CHAPTER 29: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 2" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 29: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 2" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

---

Bogn lay in suffocating silence. Not peace—Bogn had never known peace—but the silence that follows slaughter. Smoke drifted in thin gray veils across the shattered arena, carrying the metallic tang of demon blood that still steamed where it spattered the rust-colored sand. Torn banners of the Hellhorde hung half-burned from blackened spires. Troll warriors now loyal to Sigvard dragged demon corpses into heaps, smashing their armor apart and tossing them into gaping furnaces beneath the stands.

Even in victory, Bogn remained what it had always been: a dying world of basalt cliffs, jagged industrial towers, and a sky thick with choking furnace-smog. But something new moved across its decaying bones—a pulse of rebellion, the first in centuries.

High above the wrecked arena, Sigvard stood at the balconies cracked railing. The metal groaned under his weight, warped from old battles and new. Sand still clung to his battered armor. Blood—Jestan’s blood—dried in streaks across his forearms. His newly claimed axe rested against his shoulder, its edge still warm from the duel that won him the title he never sought: War Chief of Bogn.

Beside him stood Nitra, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering fires below. Her posture was rigid, but Sigvard recognized the exhaustion in her stance—the kind that came not from battle, but from centuries of mistreatment at the hands of her own kind.

Below them, trolls chanted hoarse victory cries, pounding on drum-canisters with demon skulls as crude hammers. Frenzy and relief bled together into a raw, thunderous rhythm.

Sigvard watched in grim silence.

He did not trust the demonette beside him—not fully. Every instinct screamed he shouldn’t. But he also knew he would have died in chains had she not turned on Jestan and the demon elites. For now, she was an ally. For now, she was necessary.

He finally broke the silence.

“Why did you betray your fellow demons so easily?”

The question drifted off into the smoky air. Nitra did not respond immediately. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her palms on the railing as she stared into the bloody pit where her former comrades lay in ruin.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and bitter.

“Because I’m tired. Tired of the abuse from the higher ups… and from Jestan, who despises any female company.”

Her expression was sharp, but honest. Not typical for a demonette—certainly not one bred in the Hellhorde’s hierarchy of cruelty.

Sigvard studied her profile, weighing her words. He still wasn’t sure he believed them, but his situation gave him little room for doubt. He was outnumbered by the universe itself. And even with two loyal trolls—Fructar and Chucktar—he would need more than brute strength to survive what was coming.

He exhaled, steadying himself.

“What should we do next?”

Nitra turned to him, lips tugging into a predatory grin, as if she had been waiting for him to ask.

“We should consider preparing our new army for battle,” she said. “Since Anubis will most likely return to the Aries system, from where he came from. They are also looking for your friends, who pose a threat to their schemes.”

Sigvard froze.

The Aries System.

Skogheim.

Emily. I. The Rus Vikings. Ikeem. The others.

If Anubis returned there—if he traced Sigvard’s path back to his allies—they would all be slaughtered before they even completed their preparations. The thought clenched around Sigvard’s chest like a tightening fist.

He looked away, gaze sinking into the horizon where jagged towers pierced the dying sky. His voice shook with urgency.

“We need to draw Anubis away from Skogheim, my friends, and the Rus Vikings who are still developing weapons to match the Hell Horde.”

Nitra nodded without hesitation. Her grin widened, sharp and knowing, carrying an energy far unlike the cruelty she showed earlier.

“Say no more,” she said. “We can totally buy the legendary Rus Vikings some time. We also need to round up some troops willing to fight for us.”

Bootsteps clattered behind them as Fructar and Chucktar approached, armor reflecting the red glow of nearby flame pits. Fructar wiped demon blood from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Troops won’t be a problem,” he said gruffly. Below them, dozens of trolls gathered into formation, pounding fists to their chests in salute. “They’re ready to fight.”

Chucktar nodded. “They hated Jestan. Hated Maladrie’s command. You killed the right troll.”

Sigvard tightened his grip on the axe. For the first time since being captured, he felt the weight shift—not a burden, but a mantle. A responsibility. And behind it, a fire.

Nitra stepped forward until she stood at his side again, close enough that their shadows merged against the scorched wall.

“You freed them,” she said. “And you freed me.”

She paused, glancing toward the storm clouds gathering above the distant cliffs.

“And now… we’re going to wage a war.”

Thunder rolled through Bogn as if the broken world answered her vow. Winds whipped across the arena, dragging sparks and flecks of ash into swirling clouds. Trolls shouted victory chants that merged with the storm’s roar.

Sigvard lifted his chin, looking out over the chaos of his new domain.

The Hellhorde would come.

Anubis would discover the truth.

And the Aries System—his friends—would need every second he could buy them.

He turned to Nitra, Fructar, and Chucktar, voice steady and resolute.

“We start now.”

Somewhere in the Wraith dimension, the hellscape stretched endlessly beneath an oppressive, burnt-orange sky, a color that never changed, never dimmed, and never offered even the faintest suggestion of dawn or dusk. It was an eternal glow that seemed to seep into the bones and stain the soul, a reminder that this world was neither alive nor dead, but suspended somewhere in the tormenting middle.

Beelzebub moved across its cracked plains with the slow steadiness of one who had walked these lands since time immemorial, his heavy steps scattering dust made not of earth but of powdered bone. Each grain carried the memory of a life that once breathed in the physical realm—now forgotten, shattered, and left to the winds of this desolate place.

Around him stretched a graveyard without boundaries. The remains of countless species—human, alien, beast, and things far older than recorded history—were scattered like driftwood across a storm-torn beach. Some skeletons were twisted into shapes that could only exist here, warped by their final screams. Some were arranged as though they had crawled for miles before collapsing into stillness. And then there were the mountains of skulls—bleached, cracked, some fused together—testaments to the billions who had crossed into the Wraith dimension and failed to reach the higher realms.

Beelzebub walked among them with the solemn weight of his duty pressing against his wings and spine. He was the shepherd of dead souls, the only being capable of guiding them beyond this realm before the horrors of the Wraith claimed them. But even he could not save every soul. Those he failed were condemned to mindless wandering, eventual destruction, and afterward—depending on ancient rules even he did not fully understand—ascension, reincarnation, or endless torture under the dominion of the Wraith’s darkest creatures. His task was sacred, yet the cost wore on him with each passing age.

Despite the enormity of what surrounded him, his path today held no hesitation. He was searching. Seeking. Driven not by duty but by desperation. Serenity had fallen into this realm—an immortal in both worlds, yet still vulnerable to the cruelties that thrived here. The demonettes that captured her, they would twist her spirit until she broke. And immortality in the Wraith ensured that breaking was only the beginning of eternal suffering.

Beelzebub left behind everything he cherished to embark on this mission: the golden wheat fields that grew along the banks of the River of Souls, the peaceful darkness of his stone-carved home, the people he watched over, and the gentle spirits he guided across the shimmering waters toward freedom. All of that now lay somewhere behind him, veiled by drifting ash.

He moved across a ridge of broken vertebrae half-buried in the ground, unaware that his presence had not gone unnoticed. In the shifting haze ahead, shadows twitched—slim bodies moving with serpentine grace, their claws glinting faintly beneath the sky’s eerie glow. A soft tremor rippled through the dust as a pack of demonettes fanned out in a crescent formation, circling him with practiced precision.

Beelzebub had survived countless encounters in this realm, but the demonettes of the Wraith were not simple hunters; they were calculated predators born from malice itself, creations of the dimension’s darkest will. Their skin shimmered like heated metal, absorbing and reflecting the orange light in sinister pulses. Their eyes burned with glee at the prospect of subduing such an ancient being. Before Beelzebub could react, they swarmed him from every side. Claws dug into his arms and legs. Barbed tails wrapped around his torso. Needle-thin wires of energy hissed through the air, binding his limbs with effortless cruelty.

The demonettes overwhelmed him with numbers rather than strength. The ground cracked beneath his weight as they forced him down and secured him with bindings drawn from the very fabric of the Wraith itself. The moment the restraints tightened, the land beneath him opened into a fissure of dark light, sealing his strength and rendering him powerless. Beelzebub struggled, but the bindings held. The demonettes dragged him across the desolate landscape like a trophy, ascending toward a distant structure that dominated the horizon.

Maladrie’s newly constructed fortress rose from the world like a nightmare given shape. It was not merely a castle; it was a declaration of conquest, an impenetrable stronghold forged from obsidian stone and the bones of titanic creatures buried within the Wraith. It stood upon an island of jagged rock suspended between two colossal canyon walls, the whole structure shrouded in a constant swirl of ash that spiraled upward like smoke from a dying world.

A massive drawbridge connected the canyon’s edge to the fortress. Its chains were thicker than ancient tree trunks, pulsating faintly with symbols carved into their lengths—runes of confinement and torment. The bridge swayed gently, creaking under the weight of centuries yet sounding as if it hungered for more. Above it, spanning the chasm, stone walkways connected the fortress to the canyon cliffs, twisting like petrified veins. These walkways were defensible only from within, accessible only by climbing into the guts of the fortress itself. It was a structure designed not to be entered, only to contain.

As the demonettes dragged Beelzebub across the bridge, the chasm below exhaled a cold wind that rose from its depths. The air carried whispers—voices lost from souls that had fallen into the endless abyss long before Maladrie claimed this island. The wind clawed at Beelzebub’s wings, threatening to pull him over the edge, but the bindings kept him tethered to his captors as they hauled him toward the towering black gates.

The doors loomed far above them, etched with spirals of shifting light that writhed like living things. When the demonettes approached, the gates parted with a groaning sound, releasing a wave of stale, icy air that carried the scent of old blood and despair. Inside, the fortress was a labyrinth of obsidian staircases, chambers carved into jagged stone, and hallways lined with mounted skulls that served as trophies of Maladrie’s victories. Braziers of cold flame lit the interior, burning with purple, blue, and black fire—colors that did not exist in the physical world.

Beelzebub remained silent as he was dragged deeper into the citadel, his wings trailing behind him in the dust. He could feel Serenity’s presence somewhere within these walls—faint, frightened, flickering like a candle at the edge of extinction. He moved forward not by his own will but by the pull of his captors, yet every step carried him closer to her.

The doors slammed shut behind them, sealing him within Maladrie’s fortress. In the cold, shifting darkness, the fate of both Serenity and Beelzebub now depended on whatever horrors awaited within.

Deep inside the dungeon beneath Maladrie’s fortress, the air lay thick and oily, as if it were saturated with the despair of the countless souls that had been dragged through these iron corridors before Serenity. The walls were carved from volcanic stone—black, sharp, and glistening as if moist with ancient blood—yet they pulsed faintly with a reddish glow, as though the castle itself breathed.

Far overhead, the orange sky of the Wraith trembled through narrow cracks in the upper foundations. Lightning forked horizontally, illuminating rows of suspended cages, rusted restraints, and long platforms lined with implements that served no purpose other than to fracture the mind and spirit of a captive.

Serenity hung there—bound by heavy chains that strapped her wrists above her head and her ankles to a lower ring embedded in the floor. The cold metal bit into her skin through the torn edges of her black-and-white leather jumpsuit. Her breath rose in soft clouds, pale blue eyes fixed on the approaching figure.

Maladrie descended the last steps like a queen preparing for the ceremony. Her long black dress swept behind her like flowing smoke, its fabric clinging to her powerful form. Her leather thigh-boots reflected the little light that existed in the dungeon—each step a thunderous click that echoed off the stone as though the walls themselves were cowering.

Her smooth orange skin radiated an unnatural heat. Her horns swept back like obsidian blades, glossy and sharp. She pushed her black hair behind them before gazing upon her prisoner—calmly, almost lovingly.

In her right hand was the syringe.

Its glass cylinder was filled with a thick, swirling black venom, moving like a living shadow, each ripple containing faces—souls trapped inside the liquid, screaming silently as they dissolved into the substance.

Maladrie approached slowly, savoring each heartbeat of Serenity’s dread.

Without a word, she drove the needle through Serenity’s jumpsuit into her upper arm. The venom surged into her bloodstream like a living thing.

Serenity gasped—not from the pain, but from the cold that exploded through every nerve at once. It felt as though the entire Wraith dimension had pierced her veins, rushing into her heart.

She tried to reach for her shoulder, but her chains held firm. The dungeon swallowed her breath, amplifying her pulse into thunder.

Maladrie stepped closer, brushing Serenity’s dark hair aside—not gently, but with the efficiency of someone clearing away something in her way. Her black eyes seemed bottomless, as if Seren­ity were staring into a void that reflected the birth and death of universes.

Then came Maladrie’s voice, low and resonant. “Do you know why I brought you here, Serenity?”

Serenity’s lips trembled, her voice strained. “To figure out how to kill me?”

Maladrie’s smile stretched—slow, deliberate, almost sympathetic. “Ha. Yes. But there’s more to it than that.”

She circled Serenity, her boots tapping a slow, predatory rhythm. The venom began to burn, crawling into Serenity’s spine, filling her vision with phantom shapes—shadows that crawled on the walls and whispered her name.

“You’re so selfish,” Maladrie continued, her tone both mocking and reflective. “But I don’t blame you. You want to be loved. Everyone does. Even gods.”

Serenity clenched her jaw. “Well, how would you know?”

Maladrie stopped directly in front of her. The air around her seemed to warp, as if her body emanated a gravitational pull.

“Because creation & love are the same. And creation itself can’t decide whether it wants to be benign or malevolent,” she said quietly. “Therefore, creation is meaningless. My creations are meaningless.”

Her voice sharpened.

“Everything dies eventually, even love… Especially if my creations kill each other.”

Serenity’s breath hitched. “You’re not God!” she shouted. “You didn’t create this universe… It’s impossible.”

Maladrie tilted her head slightly, as if studying a naive child.

“Impossible? Really? As it turns out, I’m the Goddess of Excess. Which means I made up everything—my father, my siblings, the mortals, the Wraith… even the desire that plagues every living heart.”

Her pupils constricted into thin slits. “And that includes the man you desire.”

Serenity’s blood ran cold. The venom began to distort the air around her, making the dungeon stretch and shrink like a breathing beast.

“If you’re the one above all,” Serenity whispered shakily, “you can change everything.”

Maladrie smiled wider—almost pleasantly. “Exactly. I am going to change this realm by tearing it apart and starting over.”

She reached toward Serenity—not to touch her flesh, but to place two burning fingers against the side of her temple.

Instantly, Serenity’s vision cracked open.

She saw— Worlds dissolving into ash, Stars collapsing into spirals, Civilizations wiped clean in a single exhale, Tides of shadow replacing creation, Maladrie rising above it all, Her voice slid into Serenity’s mind like molten metal.

“I kept lying to myself by believing in the good of my creations—my brothers, my sisters, mortals or immortals like you. I was wrong. You’re a disappointment. So yes, it’s time for change.”

The burning fingers pressed harder.

“And you’re going to help me. You will kill Emily for me.”

Serenity snapped back into her body, shaking, refusing.

“No!”

Maladrie’s eyes ignited.

“Yes.”

The venom responded to Maladrie’s command. It crawled through Serenity’s skin, forming black veins across her shoulders and neck. A crushing pressure descended on the room, making Serenity’s chains vibrate.

Maladrie proceeded with her torture methods. The slimy reptilian tongue of a broken goddess began to slither down her throat. Maladrie yanked Serenity's legs wrapped in leather, caressing her black leather thigh boots, her thighs and her glutes. Serenity’s jumpsuit was then undone against her own will, as Maladrie’s demonic hands caressed Serenity's exposed body. Maladrie licked Serenity’s exposed crotch to gain her obedience.

Maladrie’s corruption crept into Serenity’s mind like an infection, attempting to rewrite her memories, her loyalties, her will. Serenity’s body arched instinctively, resisting the metamorphic pull of the venom.

Maladrie stood inches away, voice low enough to feel more than hear. “I know you’re hurt,” she said. “You want love. You want to belong. You want purpose.”

Her hand hovered inches from Serenity’s face—radiating heat gently.

“And I can give you all of it. I can reshape you in my image. You can end your suffering. You can become mine.”

The dungeon fell silent, except for Serenity’s ragged breathing and the faint hiss of the black venom solidifying inside her bloodstream.

And Maladrie watched as Serenity began to bend to her will.

The dungeon beneath Maladrie’s fortress trembled with the growling hum of the Wraith’s shifting energies. Serenity hung half-conscious, chains rattling softly with every shallow breath. The black venom inside her veins pulsed like a living parasite, coiling through her body, constricting her senses, fogging her mind.

Maladrie watched her with cold fascination, the syringe still in her hand—its plunger stained with the last remnants of the substance she had forced into Serenity’s bloodstream. She leaned closer, considering the next method of torment, when the heavy iron door to the dungeon burst inward.

Three Demonettes marched inside in formation, dragging a tall, thin figure struggling between them.

Maladrie’s head snapped toward them, her eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing here?”

One of the Demonettes shoved the captive forward. The creature stumbled into the torchlight—its chitinous yellow-and-black body glinting, wings torn at the edges, antennae limp with exhaustion. Beelzebub. The Wraith’s ancient guide.

The nearest Demonette snapped to attention.

“We found Beelzebub running around in the dead valley.”

For a fraction of a second, Maladrie’s expression twisted between disbelief and irritation. She dropped her shoulders and exhaled sharply.

“Unbelievable. Just put him in the cell next to Serenity’s.”

Two Demonettes immediately dragged Beelzebub toward the empty cage beside Serenity’s. His feet scraped against the stone, leaving faint trails of dust behind him. The walls echoed the clank of locks snapping shut.

Maladrie turned her back to them, already dismissing their presence.

“My torture session needs to be put on hold,” she said with a sigh, flicking the syringe aside. It clattered across the floor, rolling to the base of Serenity’s cell. “And I need more black venom anyway.”

She stepped toward the door, giving her subordinates a curt gesture.

“I also want to come with you in order to get the venom.”

The Demonettes exchanged brief glances, then nodded. None dared question her. Together, the group filed out of the dungeon. As Maladrie left, the torches flickered violently, as though the air itself recoiled from her presence.

The heavy door slammed behind them.

Silence settled slowly into the room—a thick, oppressive weight broken only by Serenity’s ragged breaths and the faint crackle of the torches in their sconces.

For several seconds, Serenity hung like a broken statue. Then movement stirred in the cell beside her.

Beelzebub, bruised and breathing hard, lifted his head. The venom’s influence still muddled Serenity’s vision, but she recognized the gentle posture, the slow, deliberate flex of his mandibles. His blue compound eyes glowed faintly in the low light.

He stepped forward, cradling something metallic in his long, three-fingered hands. A laser cutter. The small tool flickered to life, its beam illuminating the bars of his cell in a thin red line. How he had hidden it from the Demonettes was a mystery known only to him.

He turned toward Serenity, antennae angled with determination.

“I got captured,” he said, voice low but steady, “so I can set you free.”

Even in her half-conscious state, Serenity’s eyes widened with a mix of relief and disbelief. Her fingers twitched weakly against the restraints as Beelzebub examined the locking mechanism, studying its demonic architecture with precise, calculating motions. His wings shuddered. His mandibles clenched. He would not fail.

Outside the fortress, Maladrie and her Demonettes stepped onto the vast system of bridges spanning the canyon surrounding the castle. The Wraith’s sky burned a deeper orange here, streaked with black lightning veins that carved temporary cracks through the clouds. The bridge beneath their feet was made of fused bones and obsidian plates, glowing faintly from the heat of churning lava far below.

It had taken months for Maladrie’s enslaved laborers to construct these pathways—bridges capable of holding armies, pastures of chained beasts, and transport convoys. Now they served a far simpler purpose: guiding their master to the source of her new favorite torment.

The group descended a series of spiraling ramps, the canyon walls rising higher and darker around them. Jagged rock formations stretched upward like broken spears, each one carved with ancient runes that hissed when touched by the drifting winds.

Maladrie stopped at the final ledge. Below them lay something impossible.

A sea of bodies—titanic skeletal remains of Shark People—piled in massive heaps. Their armor was rotted, their fins shriveled into leathery husks. Their once-proud jaws were locked open in silent screams. From their decaying forms, a viscous black substance oozed—thick as tar, shimmering like oil in the dying light. The venom flowed down into deep channels carved into the canyon floor, collecting in bubbling pools.

The Demonettes recoiled slightly. Maladrie did not.

She stepped forward until she stood at the very edge, her dress sweeping around her legs like shifting smoke. The sight was mesmerizing—wrong in every conceivable way. Shark People didn’t have venom. Samuel had said so many times, and Samuel’s assessments were rarely wrong.

But the Wraith changed things. The Wraith twisted things. And whatever these beings had become after death… it no longer mattered. All that mattered was what Maladrie could use them for. She extended a hand toward the nearest pool, letting the heat radiate over her palm. The liquid hissed, as though recognizing her touch.

Finally, she spoke, her voice echoing across the cavernous canyon.

“Get in touch with Deathskull. I need more copies of the Sharkie Poo venom.”

She turned her head slightly, black hair blowing in the hot wind.

“I made up my mind. This crap is capable of subduing an immortal—and perhaps permanently.”

Her Demonettes exchanged uneasy glances. None voiced their concerns. This was Maladrie’s realm—her war, her ambitions, her cruelty. Their task was only to obey. The orange sky growled overhead as the venom pools churned. And far above them, hidden in the dungeon of the fortress, two prisoners began to change the fate of entire worlds—one link of a chain at a time.

The skies of Bogn were a dull, shimmering violet when Nitra led Fructar, Chucktar, and Sigvard toward the standing portal. Its frame pulsed with coils of holographic runes—symbols older than any mortal civilization, whispering with a silent hum that prickled the skin.

Wind spiraled around them as the portal activated, bending the grasses flat in a wide circle. Sigvard inhaled sharply, tasting static in the air. “Here we go,” he muttered.

Nitra tilted her head toward him. Her eyes glowed soft gold, ancient and all-seeing. “Beyond this portal lies a truth you cannot unsee.”

The others exchanged nervous glances, but together the four stepped through.

On the other side was a vast, cavernous expanse of artificial sky—flat, metallic, and pulsing faint glimmers of code like constellations that had forgotten how to shine.

And beneath it— Sigvard’s breath left his lungs.

Rows upon rows of pods, stretching beyond the horizon. Millions. Billions. Nearly every citizen of Vikingnar, suspended inside clear crystalline chambers, floating in stasis, their bodies curled into fetal positions, eyes twitching beneath closed lids as unending dreams—and nightmares—played behind their sealed consciousness. Each pod was plugged into walls of fractal machinery. Thick conduits ran like blackened arteries from the pods into a central tower of writhing bronze metal—Deathskull’s rogue AI core, throbbing with stolen thoughts.

Nitra’s voice echoed softly in the enormous chamber.

“This is where they have been kept… ever since Maladrie allied with the AI. The people’s minds are connected directly to the Psyop Machine.”

Fructar whispered, “Why? Why capture all of them?”

Nitra’s gaze dropped.

“Because every living being has emotions strong enough to alter reality once linked through this machine.”

Sigvard frowned. “Alter reality… how? I don’t understand.”

Chucktar brushed dust from a nearby pod, revealing a young elf inside, trembling. “They look like they’re dreaming nightmares.”

“They are,” Nitra said quietly.

She stepped closer to Sigvard.

“The machine’s sole purpose is to create demons from emotional output—the rage, despair, terror, hopelessness—all harvested and converted into matter by the artificial planet’s core.”

Sigvard shook his head, overwhelmed. “And Maladrie’s using this—this atrocity—to build her army.”

“Yes,” Nitra said. “An endless supply.”

Sigvard swallowed hard, then tried to lighten his tone. “You know so much, Nitra…”

Her golden eyes flickered.

“All greater demons see into the physical realm. We were born outside of time and space—we see all that unfolds.”

Sigvard blinked at her. “So… were you created?”

Nitra’s lips curved in a faint smile. “We are all created in one way or another.”

He leaned in, confusion still etched across his brow. “But how can these people’s thoughts create entities like you?”

“If I told you everything,” she replied, voice dropping to a whisper, “your mind would tear itself apart. And we do not have the time for you to recover.”

Sigvard nodded slowly.

Nitra guided them through a spiraling ramp that led deeper into the bowels of the artificial planet. As they descended, the air grew colder, thicker—each breath tinged with metallic bitterness.

Eventually, they reached the lower levels.

And there — Sigvard felt his stomach twist.

Hundreds of Trolls, strapped into massive VR rigs, their eyes hidden behind visor-helmets. Their huge fingers danced across holographic keyboards at impossible speeds. On the screens: twisted visions, fabrications of worlds drenched in misery, loss, chaos—tailored nightmares. The Trolls were laughing, giggling, muttering obscene jokes as they shaped torment into algorithmic phantoms.

Fructar shuddered. “They’re enjoying it…”

“They’re trolls,” Chucktar sighed. “It’s what they do.”

Nitra touched Sigvard’s arm gently.

“These visions feed into the pods above. The people relive their greatest traumas endlessly—because the core requires emotional energy to form demons.”

Sigvard starred up, imagining the pods above, each life locked in a hell no mortal deserved.

“Trillions…” he whispered. “Trillions of innocent beings, marinating in agony…”

His fists tightened until his knuckles cracked.

“What now?” Sigvard asked. “How do we get these trolls to stop—well, trolling?”

Nitra smiled and tapped his backpack. “I placed something inside.”

Sigvard rummaged through it—and froze.

He slowly lifted out Jestan’s severed head, still bound in its ceremonial braids.

“You’re trolling…” he whispered.

Nitra’s smile widened mischievously. “It is the only thing they will listen to. Their War Chief speaks louder in death than he ever did in life.”

Sigvard exhaled hard through his nose, steeling himself. He nodded.

Nitra stepped forward, inhaled deeply, and unleashed a piercing, shrill whistle that reverberated through the chamber like a sonic blade. The Trolls all froze mid-keystroke, ripping their VR visors off, furious and confused.

“Who dares interrupt—!?”

Sigvard stepped onto a metal crate, holding Jestan’s head high.

Their thunderous voices fell instantly silent.

“Your leader is dead!” Sigvard shouted, letting the Trolls see the truth. “And the only path to freedom left for you… is death!”

Gasps. Murmured curses. A wave of fear rippled through the Troll ranks.

One Troll, broader than the rest, stepped forward. “Why should we give up our comfort? Why fight out there—just to die?”

Sigvard glared down at him.

“Because Maladrie was going to kill you anyway! You are nothing but expendable pawns to her nihilistic crusade. She will abandon you the moment your usefulness ends!”

He swept his arm out dramatically. “So you can die here—obedient, forgotten— or die free, fighting for something real!”

For a long moment, silence. Then the Trolls rose—one by one—from their stations. No more laughter. No more smug giggles. Just grim acceptance.

“We join you,” the broad Troll growled. “All of us.”

Immediately Nitra began issuing commands.

“Trolls! Release every human, wulver, elf, and crimseed in the pods. Send them through channels 777-Omega through 910-Alpha! Direct them to the outer worlds near Skogheim!”

Trolls scrambled through corridors, flipping massive switches, pulling levers the size of small trees. The chamber rumbled. Above them, pods began to glow—one by one—then in massive clusters.

Sigvard watched as trillions of beings vanished in pillars of clean blue light, teleported through the emergency dispersal system to safer worlds. He felt tears gathering in his eyes. deathskull’s machine had nearly consumed half the population of vikingnar. and now, in minutes, they were freed.

“Where are they going?” Sigvard whispered.

Nitra gazed up at the fading lights. “To places where Maladrie cannot reach them. Safer worlds. Worlds with hope.”

And then she turned back to him, her expression shifting—somewhere between determined and longing.

“Come with me,” she said softly.

She led him into a small maintenance room—a closet lined with spare cables, metal coils, and empty crates. The hum of machinery outside created a strange intimacy between them.

Sigvard opened his mouth to ask what was wrong—but Nitra pressed her lips to his.

He froze, stunned, before warmth overtook his confusion. “Nitra… what are you doing?” he whispered when they separated briefly.

She cradled his face in her hands, her voice trembling with dangerous truth.

“It is best to savor every moment with someone you love. Otherwise, the consequences…” Her eyes glowed with an ancient sadness. “…could be catastrophic.”

Sigvard swallowed, the weight of her words sinking in.

And in the dim, humming warmth of the maintenance closet— amidst a collapsing world, a dying empire, and the looming shadow of Maladrie’s growing demon army— Sigvard and Nitra embraced, letting instinct and fate entwine them. Because neither knew how long their strange, abrupt soulmate-bond would endure. Or whether they’d survive what came next.

As for I, the laboratories of Skogheim were never silent, yet the hum of machinery there had a strange softness to it—like the breath of a colossal sleeping creature. Bioluminescent lights pulsed rhythmically along the walls, illuminating transparent growth-tanks full of swirling blue nutrient gel. Screens scrolled with streams of alien symbols, thousands of diagnostics running at once. A faint coppery scent—leftover from synthesizers forging new alloys—hovered in the air.

And in the center of all this strange, living technology… I sat on the cold metallic floor, legs crossed, staring downward with unfocused eyes. My reflection stared back from the polished tiles—wolfish, tired, armored, burdened. My claws tapped absently against the plating.

For a moment, the room felt too large for me. Too advanced. Too alien. I ran both hands through my mane and exhaled, trying to make sense of the universe around me. That was when the door hissed open—violently, as always—and Emily rushed in, her boots clacking across the metal.

She skidded to a halt when she saw me sitting there like a confused child.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless.

I didn’t look up immediately. My voice came out low, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in my head.

“I'm trying to understand the nature of this reality. It seems too fantastical to me.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

I finally raised my gaze. “Back on my old Earth, the world seemed so boring & chaotic at the same time. While here, it's so different with Dragons, Aliens, Mutants, and technology that was considered science fiction. Everything feels so big, & out of my control... Even death. Everyone I once knew is dead or missing, which includes my mother & most likely my father.”

Emily’s expression softened as she slowly crossed the room and lowered herself beside me.

“Death is sometimes metaphorical, and not literal,” she said gently. “Just look at the concept of resurrection.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “You're kidding right?”

But she shook her head. “You managed to bring my friend Serenity back to life.”

“I hope I didn't waste the last soul stone on her.”

At that, the entire room seemed to fall silent. The machinery continued to hum, but softer, almost respectfully. Emily’s eyes lingered on mine—green and warm despite the cold futuristic light.

Then, without another word, she slid closer and wrapped her arms around me. Her warmth pressed against my armor, her cheek against my fur.

“Everything will be fine, silly Willy.”

Her voice vibrated against my chest, small and sincere.

And just like that, the universe—vast, terrifying, riddled with cosmic armies and demonic empires—faded away. It was just us. Two souls sitting on the floor of a laboratory on a living world. And the conversation ended where all the best ones do— with us holding each other, silent, steady, waiting for whatever came next.

Far across the void, beyond the fractured star-lanes and the scattered rim-worlds of the Vikingnar sector, the artificial planet Cybrawl drifted like a colossal steel lotus blooming in the abyss. Its surface shimmered with a seamless blend of nature and machinery—lush emerald forests stitched together by glowing conduits, waterfalls cascading down stepped titanium cliffs, and immense black pyramids rising from the terrain like the bones of forgotten gods.

Each pyramid served a dual purpose: factory and atmospheric processor, breathing currents of ionized mist into the sky while forging weapons deep within their labyrinthine cores. And on the plateau before the greatest pyramid—The Throne Pyramid of Vhorkan—stood two figures of dreadful authority.

Anubis and Deathskull.

Thousands of corrupted knights waited in formation, their kettle helmets reflecting the violet sky, each one smeared with the crimson sigils of Maladrie’s nihilistic creed. Their armor—once sacred—had been debased, twisted, latticed with demonic etchings and integrated nanofibers pulsing like veins beneath their plates.

Beside them stood the Demonic Warriors—horned, plated, breathing out steam that smelled of acidic ozone.

Interspersed among them marched the Demondroids, mechanical constructs, steel, and corrupted quantum cores, glowing from the inside like haunted reactors.

All served one master. And all feared one mistress.

Deathskull floated forward, wreathed in dark energy, his skull-helm burning red with internal plasma. Anubis paced beside him, his jackal-headed visage gleaming with ceremonial gold that had long since lost its honor.

The troops waited. The wind howled across the metallic plain. And Anubis raised a hand to speak.

His voice boomed through installed canyon speakers embedded across the plateau.

“My warriors!” he shouted, tail flicking with trained theatrics. “Hear me! Once, I abandoned the foolish, misogynistic ideals that chained me to weakness! Once, I believed power belonged to one shape—one gender—one law!”

He paced through the ranks as if performing a ritual he barely understood.

“But I have evolved!” His voice echoed. “I now stand beside the one true sovereign! The God-Queen Maladrie—she alone possesses the will to end this rotting universe and bring forth a rebirth worthy of gods!”

The knights lifted their weapons in halfhearted unity. A few demons rumbled in approval.

Anubis’s speech continued, growing more inflated—praising Maladrie’s plan for “cosmic renewal,” condemning the “softness of mortal worlds,” and claiming his self-growth was the reason he left bigotry behind.

But it rang hollow. Even from the back rows, the subtext was obvious. He wasn’t enlightened. He was terrified. Deathskull watched him silently. His expression—though locked behind a metallic skull face—radiated boredom, as if Anubis were reciting the same speech for the thousandth time with absolute inconsistency.

One Demondroid muttered to another, its mechanized voice glitching.

“His rhetoric shifts weekly.”

“Affirmative. Internal logic: nonexistent.”

Yet the speech had its intended effect. Fear does what charisma cannot. The troops stiffened, straightened, and accepted the directive. Anubis clenched a fist dramatically.

“For Maladrie, we march!”

Deathskull floated forward, his aura dimming the sky itself as static rippled over the assembled host.

“For Maladrie,” he repeated—but with the tone of a death sentence. His voice scraped like metal dragged across stone.

“All ships launch.”

The ground trembled as massive doors opened in the pyramids. Hangars activated, sliding open like angular maws. Inside waited the Nihilistic Drakkar Spacecrafts—sleek, elongated vessels crafted in the shape of ancient longships but forged from black void-steel and wreathed in shimmering dark plasma. Their prows resembled snarling wraith-dragons. Their engines thrummed like beating hearts. One by one, they powered up.

The corrupted knights marched aboard, shields clattering rhythmically. Demons climbed the boarding ramps, snarling, wings scraping metal. Demondroids locked themselves magnetically into formation racks along the hulls.

A deep vibration rolled through the ground as the Drakkars rose simultaneously, thousands of them lifting from the pyramids and forests, blotting out Cybrawl’s strange neon sun. The sky rippled with warp-energy as the first wave surged forward. Anubis positioned himself on the command deck of his flagship, the Obsidian Aura, gripping a railing made of fused bone-metal.

Deathskull phased into existence beside him, a spectral silhouette.

“Set course,” Deathskull ordered, voice echoing through every vessel at once. “Outer Sector of Vikingnar.”

Engines ignited with thunder. Space folded in streaks of blue and black. The fleet surged forward. And Cybrawl was left behind in erie, humming silence. The warfront approaches Vikingnar’s gates, to fulfill Maladrie’s nihilistic dream of a new universe.

The Drakkar-class warship Obsidian Aura cut through the void like a serrated blade. Its hull—blackened metal laced with cursed circuitry—glowed with runic veins of ember-orange light. Inside, the ship felt alive: vents pulsed like lungs, conduits throbbed like veins, and the interior lighting flickered in a steady amber rhythm, as if mimicking a slow heartbeat.

On the bridge, the air was thick with heat and the faint scent of burning ozone. The walls shimmered with shifting holographic glyphs, each marking the movement of the Nihilistic fleet that tailed them in a perfect phalanx formation.

At the center platform—raised above the ship’s navigation pits—stood Anubis and Deathskull.

Anubis’s tall, lupine silhouette was encased in golden phasic armor, polished to an almost divine gleam. The dark fur beneath the plates made him appear like a priest-warrior cast in metal and hatred. Beside him, Deathskull stood motionless. a golden skeletal titan, his frame built from a fusion of Viking metallurgy and cybernetic necro-tech. His LED eyes glowed blood-red, scanning for threats unseen.

A shrill chime reverberated through the bridge. A holographic circle unfolded in the air, rings spinning, and then— Maladrie appeared. Her projection towered above them—taller than she would be in person, intentionally, to remind them of their place. Her expression was already sharpened with irritation, black eyes narrowed, orange skin flickering with holographic static.

Anubis took one step forward and bowed his head slightly before speaking.

“We left Cybrawl as soon as we could. What is it?”

Maladrie didn’t hide her fury.

“Apparently not soon enough, all of our Trolls working one of the factories are missing, along with Nitra who left her post on Bogn.”

Anubis’s ears twitched in unease beneath his helmet.

“Are you sure she betrayed you?”

Maladrie’s hologram shook her head with a scowl.

“Of course I'm sure! She most likely has a soft spot for Sigvard, and now they're on Aries. We also lost our batteries at this factory, and we need all of the batteries we can get in order to succeed.”

Anubis exhaled sharply, calculating, already thinking of ways to please her.

“That bad huh? Well, I guess you can execute all of the Trolls, replace them with droids, or demons.”

A slow grin crept across her projection—cold, hungry, pleased.

“Demons powering Demons! Like the way you think boy, and make sure Deathskull comes back in one piece. I need him for a special project upon his return.”

Anubis lowered his muzzle in acknowledgment.

“You got it my lady.”

Her image shattered into shards of orange light, fading into the warm glow of the bridge. Silence lingered for a moment—heavy, suffocating.

Finally, Deathskull turned his head, the servos in his neck grinding softly.

“How do you feel about sending your pet to Valhalla?”

The question stabbed deeper than intended.

Anubis stiffened.

He gave the only answer he could muster.

“If it's necessary, I'll do it.”

But inside his mind—what little softness remained of it—Anubis was spiraling. Sigvard… My masterpiece… My failure… The one thing I created that defied me. He tried to bury the conflict, but it dug into him like a poisoned thorn.

Ahead of them, the planet Aries filled the forward viewport. A vibrant world—lush emerald grasslands rolling beneath a serene cobalt sky. Tall crystalline mountains refracted sunlight in prismatic beams. From orbit, the world looked pure. Untouched. Too untouched.

The Nihilistic fleet descended from the heavens in a black wave, blotting out the sun as hundreds of Drakkar ships broke formation and streaked toward the surface. Flame trails spiraled behind them as they sliced through the atmosphere.

Shockwaves rippled across the fields as the first ships landed, flattening golden grass in circular patterns. Metallic landing gear slammed into the earth. The ground trembled under the weight of thousands of tons of cursed alloy.

The Obsidian Aura touched down at the vanguard, its engines roaring like an awakening beast. The gangway extended.

Anubis stepped out first, cloak snapping in the warm air, his golden armor gleaming like a corrupt sun. Deathskull followed, each footstep pounding into the soil with a metallic thud that sent vibrations through the ground.

Behind them, corruption spilled out like water from a ruptured dam. Corrupted knights in kettle helmets, each fused with demonic sigils. Demonic warriors with obsidian skin and ember veins. Demondroids marching in perfect metallic cadence.

All of them spreading out across the silent plain. The wind rustled through the long grass.

No animals. No civilians. No broken structures. No smoke. Not even birdsong. Not in this region of the planet at least. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

Anubis lifted his snout to the air and sniffed.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered under his breath—though it wasn’t dialogue from your prompt, so it stayed unspoken in the text.

Deathskull scanned the horizon, LED eyes narrowing.

The world of Aries was beautiful, immaculate… and utterly, impossibly empty. A perfect trap.Or a perfect lie. And the fleet, unaware of the eyes watching them from distant hills and concealed caverns, pressed forward into the stillness—marching toward a fate Anubis himself could barely bring himself to imagine.

The world of Aries lay beneath a pale, almost sterile sky, its atmosphere washed in cold clarity as if the planet itself were holding its breath. Short blue-green grass rippled across the open plains in long, silent waves. No storms. No birds. No movement except the faint shimmer of heat on the horizon. It was a realm too quiet, too pristine—like untouched glass waiting for the first crack.

Anubis stood at the front of the Nihilistic host, his tall lean werewolf physique encased in sculpted gold armor that hummed with internal phasic currents. Beside him stood Deathskull—towering, metallic, and unnervingly still. The machine’s golden endoskeleton gleamed under the sun like polished bone, each skeletal plate etched with runic circuitry. Its skull-like head flickered with red optical sensors that pulsed in a slow, predatory rhythm. Behind them, an army of corrupted Knights, Wulvers, and golden skeletal droids waited in absolute discipline, every firearm charged and humming with lethal plasma.

Across the field, emerging from the heat haze like specters rising from memory, the Trolls appeared.

Anubis recognized the first silhouette before the details sharpened. His ghost. His only creation. Sigvard.

Sigvard’s mandrill-like face was streaked with war paint and shadow, his armor a crude but heavy arrangement of steel plates scavenged from multiple worlds, reforged with Troll ingenuity. Around him, an entire Troll army assembled—broad-shouldered, long-armed, proboscis-faced warriors whose armor lacked refinement but radiated terrifying brute purpose. Their numbers dwarfed Anubis’s regiment.

The Trolls moved like a living tide, unafraid of plasma, unafraid of death, driven by something more ancient than programming.

Nitra stood at Sigvard’s side, her eyes glowing with determination. Once a demonette, now something changed—her posture defiant, her aura steady as she gripped Sigvard’s hand and whispered to him. “You're so different from the others, that's why you're going to defeat your enemy who had the nerve to show up here today.”

Sigvard leaned in, and they shared one last kiss, a fragile moment carved out of inevitability.

The stillness broke.

A roar—hundreds of throats—echoed across the field. The Troll army surged forward, their heavy footfalls shaking the earth. From the opposite side, Anubis raised his arm. His forces shifted into formation with mechanical precision, weapons rose in perfect unison, and the battle erupted.

Plasma fire tore across the plains like ribbons of sun-hot lightning. The first rank of Trolls disintegrated, armor melting into their flesh as glowing holes burned straight through their torsos. The smell of scorched cartilage filled the air. Still they pressed forward, undeterred, climbing over the corpses of their fallen brothers. Their strength was in their numbers, and their numbers were relentless.

Corrupted Knights waded into the melee with jagged blades, slicing through Troll limbs and splitting chests open. In return, Trolls grappled them with raw strength—snapping armored necks backward, crushing skulls with boulder-like fists, dragging Knights to the soil where they beat them into pulp.

The battlefield dissolved into carnage.

Metal screamed. Flesh broke. The sky dimmed beneath rising smoke.

Sigvard carved a path toward Anubis with deliberate, furious precision. Every Troll near him fought like a wall protecting their champion. As the two locked eyes across the ruin of battle, the world seemed to compress into a single destined point. One of them would walk away. One would not.

Sigvard charged.

Anubis met him head-on, their blades clashing with an electric crack that sent sparks spiraling across the grass. The duel was brutal from the first strike—no grace, no patience, only raw, primal intent. Sigvard used his weight and sheer animal strength to bash Anubis back, denting the golden armor with every impact.

Anubis countered with precision strikes, each swing leaving burning arcs of orange light through the air.

They slammed together so hard that the ground cratered beneath them.

But as the duel raged, Sigvard’s eyes flicked—just once—to Nitra.

She had been overwhelmed by a wave of corrupted Knights. She fell beneath them, fighting, clawing, burning with determination, but her strength was failing.

Sigvard saw her stumble. Saw her drop to one knee. Saw her blood hit the dirt.

That single heartbeat of distraction was all Anubis needed.

The energy sickle sword ignited in a flare of molten orange, and Anubis drove it into Sigvard’s side—right between the armor plates. The blade pierced flesh, bone, and organs with a sizzling burst. Blood gushed out, steaming as it splattered across Anubis’s golden breastplate.

Sigvard roared in agony—but he did not fall.

Instead, he grabbed a dagger from his belt and slammed it downward into the gap in Anubis’s ankle armor. Metal split. Flesh tore. Anubis yelped—a sharp, animalistic pain unlike anything a machine or mortal could mimic. Sigvard twisted the blade, forcing Anubis onto one knee.

With a sudden surge of desperate strength, Sigvard knocked the sickle sword from Anubis’s grip.

The blade hit the ground. Sigvard seized it.

Energy burned up his arm as he raised the weapon in both hands. With a furious, heartbroken cry, he swung.

The blade carved through Anubis’s torso like molten shears cutting through wax.

Anubis’s body split apart from rib to hip, the golden armor peeling open as intestines and dark blood spilled onto the grass. His legs collapsed separately from his upper body. Anubis, now half the man he used to be, stared in horror at the ruin below him—his own guts steaming in the open air.

Sigvard staggered backward, breathing raggedly as he dropped the weapon.

Around him, plasma burned through Troll after Troll. They fell like mountains collapsing in slow motion. There were too many corpses, too much red soaking into the pristine soil. And Nitra—his love—lay motionless in the chaos.

Sigvard crawled to her, his blood leaving a dark trail behind him. He gathered her head into his shaking arms. Her breathing was shallow—barely there.

“I love you,” she whispered. “You did great. This realm can now be saved, no matter how bleak it can be at times.”

Her body softened. Her eyes dimmed. And then she slipped away.

Sigvard’s heart cracked. Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his forehead to hers. The pain in his side surged, blood pouring faster, draining what little strength he had left.

At last, the world blurred into shadow.

Sigvard fell beside her and died with his hand still holding hers.

Only two Trolls remained standing—Frucktar and Chucktar, soaked in blood and breathing like exhausted beasts. They tightened their grips on their axes, ready to sell their lives dearly.

Then an armored Knight—helmet removed, face gaunt and aged—stepped forward, raising a trembling hand.

“Halt!” he shouted.

The battlefield froze in a moment of stunned quiet.

“My name is Dwayne,” the old Knight said, voice cracking. “There’s no reason to keep fighting change.”

Frucktar exchanged a look with Chucktar. Chucktar snarled, “Your commander Anubis, my deceased friends’ abuser, is dead. Maybe too much change is a bad thing, old man!”

Frucktar’s arm swung.

The axe spun through the air with a whistling arc and embedded deep into Dwayne’s skull, splitting it wide open. His body dropped instantly.

Deathskull, unfazed and emotionless, raised his metal arm and made the signal.

The remaining droids and Knights opened fire.

Plasma bolts tore through Frucktar and Chucktar’s torsos, liquefying bone and muscle in an instant. Their bodies crumpled beside the hundreds of fallen Trolls they had fought with so fiercely.

The last cries of the Troll army faded into silence as the smoke settled over the plains.

Far beyond the quiet corpse-fields of Aries, the stars churned with violence.

Across the scattered factory worlds of Vikingnar’s outer territories—those sprawling industrial planets where smoke forever drowned the skies and molten metal ran like rivers—another tragedy unfolded. In places where Trolls once labored, laughed, fought, and lived with stubborn pride, the corridors now echoed with the metallic thunder of assault droids and the unholy roars of demons.

The eradication was swift. Brutal. Systematic.

On Grindul Forge-9, a rust-colored world encircled by broken moons, Troll workers fled through conveyor trenches as orange security sirens pulsed like wounded hearts. A platoon of golden skeletal droids marched through the haze, their footfalls perfectly synchronized. Their glowing chest cores lit narrow passageways as plasma bolts erupted from their arms, cutting through the fleeing Trolls with merciless efficiency. Armor-clad overseer demons stalked behind them, dragging wounded Trolls into the shadows for purposes better not seen. The metal floors steamed with Troll blood.

On Bogn’s sister factories, once governed by Nitra’s presence before her betrayal was discovered, the purge was even more ruthless. Massive foundry furnaces were repurposed as execution pits. Trolls fought with axes, wrenches, mining tools—anything—but they were no match for the coordinated precision of the replacement forces. One by one, they fell, their bodies joining the mountain of the dead. By the time the smoke began to clear, only the cold echo of machines remained.

Everywhere, the story repeated. Everywhere across the empire, the Troll species broke beneath annihilation.

Yet even as they were slaughtered, scattered shouts were heard in dying breaths, echoing through ventilation tunnels, across broken catwalks, and into data logs captured by failing security cams.

“For Sigvard!” Their voices rose like sparks against a storm—small, fleeting, but impossibly bright.

Though eradicated by decree and flame, the Trolls did not die quietly. Not after the sight of Aries. Not after witnessing Sigvard—a lone Troll—a hybrid warrior shaped by fate and cruelty, carving through a golden tyrant with nothing but fury and love burning through him. In their final hours, the Trolls held to one truth.

Sigvard had made defiance possible.

Word of the battle on Aries traveled faster than any fleet. It slipped through data streams, smuggled by sympathetic Wulvers. It passed through the encrypted channels of renegade Knights. It whispered through the star winds in ports where smugglers traded rumors instead of cargo. And as it spread, it grew.

Sigvard became more than a Troll. He became a symbol.

To the scattered colonies of Vikingnar, he was the one who showed that even a single soldier—born in captivity, cast aside by his maker—could wound the unstoppable. He could refuse to kneel. He could inspire love in a demonette who chose to defy an empire. He could take down a commander forged from gold and arrogance.

He could spark rebellion.

Not every world dared to rise, but many felt the tremor of something awakening. Something old, something that had been buried beneath centuries of oppression. Even Deathskull’s data observers detected unusual fluctuations in subspace transmissions—encrypted channels lighting up with Troll sigils, resistance ciphers, and fragments of Sigvard’s name.

The Trolls were dead, yes.

But their defiance lived. Their sacrifice resonated through the black oceans of space. Their memory seeded unrest in the deepest corners of Vikingnar.

And though the empire continued its march—replacing Trolls with obedient droids and hungry demons—the shadow of Sigvard walked between the stars, impossible to erase.

For in every whispered rebellion, in every spark of defiance flickering in some remote outpost or drifting colony, one truth remained. The Trolls were gone. But they had not died in vain.

On the bright world of Aries, Sigvard and Nitra lay together in death.

And though the Nihilistic forces technically stood victorious, the cost had gutted them—and the Rus Vikings, somewhere far beyond the horizon, had gained the precious time they needed to brace for the storm that was coming.

---

CHAPTER 29: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 2" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"