CHAPTER 28: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 1" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 28: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 1" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

The gray world of Bogn stretched endlessly under a dead sky, a place where the horizon seemed carved from ash and sorrow. The air was thick with metallic dust, swirling between fractured towers of once-impressive cities now reduced to jagged skeletons. Every surface was coated in a quiet film of age, decay, and long-abandoned despair—yet all of it was overshadowed by the living presence of the Troll soldiers who belonged to Maladrie.

Sigvard and his two fellow troll warriors marched with heavy reluctance, their hands bound behind their backs with jagged plasma-fused restraints that hissed faintly with heat. They were flanked on all sides by the Trolls loyal to the triarchy of Deathskull, Anubis, and Maladrie, each warrior towering and broad, wearing armor that looked scavenged from ancient battlefields. Their tusks were painted with black war-ink that dripped in streaks down their chins, and the smell of blood mixed with machine oil followed them like a curse.

The procession moved slowly, the crunch of boots against the gravel-like soil echoing in the stagnant air. Bogn’s landscape around them was bleaker than anything Sigvard had ever seen—a mixture of industrial ruin and ancient gothic architecture, where broken spires leaned over the roads like dying beasts.

They walked under archways made of rusted steel and obsidian bones. Gargoyles of unknown species crouched overhead, their eyes long hollowed out but the shadows beneath them still somehow watching. Massive broken chains hung from support columns whose original purpose no one remembered.

Sigvard glanced nervously at the skyline. There was no sun here—only a pallid glow from the clouds above, as if the world’s light came from a dying ember hidden behind a veil of suffering.

The ground trembled every so often, not from tectonics but from distant machinery—massive drills or forges operating somewhere deep below, powered by infernal technology.

As they marched, the loyalist Trolls snarled insults at Sigvard under their breath. They walked with their chests puffed, proud to be part of Maladrie’s war machine. Sigvard felt every glare like a spearhead pressing against the back of his neck.

The path eventually widened into a vast open expanse—a sunken city basin where the buildings were more intact, though equally eerie. The city’s silhouette resembled a petrified cathedral forest: towering monolithic structures with shattered stained-glass windows, choked with vines of black cabling that pulsed faintly with corrupted energy.

At its center loomed a massive arena, an ancient colosseum twisted beyond recognition. The architecture resembled a hybrid of Viking, demonic, and alien motifs—towering arches, iron-ribbed supports, and massive stone pillars that spiraled like serpents. The outer walls were plastered with enormous banners depicting Maladrie’s sigil: a skeletal wolf head bursting through a wreath of fractured runes.

The arena floor was dimly lit by glowing pits of molten slag, their orange light flickering across rusted metal gates and broken seating tiers. The massive doors at the front—twelve-feet tall, engraved with runic symbols fused with demonic glyphs—groaned open as Sigvard and his two companions were shoved forward.

Inside, the once-grand walkways had been hastily repurposed into a crude war-camp. Trolls hammered armor plates, sharpened axes on whetstones, and strapped explosives to makeshift spears. Demonic creatures lurked in the corners, shadows with glowing eyes watching silently.

Sigvard’s escort did not allow him time to observe for long.

They shoved the three trolls through a narrow hallway, lit only by red emergency strips flickering with power instability. The walls were carved with murals of battles long forgotten—dragons attacking demonic forces, ancient civilizations wiped clean, and the rise of Wraith portals in various worlds.

Sigvard swallowed hard. Each mural felt like a warning.

At the end of the hallway lay a massive iron door with bars welded across in chaotic layers. Two elite demon guards—seven-foot tall, armored in blackened carapace plating—pulled aside the locking mechanisms.

The air behind the door vibrated with a low growl.

The throne room was enormous, larger than any he had imagined—lit by green and red torches whose flames flickered unnaturally in a circular wind pattern. The ceiling was high above, lost to darkness, where giant chains dangled like the limbs of dead titans. Jagged metal platforms hung suspended from the ceiling, connected by narrow catwalks where elite demon overseers watched silently.

And at the far end of the throne room, past a gauntlet of cracked pillars and abandoned ceremonial stands, rose the throne.

A monstrous structure carved from obsidian and fused bone. Sharp, jagged, almost alive.

Around it congregated the demon elites—the highest-ranking warriors of Maladrie’s faction. Their armor pulsed with runic lights and their silhouettes flickered unnaturally as though their bodies were partially phasing in and out of the physical realm. Their horns curved backward like blades, and their eyes glowed with infernal intelligence.

The room smelled of sulfur, plasma residue, and something ancient.

Sigvard’s feet stopped moving. Not because he wanted to. But because fear froze him in place.

Behind him, one of the escorting Trolls slammed the back of a spear into his spine, forcing him and his companions to lurch forward.

The demon elites said nothing, but the air felt heavier with their silent scrutiny. A sound like a distant heartbeat reverberated through the chamber.

The escorts shoved all three trolls to their knees.

In the flickering orange light, Sigvard dared to glance upward at the throne—its back carved into the shape of a colossal demonic skull, with runic script etched along its jawline. The skull’s empty eyes appeared to follow him.

All around the throne room, those watching—demons and elite trolls—waited with ritualistic calm, as if the arrival of prisoners was merely the first step in some brutal ceremonial process.

The room grew quiet.

The stale air thickened.

Something powerful was approaching.

And Sigvard realized with sinking dread:

The real interrogation hadn’t even started yet.

The throne room’s shadows deepened as Sigvard and his two companions were forced forward across the cracked stone floor. The demon elites stepped aside with fluid, unnatural grace, forming a corridor that funneled the prisoners toward the center dais where two figures waited beneath a storm of flickering red light.

Atop the platform stood Jestan, the Troll war boss of Bogn, a mountain of muscle and scar tissue wrapped in spiked war-armor forged from iron and volcanic glass. His tusks curled upward like twin war-blades, each etched with runes of past victories. His eyes, yellow and cold, flickered with recognition and disdain as Sigvard was pushed into the torchlight.

Beside him lounged Nitra, his demonette mistress. She stood with the lethal elegance of a serpent, wrapped in black chitinous armor that clung to her like a second skin. Her horns arched backward in a twisting spiral, her eyes glowing a poisonous neon violet. Even standing still, she gave the impression of a creature ready to pounce, kill, or seduce with equal ease.

Her expression soured the moment she saw Sigvard.

Her voice cracked through the chamber like a whip.

"What the hell is this?"

The surrounding Troll guards snapped to attention. Two of them shoved Sigvard forward again, forcing him to kneel at the foot of the dais. One of the guards spoke with sharp obedience, his tone the clipped bark of a soldier terrified of disappointing his masters.

"We found this fresh meat in the fields, and the orbital defense system crashed their ship."

Jestan gave a dark hum of amusement. Nitra did not.

Her glare sharpened like drawn blades as she stepped closer, heels tapping against the metal-slag floor. She lowered her face toward Sigvard, studying him with intense scrutiny—as though she were dissecting him with her eyes alone.

Then, in a cold, testing tone, she asked:

"Who are you?"

The room seemed to inhale.

Sigvard swallowed once, then answered with a stiff, nervous pride:

"I'm Sigvard."

Nitra’s eyes widened. Her posture shifted—slowly, subtly—like a predator realizing the prey before her was not a random animal but a known quarry. Her voice dropped into something more dangerous, tinged with curiosity:

"So you are the great Sigvard?"

Sigvard’s breath hitched. His confusion was immediate and overwhelming. He stared back at her in shock, unable to form a response. He had lived his whole life believing he was just another troll warrior—a bad pilot, a decent fighter, someone who blended into the background of battles and bar fights. But here… These monsters knew his name.

And worse—they said it with weight.

Before he could gather himself, Nitra straightened, her expression shifting back to one of bitter annoyance. Without another word of explanation, she flicked her claws dismissively at the guards.

"Throw them in one of the catacombs prison cells."

Jestan didn’t even bother to look as the guards seized Sigvard and his two companions by their arms, dragging them backward toward the exit corridor.

They were hauled deeper beneath the arena—down rusted stairwells, through metal corridors that groaned under the strain of age, and past rows of ancient machinery still dripping with black condensation. Faint green and red lights pulsed rhythmically along the ceiling pipes, casting eerie illumination across the gothic-industrial maze.

This was no simple prison. This was a fortress beneath a fortress. The air grew colder. The stone gave way to steel grates.

The sounds of distant roars and tortured screaming echoed from deeper tunnels.

Sigvard’s heart pounded. Every instinct screamed that they had entered a place no one returned from.

The guards shoved them forward until they reached a massive iron gate reinforced with dark runes that pulsed slowly like a heartbeat. The locks disengaged with a resonant metallic groan, and the three trolls were thrust into the chamber beyond.

The cell was nothing more than a cave of metal and stone—an industrialized tomb. Rusted pipes coiled along the walls like serpents. Flickering red lights cast shadows that moved with a life of their own. Thick bars sealed the opening, fused directly into the surrounding stonework.

The guards activated the lock. A loud slam echoed through the corridor.

Without another word, they left Sigvard and his companions alone in the oppressive darkness.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sigvard’s chest heaved as he stared at the bars, trying to steady his breath. The cold seeping from the stone below them gnawed at his bones. His companions muttered under their breath, but even they sounded too shaken to speak clearly.

They were trapped. Alone. Far from anyone who cared for them. And yet, the most unsettling realization gnawed at Sigvard’s mind: They knew his name. They called him “great.”

And he had absolutely no idea why.

Left in the dark, the three trolls sat in their cramped cell, each one silently pondering what would happen next— and whether they would live long enough to find out.

The throne room of Bogn churned with a storm of infernal energy. Red vapors coiled through the air like venomous serpents as demonic elites whispered among themselves, their armor clicking and grinding like living machinery. The torches embedded in the walls burned with sickly green fire, illuminating the cracked murals of ancient troll kings who once ruled this wasteland before Maladrie’s corruption seeped into the stone.

Nitra stood at the center of the chamber, her long shadow stretching across the floor in a jagged silhouette. Her violet eyes gleamed with calculating intelligence, and her chitin armor glistened as though slick with the essence of the underworld.

She exhaled sharply, then addressed her warlord and the assembled elites:

"What should we do with Sigvard?"

Jestan, looming beside her on the dais, cracked his thick knuckles and leaned back against his throne of welded scrap metal and bone. His grin widened through yellowed tusks as he gave a dismissive, gravel-deep answer:

"We should kill him, obviously."

The room murmured. A few demons nodded in agreement, but Nitra’s face twisted with irritation. She turned sharply toward him, her tail lashing behind her.

Her voice dripped with venomous condescension.

"Obviously you don't know that he was Anubis's creation, and an elite warrior."

That revelation sent a ripple of unease through the assembled elites. Even the torches flickered, as if reacting to the name Anubis. Jestan, however, rolled his eyes and snorted.

He muttered under his breath with crude sarcasm:

"Spare me bitch."

It was a mistake.

Nitra’s movement came so fast and sharp the air cracked. Her armored heel slammed between Jestan’s legs with enough force to make the entire throne shudder. The war boss doubled over, choking on a silent gasp, eyes bulging as he clutched himself.

Her voice shrieked through the chamber:

"Shut up faggot! I think I should warn Anubis on his prized possession, while you stay here and don't do anything! Understand?"

Jestan’s agony-strangled voice broke out in a defeated grunt:

"Fine!"

The demon elites stiffened. None dared breathe too loudly.

Nitra regained her composure, turned toward the center of the room, and raised her clawed hand. Energy rippled outward like liquid glass, bending the air and cracking reality itself. A shimmering portal spiraled open—swirling with black and purple mist, framed by ancient runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Without hesitation, she stepped through and vanished—on her way to warn either Maladrie or Anubis of Sigvard’s capture.

The portal snapped shut with a thunderclap that rattled the bones of the throne room.

Jestan sank back onto the throne, trembling with humiliation and suppressed rage—yet too terrified to voice a complaint.

The chamber fell into a tense, uneasy silence.

Far beneath the arena, buried under layers of rusted metal and gloom, Sigvard sat in the cramped prison cell with his two troll companions. The underground labyrinth was a nightmare of dripping pipes, broken machinery, and faint distant screams that echoed like ghosts trapped in static. Their cell was barely larger than a storage closet, made of blackened iron reinforced with demonic stone.

A dim red light pulsed overhead, casting rhythmic shadows that crawled across the walls like living things.

Sigvard inhaled the cold, metallic air.

His mind swirled with confusion—Nitra’s recognition, the demon elites whispering his name, the implication that he was important in ways he had never understood.

Finally, he turned toward the two trolls sitting beside him, both bruised from their capture yet alert enough to listen.

"I didn't catch your guys' names?"

The first troll, with moss-green skin and a jagged scar across his cheek, spoke with a gruff voice:

"Fructar," he said.

The second troll, rounder and slightly shorter, answered more quietly:

"Chucktar."

Sigvard nodded slowly, absorbing their names, then leaned forward with urgency, tightening his voice—even though the weight of the cell bars pressed against every hope he had left.

"We need to figure out how to get out of here guys."

The red light flickered overhead.

Somewhere deeper in the prison tunnels, something growled.

Fructar and Chucktar exchanged a silent look—one filled with fear, but also the raw flicker of determination. Whatever their fate was meant to be, whatever Anubis or Maladrie planned for Sigvard…

They would not go down quietly.

And the shadows of the catacombs seemed to shift in agreement, as if something ancient was listening.

Cybrawl stretched across the void like a wounded machine-god—half planet, half biomechanical labyrinth. Vast continents of shifting metal plates meshed with forests of fiber-optic vines and crystalline leaves that shimmered in electric hues. Rivers of liquefied coolant flowed through ravines carved by ancient machinery, steaming like molten silver. Everything moved subtly, breathing, humming—alive in ways neither natural nor artificial could fully replicate.

Deep within the factory sector—where titanic smokestacks belched out red fog and conveyor highways wound like metallic serpents—stood the main pyramid. A monolithic obsidian structure pulsed with crimson energy, its surfaces shifting like liquid steel. Pipes and conduits ran down its flanks like veins, feeding impossible power into the surrounding biomechanical world.

The air trembled with the sound of grinding gears and echoing metallic moans.

Through this mechanical wasteland walked Nitra.

Her boots clicked against the living alloy that rippled beneath her steps. Neon mist clung to her armor. She moved with determination, ignoring the cold mechanical eyes of surveillance drones that drifted above like metallic specters.

She knew she was in the correct sector—this was the nerve center of Cybrawl, the birthplace of Deathskull’s horrors.

Her eyes rose to the apex of the pyramid.

Standing at its summit was Deathskull, looming like a golden skeletal titan. His chassis—impossibly tall, impossibly lean—glowed with cold menace. Golden armor plating framed the exposed robotic tendons beneath. His skull-shaped head turned, red LED eyes focusing on Nitra with predatory precision.

His voice boomed like a corrupted PA system, coarse and metallic:

"Why aren't you at your post?"

Nitra steadied her breath and shouted up the sloped surface:

"Sigvard, Anubis's troll who escaped, started a small rebellion, and is now in Bogn in my prison."

The response was instantaneous.

Deathskull moved with terrifying speed—leaping from the pyramid’s peak and slamming down before her, the impact causing the biomechanical ground to ripple outward. Before Nitra could even brace herself, the metal titan struck her across the face.

The blow sent her crashing to her knees. Sparks flew from the side of her helmet where his clawed hand had made contact. Mechanical tendrils beneath the ground briefly tightened around her boots, as if restraining her on his command.

Deathskull’s voice reverberated through the open air:

"You shouldn't have come uninvited, but I'm sure Anubis would be intrigued. Follow me, succubi."

Nitra rose shakily, swallowing whatever pride she had left, and followed him toward the pyramid’s entrance—a massive gate shaped like a mechanical maw, lined with shifting gears and pulsating red circuitry.

The moment they stepped inside, the temperature shifted—cold, dense air rushed through chambers lined with biomechanical ribs. The walls pulsed with crimson liquid light, as though blood flowed through the architecture. The hum of machinery reverberated through the metal bones of the structure.

An elevator formed itself from the floor, morphing from a flat surface into a glass-walled lift wrapped in living cables.

The elevator ascended rapidly, offering a panoramic view of the pyramid’s interior—labyrinthine networks of pipes, catwalks, and chambers housing weapon forges, cloning vats, and demonic cybernetic augmentations.

Nitra glanced upward at Deathskull—his rigid posture, his unmoving metallic jaw, the glowing furnace-like core visible through the gaps in his frame.

She broke the silence:

"How come everything is the same? You haven't even taken down the Vikingnar banners yet?"

The ancient banners hung like ghosts—faded cloth embroidered with the wolf skull insignia of King Ragnar’s old empire, now surrounded by demonic machinery that had consumed their proud heritage.

Deathskull’s response was icy, robotic, and dismissive:

"We're in a war. No need to be festive when there's tasks to be done."

Nitra muttered softly under her breath, barely audible even to herself:

"Seems sloppy to skip an important step."

Deathskull’s head tilted sharply.

"What?"

Nitra stiffened, tail twitching, and quickly answered:

"nothing."

The elevator continued upward, rising through a spine-like shaft of vibrating machinery until it reached the apex. The doors dissolved into mist.

At the top of the pyramid lay a grand chamber—a throne room carved from midnight metal and surrounded by massive viewing windows that revealed the biomechanical world outside. The air shimmered with a constant haze of crimson energy. Ancient runes spiraled along the walls, each one flickering faintly as if alive.

Seated upon a throne of fused metal and bone was Maladrie, her eyes glowing like two spheres of molten coal. Her hair, long and dark as a black hole, drifted unnaturally behind her as if underwater. Mechanical wings framed her shoulders, twitching subtly.

She glared at Nitra the moment she entered.

Her voice cracked like a whip:

"Why are you here?"

Nitra bowed her head and answered carefully:

"Sigvard crashed and landed on Bogn. His ship was Rus Viking in origin."

Maladrie narrowed her eyes.

"why's that important?"

A shifting shadow moved from behind Maladrie.

Anubis emerged—towering, jackal-headed, plated in obsidian armor fused with living demonic circuitry. His orange eyes glowed with burning hatred and cold brilliance. The energy radiating from him distorted the air like heat waves.

He stepped forward, voice smooth yet venomous:

"It's important because I engineered him to be a super warrior, who turned on me."

Maladrie rested her elbow on her throne, exhaling sharply:

"We're about to run the simulation."

Anubis’s voice deepened with irritation, though controlled:

"I understand that, but we should make sure there's no other survivors... I mean, we have to make sure the other survivors aren't planning a counter attack with some outside help."

Maladrie finally nodded.

The red energy around her throne pulsed.

"We should split our forces then. That means Anubis should take a legion to see what the Immortals are up to. The rest of our forces should stay here to defend what we're building, and Nitra go back to where you came from."

Nitra’s face faltered.

Her usual arrogance evaporated—replaced with something raw, unspoken. A rare moment of vulnerability crept into her expression. Her eyes lowered, shoulders slumped beneath her demonic armor.

For once, she felt the isolation that defined the hellhorde. No loyalty. No camaraderie. No respect—only orders, threats, and violence.

Even monsters could feel the sting of being unwanted. But she bowed without a word. Because in the hell horde, feelings had no place.

Only survival.

The world of Bogn churned beneath a sky the color of ash diluted in stagnant water. The air carried the metallic bite of rusted iron, drifting like a taste of old blood on the wind. Every sound—distant machinery, groaning structures, the shuffle of roaming trolls—echoed through the colossal broken landscape. The surface was gray stone fractured by centuries of warfare and neglect, and every ridge seemed to whisper horrors buried underneath.

Deep within this desolate world, beneath a fortress-arena forged in the likeness of something gothic and monstrous, Sigvard, Fructar, and Chucktar sat inside their crude prison cell—stone walls woven with biomechanical pipes and flaking sigils of demon rule. The floor hummed with the power coursing beneath the arena, as if the planet itself pulsed with an artificial heartbeat.

The three trolls had been whispering strategies, running hands along the seams of the cell walls, trying to pry loose anything that could serve as leverage. But each attempt was pointless. The prison was built by demons—cruel engineers who knew every escape trick a troll could devise.

Then came the metallic clank of boots.

Heavy. Familiar. Troll guards.

They marched with the rigid precision of soldiers loyal not to their species, but to Maladrie, Deathskull, and the old dread of Anubis. Their armor was jagged and crude, decorated with bones and rusted glyphs. The cell door screeched open and echoed down the entire under-arena corridor.

Sigvard tensed.

Fructar inhaled sharply.

Chucktar clenched his jaw.

A guard snarled and jerked his chin.

Sigvard and his companions were yanked out by separate chains. Their wrists were bound with plasma-coated shackles, glowing with dull, sickly orange light. Then came the worst part—being separated.

Two guards dragged Fructar and Chucktar toward the left corridor.

Two different guards grabbed Sigvard, pulling him to the right.

The split created an ache in Sigvard’s stomach—an instinctive recognition that whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t meant to have witnesses.

The corridors twisted like veins under the arena, branching and rising into levels lit by flickering crimson lamps. The air grew hotter as Sigvard was taken upward—toward the fighting pits.

The metal doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the interior of the upper arena armory chamber. Sigvard’s armor—battered, dented, but still recognizable—was thrown at his feet. A crude axe followed, skidding across the metal floor. Its surface was stained with past violence.

The guards shoved Sigvard toward the arena platform.

Above him were stacked rows of stands filled with snarling Troll spectators and Demon elites. Their bodies were draped in armor that resembled forged bones and charcoal-black metal. Their eyes glowed, predatory and hungry for spectacle.

And there—

Across from him, high in the stands—

Sat Fructar and Chucktar, each held still by huge troll guards gripping their arms. Their expressions were filled with equal parts fear and desperate hope.

Before Sigvard could shout to them, the arena floor shook.

A circular platform at the center began to rise, illuminated by burning orange spotlights that cast monstrous shadows against the ruined stone.

The platform reached the arena floor—

And Jestan rose with it.

The Troll War Boss wore layers of mismatched armor, scavenged from countless victories, each piece sharp and rusted. His orange fur bristled, his Proboscis-monkey-like features twisted into a grin filled with jagged teeth. His eyes narrowed with cruel amusement as the chanting crowd fell into hungry silence.

Sigvard lifted his axe.

Jestan stepped forward and sneered.

Then Sigvard shouted:

"What the hell is this?"

Jestan spread his arms wide as if soaking in the attention of the crowd.

"You think you can come into my world and embarrass me? I hear you're a great warrior, time to show the other Trolls what you got!"

The crowd roared. The arena trembled with their stomping feet.

Sigvard took in a steady breath.

He looked nothing like them—his gray fur marked him as an anomaly, and his Mandrill-like face carried the regal streak of a warrior bred for more than combat. He was a creation—something engineered, perfected, and meant to serve Anubis, though he had escaped that fate long ago.

Now he stood face-to-face with Jestan, a self-appointed tyrant who governed Bogn with brutality and fear.

The massive arena doors slammed shut. There was no escape now. This was the trial. This was the only path to freedom. This was War Chief combat. The two trolls charged.

The clash of metal and bone rang like thunder. Sigvard’s axe bit into Jestan’s shield. Jestan’s blade whistled past Sigvard’s ear. Dust and sparks burst into the air with every collision.

The fight stretched out in a dance of raw strength, sharpened instinct, and survival desperation. Sigvard bled from his shoulder. Jestan suffered a deep gash across his thigh. Trolls screamed. Demons leaned forward, fascinated.

Then— Sigvard saw a gap.

Jestan swung too wide, too arrogantly. His guard opened for half a second.

Sigvard seized the moment with all the force of his engineered lineage.

He brought his axe down in a sweeping arc—

And Jestan’s head separated from his shoulders.

A fountain of thick orange blood erupted across the arena sand.

The War Boss’s head rolled.

Silence fell.

Sigvard lifted Jestan’s severed head high, roaring like a primal beast. The audience recoiled, shocked. Some trolls even bowed.

Just then—

A tear in reality ripped open near the arena entrance.

From it stepped Nitra.

Her presence froze every demon and troll in place. Her succubus form—slender, lethal, clad in dark armor—dripped with a cold fury. Her wings flickered with demonic static. Every guard who once served her before she left Cybrawl now stared in stunned confusion.

She swept her gaze across the arena.

Then her voice cut through the silence:

"What the hell is going on?"

Sigvard lowered the severed head and answered with the confidence of a warrior born again:

"I'm the new War Chief."

The arena erupted into whispers and fearful chatter.

Nitra tilted her head, appraising him with sharp curiosity. Then she offered a thin smile.

"Then maybe I should join you & your fellow Trolls on a revolt?"

Sigvard nodded once—firm, deliberate.

Nitra turned to her loyal Troll guards—those who followed her even after her humiliation in Cybrawl—and made a simple hand gesture.

Instantly, every troll guard under her servitude pivoted toward the Demon elites.

And slaughtered them.

The demons didn’t even have time to raise their weapons. Their bodies were ripped apart, hurled into the sand, torn open by troll claws, axes, and pure vengeance.

Above, the guards holding Fructar and Chucktar let go.

The two trolls rushed down from the stands, sliding down broken seating, leaping over crushed barriers to reach Sigvard.

Before Sigvard could speak—

Nitra stepped into him, unexpectedly pulling him into a tight embrace.

Her armor pressed cold against his chest. Her claws grazed lightly across his back. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with relief:

"Thank you for freeing me."

Her breath lingered against his shoulder as the arena around them burned with revolt, death, and a new beginning—

A beginning forged under Sigvard’s new revolt. A beginning that would shatter the hell horde. A beginning that would echo across the galaxy.