curious pride.

Our momentum surged when we heard the metallic clank of gates swinging inward. Nicholas achieved his goal—ideal timing. We piled forward into the city proper, striking down demons by the score.

Nicholas and his Knights finally burst the gates open with a thunderous metallic groan, steam jets hissing as ancient hinges gave way to our fury. The moment the gates slammed against the inner walls of the capital, the final charge began.

We surged through like a vengeful tide.

The cobblestone avenues of the capital shook as our Viking warriors howled war cries, raising their shungite-forged axes high. The Knights, their metallic swords fluttering behind them, launched into disciplined formations—flanking the demon spawn that writhed and screeched like insects. Behind them came the Noble Droids—silver-bodied, rectangular-shouldered war constructs—some galloping on four mechanical limbs, others hovering with plasma vents roaring beneath them. And finally, the Shark People. Sleek, bioluminescent predators with bone armor etched into their flesh, charging forward on all fours. Their jaws snapped through demonic necks as easily as paper.

The streets became rivers of flame, glass, and blood.

I had no time to celebrate the breach. I moved forward with a cold purpose, but the moment I turned the next corner of the palace courtyard—he was there.

Casey Zander.

Clad in black, sleeveless armor streaked with gold circuitry, his aura was twisted, sickly—a fusion of arrogance and corruption. His once blue eyes were now silver and glazed, as if someone had erased his soul and replaced it with a machine’s ambition.

We locked eyes, and fate shoved us into one another like chess pieces thrown from the board.

CLANG!

I slammed the guard of my sword straight into his face. His head snapped back. Blood spurted from his nostrils—but he didn’t fall. He countered fast, catching my wrist, shoving me back with a brutal knee to the chest. I felt something in my ribs shift, but I didn’t let pain slow me.

"Still playing hero, William?" he sneered, wiping blood from his mouth. "Still believing in love? You’re such a loser."

That word—loser—cut through me like a psychic knife. Not because I believed it, but because it reminded me of the same poison people threw at me growing up. The word echoed with every laugh, every eye-roll, every betrayal I had ever endured. But I wasn’t that weak anymore.

I slashed diagonally across his face with my Chainsword, carving a glowing red line from jaw to brow. His scream was primal.

“Cowards mock what they’ll never understand,” I said, my voice colder than the steel between us.

He came at me like a noob—sword flashing with demonic flame—but I met every swing. Our blades clashed in a flurry of sparks and fury, neither of us backing down. The clangs echoed off palace walls, sounding more like artillery fire than a duel. We were too evenly matched… until the moment our swords locked—twisted—and disarmed each other simultaneously.

Blades flew to the ground.

The crowd around us blurred—Demons fighting Nobles, Vikings tearing horns off Succubi, Knights exploding Incubi with plasma spears. But we no longer cared. We fell into fists and elbows.

I was faster.

I drove my shin into his thigh with a low, thudding kick. His leg buckled, but he steadied himself. I answered with a flurry—left hook to the jaw, knee to the solar plexus, a spinning elbow to his temple. He stumbled, gasping. I could hear something in his breathing crackle.

“You’ve got nothing left, Casey,” I said, grabbing him by the collar.

He spat blood and laughed. “Joseph begged me not to do it… He was crying like a girly bitch.”

I froze for a split second, just enough for the weight of those words to hit. Joseph. Emily’s cousin. My friend. A man I had sworn to protect like a brother. Gone—murdered by the shell of a human standing in front of me.

I saw red.

“You murdered blood,” I whispered, trembling with rage. “Family. Mine and Emily’s.”

I drove my gauntlet blade into his clavicle. He screamed and dropped to his knees, eyes wide with the realization that this was the end. But he didn’t beg. Instead, he glared up at me through the blood streaming from his broken face.

With a gauntlet blade I thrust it into his groin, slicing through flesh, tendons, and nerves. I twisted—ripped upwards—and stepped back as he collapsed into a pool of his own horror.

Casey Zander was dead, castrated.

I turned and didn’t look back.

The air stank of ash and charred flesh, the cries of the wounded mingling with the battle roars of the victorious. Demon corpses smoldered where they lay, and wisps of black energy—Wraith residue—hissed into the scorched earth. My breath was ragged, chest heaving, but I stood firm amidst the carnage. The skies above the capital swirled with unstable cloud matter from the Wraith breach, casting shadows across the ruined marble and plasma-scarred walls of the once-great city.

From my vantage, I spotted Nicholas further down the avenue near the burning remains of a statue that once depicted ancient peacekeepers. He was locked in combat with a towering Minotaur, this one leaner than the last but no less grotesque. Its skin glistened with obsidian oil, and jagged bone pierced through its shoulders like rusted blades. The creature’s axe spun in wide, whistling arcs. Nicholas ducked one blow, countered with a shield bash, then reeled back as the Minotaur caught his side with a sharp elbow.

For a brief moment, Nicholas staggered. Blood poured from his shoulder. The Minotaur bellowed in triumph.

Then she appeared—Valrra.

An elite Valkyrie of the Vikingnar, Valrra moved like lightning. Her armor was a blend of synthetic sapphire scales and ancient Norse craftsmanship—engraved shoulder plates with kinetic gyros, her curved sword glowing with plasma runes. Without hesitation, she leapt from a nearby column, slashing the Minotaur across the back. Sparks and gore erupted in a single stroke.

Nicholas glanced at her. Surprise flickered behind his visor.

“No time to be proud,” Valrra snapped, her accent thick and uncompromising.

They moved as one. Nicholas slammed his blade across the Minotaur’s thigh; Valrra rolled underneath the beast, cutting into its hamstring. Roaring, the Minotaur staggered, its legs buckling. Nicholas drove his blade into the creature’s heart while Valrra severed the spine with her axe from behind. The beast collapsed, twitching.

And that’s when I saw them—two more Minotaurs, emerging from the alley beyond the wall breach. Taller. Broader. The air warped around them. Their horns twisted like infernal iron, and their muscles pulsed with an unnatural orange glow.

I didn’t hesitate.

I charged before they could reach them.

The first one swung a massive metal club carved from scavenged wreckage. I ducked beneath the swing, my Chainsword humming as I brought it up across the Minotaur’s gut, slicing through fur, flesh, and bone. It roared, but not in pain—in delight. The second one clipped me with its axe, tearing into my side. Metal peeled away from my armor like paper. I stumbled but recovered quickly, slamming my boot into the first Minotaur’s kneecap. It buckled.

I used that moment to drive my blade into its eye socket. It convulsed and dropped like a felled mech.

But the second Minotaur was already upon me.

Its axe slammed into my back, cleaving through two layers of armor. Pain exploded through my body. I fell hard, dirt and blood in my mouth. The demon raised its axe again—ready to cleave me in half.

I bit it.

With a savage snarl, I lunged up and sank my teeth into its throat. The Minotaur shrieked, black ichor spilling from its severed windpipe as I ripped it free. It dropped the axe and stumbled back, clutching its neck before toppling over.

I stood there, drenched in blood—both mine and theirs. I glanced down. My abdomen was split open, organs exposed. And yet, even as I looked, the Immortal inside me surged. My skin rippled. I grabbed my intestines and shoved them back in. A crystal-like membrane began stitching the gash closed before my eyes.

I didn’t know what terrified me more—the Demons, or the fact that I could live through this.

“William!” Emily’s voice called out from nearby, breathless and sharp.

I looked up—and locked eyes with her.

Maladrie.

There she stood, atop the palace steps, her once-human features twisted with pride and malice. Crystalline horns curled from her temples. Her dress, stitched from shredded banners of fallen kingdoms, shimmered with cursed energy.

“No more pretending,” I said aloud. There’s no sexual tension this time, just tension as Maladrie tilted her head. “All of this could’ve been avoided… if your father had been there for you.”

She didn’t flinch. “Is this the part where you beg for mercy?”

I smirked. “Don't you think it's too late for that?”

That’s when Zach appeared—my former best friend, now a demonic wraith hybrid, corrupted by the Wraith Queen herself. His body had changed. Crystalline plates covered his forearms. His eyes were soulless voids.

He stepped beside Maladrie.

But I wasn’t alone.

Emily stepped up beside me, her crystalline gauntlet forming across her left arm, the residual effects of her own Immortal awakening. She looked at me once, gave a nod.

I knew what it meant.

I’d take Zach. She’d take Maladrie.

I lunged at Zach. He met me with ferocity. We collided midair, fists and blades clashing. His speed matched mine, but his instincts were dulled—he was relying on raw power and rage. I was fueled by clarity, by betrayal, and by grief. My sword grazed his ribs. His clawed hand scraped my shoulder. Blood sprayed.

We fought across the courtyard, our duel turning into a blur of motion and pain. Zach kicked me in the chest, I tumbled, but rolled to my feet. My fist connected with his jaw. His knee hit my stomach. We grappled. We fell. We rose again. Locked in a vicious stalemate.

Meanwhile, Emily’s duel with Maladrie was no less brutal.

Their swords clashed like thunder. Each blow sent out shockwaves. Maladrie shrieked with every parry. Emily’s blade nicked her face—leaving a gash across her left cheek.

Maladrie roared, summoning a surge of dark energy into her sword and slashed into Emily’s left arm—nearly severing it. Bone showed through. Blood poured.

Emily dropped to one knee, gasping. Her face paled.

Then it happened.

The Immortal inside her—woke up.

Crystalline structures formed over the gaping wound like frost on a winter morning. Not only did her arm reattach, it strengthened. Silver and violet light pulsed from her palm. She raised her hand—and the earth answered.

BOOM.

Massive, jagged crystals erupted from the ground beneath Maladrie and Zach. Spires the size of trucks nearly impaled them.

Maladrie faltered. Her eyes widened. She looked around, realizing her Demons were either dead or retreating. The tide had turned.

She shouted, “Fall back! Into the Wraith!”

Her army obeyed. What remained of it.

Zach turned to follow. I hurled my Chainsword—whirling it like a buzzsaw. It struck something.

That brief second.

That look.

Then he vanished through the Wraith rift.

“Dammit,” I whispered, slumped forward.

Emily stepped beside me, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.

“They’re cowards,” she said quietly. “They’ll run again.”

I nodded, feeling the heat of the battle finally begin to fade. "I'll never have another best friend."

She was puzzled, "Hey, that's not true." Emily just gave me a hug, I knew what she meant.

Together, we looked out across the battlefield—toward the rising sun that barely broke through the lingering Wraith clouds.

"Time to build our Empire," I said.

It wasn’t over. This battle was just the turning point.

---

CHAPTER 14: "DEMONIC CHUM" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"