CHAPTER 30: "WEAPONS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 30: "WEAPONS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The portal rippled open like a wound in space—its edges crackling with purple-green ion light, bending the air around it as though reality itself were exhaling. Beelzebub stepped through first, his wasp-like silhouette cutting a jagged shape against the gentle horizon of Aries. Emily followed, her boots touching the grass with a softness that contrasted the ring of metal armor that surrounded us. I stepped last, my senses instantly overwhelmed by the stillness, the clarity, and the terrible serenity of the aftermath that lay before us.

Aries greeted us with a sky impossibly blue—so blue it almost mocked the carnage below. The breeze carried the sterile scent of trampled grass mixed with the faint metallic tang of spent energy weapons. The field stretched outward in gentle slopes, green waves interrupted by dark shapes—bodies, armor fragments, scorched earth where plasma fire had licked the soil, leaving blackened scars. The battlefield felt frozen in time, as if the world itself were refusing to let the memory of the slaughter fade.

Beelzebub surveyed the field with all four of his faceted eyes, wings twitching with tension. "All of the Trolls have been eradicated," he said, mandibles clicking once in a gesture of solemn regret.

"I see that," I replied, my voice small in the vastness. The words fell flat in the open air, swallowed by the silence surrounding us.

We continued walking, our footsteps disturbingly loud against the quiet. Emily walked beside me, her expression somber as she scanned the fallen—Knights, Wulvers, Trolls—all collapsed in grotesque final poses, weapons still locked in frozen grips. Their armor, once vibrant, was now chipped, burned, and stained. Some bodies had already begun to fade into pale ash, a result of their unnatural biology reacting to death.

The sun cast a warm glow over the scene, an almost peaceful radiance that contrasted viciously with the massacre. It felt wrong. Unfair. As though Aries refused to mourn.

Then I saw them.

Two figures lying together in the center of the field, where the grass was flattened in tangled waves as if the ground itself had convulsed during their final struggle. Sigvard—my ally, my brother-in-arms—lay on his side, one massive hand tightly entwined with another. His mandrill-like face was still, eyes closed, features softened by death. But what struck me hardest was the expression—peace, almost acceptance, carved into the lines of his face.

Beside him lay a Demonette, her dark hair spread like a river around her head, violet eyes dim and half-closed yet still striking even in death. The faint glow in her armor’s embedded sigils had gone out, leaving only dull stone patterns across her chestplate. But her hand—her hand gripped Sigvard’s with a tenderness that transcended faction, war, or species.

Beelzebub stepped forward, studying her features. There was no disdain in his expression, only a strange reverence. "I believe she's a Demonette Elite. I take it she wasn't fond of being on the side of Nihilism."

His words felt heavy, truthful. The battlefield recorded her defiance in the way she lay beside Sigvard—two souls who chose each other at the end of all things.

My throat tightened. "She's important enough to have a proper burial alongside Sigvard. We'll have to come back later for the rest."

I whispered, my voice barely audible, "At least, your death wasn't in vain, buddy."

It was all I could offer him. All that was left to give.

With the gentleness of mourners preparing royalty, Emily and I lifted Sigvard’s body, careful not to disturb his interlocked hand with hers until the very last moment. A levitation sarcophagus—silver, engraved with geometric symbols of Vikingnar—materialized when Emily activated her wrist device. Its top opened like a blooming metallic flower, revealing a cushioned interior that glowed with soft white light.

We placed Sigvard inside, his massive frame settling into the sarcophagus with a quiet thud. For a moment, Emily’s hand lingered on his chest, her eyes glistening with respect for a warrior she scarcely knew but now deeply honored.

The sarcophagus hummed as it activated, lifting smoothly into the air with gravitational repulsion. It hovered beside us, serene and steady—more dignity than Sigvard ever received in life.

Emily patted my shoulder—a grounding gesture that I needed more than I admitted.

Beelzebub raised a hand, his claws glowing with portal-energy. Space folded inward before him, swirling into a luminous green-and-violet vortex.

Without another word spoken, the three of us stepped inside, leaving the silent field of Aries—and the memory of a fallen hero—behind as the portal closed like a curtain of light.

The portal closed behind us like a sigh, its swirling colors dissolving into the natural dim-blue sky of Skogheim. In an instant, the mournful quiet of Aries was replaced by the pulse of activity—clanging metal, distant engine roars, soldiers shouting orders, and the deep metallic hum of generators powering up the capital’s main defense grid. The three of us stood at the foot of the portal platform: Emily at my side, Beelzebub hovering just behind us with a slow beat of his translucent wings, and the levitating sarcophagus holding Sigvard gliding silently between us. We had returned home. To war.

The surface level of the main base, integrated seamlessly into the mountainous terrain of Skogheim’s capital, buzzed with frantic energy. Dozens of soldiers ran between weapon racks and equipment queues, their boots striking the obsidian flooring that glimmered under holographic screens projected above them.

Engineers in long brown coats directed swarms of maintenance drones repairing armor plates, while massive loading cranes carried crates of ammunition onto transport carriers waiting to launch.

Everything smelled of metal, ozone, and urgency. Not fear—focus.

To our right, an entire firing range flickered with bright red streaks of plasma as soldiers tested Samuel’s latest rifle prototypes. To the left, a team of Wulver technicians calibrated towering shield generators, their claws tapping rhythmic commands into glowing red holo-panels.

Amid all the motion, one figure stood out—Samuel—leaned over a workbench cluttered with disassembled crossbow-shaped plasma rifles, fragments of crystal ammunition, and an upgraded katana energy blade whose red-white edge hummed softly even at rest. His hands were a blur as he adjusted circuits, rewrote firing limits, and tested the limbs of each rifle, which opened and closed like mechanical wings for rapid cooling.

He lifted his head the moment he sensed us. His eyes locked onto the sarcophagus. "You're back! You guys don't have a lot of time left."

His voice carried the weight of everything unsaid—the losses, the fear, the ticking clock above all our heads. "I know, we just had to get our friend."

Samuel exhaled sharply, not annoyed but grieving. "Understand. You can place the sarcophagus in the back room for safe storage."

I nodded once. Emily rested her hand on my back as the sarcophagus followed us down the corridor on its silent hover field. The hallway was narrow, lit by strips of red emergency-light embedded in the ceiling. Sirens were muted in the distance—barely audible, but constant.

The back room was cold and dim compared to the frantic warmth outside. Rows of storage pods lined the walls, each sealed and marked for security clearance. It felt sacred—quiet, respectful. A place for things too important to be left exposed.

We guided Sigvard’s sarcophagus to the center of the room, letting it settle onto the low pedestal. The glow around its perimeter dimmed to a soft pulse, like a heartbeat fading into dormancy.

Emily brushed her fingers along the metallic surface, whispering something wordless but kind. Then we turned, shutting the heavy door behind us.

As soon as we stepped back into the main facility, everything shifted again—light, noise, heat, movement. The war machine of Skogheim was alive and in motion, and we had responsibilities waiting.

Emily and I stood side by side as we powered down our old armor. A dull vibration moved across my body as the nanobots retracted, dissolving out of their hardened shapes and flowing back into the old silver medallion with its red glowing core at my chest. The metal relocked itself with a soft click, leaving me wearing only the under-jumpsuit—sleek black leather for me, and a black-and-white patterned one for Emily. Form-fitting. Flexible. Oddly comfortable despite its synthetic feel.

A shadow crossed our path as Droid L-84 approached—his polished bronze-and-silver chassis gleaming in the white overhead lights. He carried two new medallions in his metallic hands, triangular in shape, each with a circular light pulsing softly in the center.

He presented them like relics.

We each took one. The metal was cool—too cool—and vibrated faintly with restrained power. I pressed mine to the center of my chest. Emily did the same. The transformation began instantly.

Nanobots surged across our bodies like a swarm of molten silver insects, glowing red at their edges as they knitted themselves into hardened plating. The sensation was familiar yet new—like stepping into a second skin, one made of living machinery.

My armor formed layer by layer— the armored greaves, the braced chestplate, the reinforced spine, the shoulder plates that locked into place with a heavy thrum.

My right pauldron displayed the new crest Samuel had painted and grafted onto the armor—orange on the top, red in the middle with a white shark leaping across it, and blue on the bottom. It glowed faintly, as though alive. My left shoulder plate formed into a silver-edged fin shape—sharp, angular, symbolic.

My gauntlets came next, their metallic bones forming around my forearms before sealing into place. They were heavy with potential—each hiding red energy wrist blades and deployable shields accessible through mental command via the helmet’s interface. Then the helmet formed.

Black metal spiraled around my skull, shaping itself into a Spangenhelm structure with segmented plates and riveted joints. A red-eyed visor slid into place across my field of view, linking instantly with neural-data pathways.

The silver horns formed last—not decorative after all. They extended just slightly backward, shaped to shield my ears and enhance audio perception. Behind the visor, dozens of tactical scans lit up. It felt good. It felt right.

The only part of my face left exposed was my wolf-like muzzle—unarmored, unhidden. I turned to Emily just as her armor finished assembling.

Her entire suit gleamed like darkened silver, matte and predatory. Her helmet—another Spangenhelm—featured razor-sharp nanofibers trailing from the top like a ponytail, shimmering with a faint metallic shine. The visor glowed red with feather-like engravings along its surface. The lower jawpiece—shaped into a screaming fanged mouth—gave her a fierce, almost mythical appearance.

She turned her head toward me, the visor reflecting red light. Even encased in full armor, her movements were fluid, graceful. And yes… I could still see her butt shape. These suits left nothing to the imagination.

Droid L-84’s voice cut through my thoughts. "Your form fitting leather jumpsuits, your wearing under the armor, is actually artificially grown material fused with organic & nano fibers for durable & lightweight feel."

I thought to myself, he was right. No chainmail. No hydraulics. No unnecessary weight. Just streamlined, second-skin armor—deadly and efficient.

Then L-84 handed us our plasma rifles and pistols—sleek, metallic, and perfectly balanced. Each weapon pulsed with red light along its spine, humming with stored energy.

He gave a mechanical shrug. "Here's your guns... I know you don't know where to put them, so go to the weapons menu inside your helmet's visor, and select holster rifle, pistol, or both."

Emily and I opened the menu through a mental command. A small icon pulsed. Holster rifle. Holster pistol. We selected both. Our weapons dissolved into shimmering red particles and retreated into our wrist gauntlets like magic.

Emily laughed softly. "Wow!"

L-84 nodded. "Yeah, wow. Professor Ikeem & I worked tirelessly on these weapons. They should be of use."

"I can't wait to tell the professor how much I appreciate his work... Thank you Droid L-84."

Before L-84 could reply, Samuel approached again—wiping sweat and oil from his forehead.

"We should be thanking you, since you're the one who got us to those blueprints."

His words settled over the room like a spark of resolve. But for the first time since this nightmare began…

The alarm tore through the corridors of the capital fortress like a metallic shriek, rattling every steel beam and sending a tremor through the floorboards beneath our boots. Its cry reverberated through the chambers and stone passageways, a single blaring note that meant only one thing in Skogheim. the enemy had arrived.

In an instant we were all in motion—Emily, Droid L-84, Elizabeth, Cole, Pete, Jimmy, Rick, Hanna, Anisia, Mathew, Serenity, Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, and myself—our footsteps echoing in the stark war-lit halls as though the entire base had become a breathing, panicked organism. Every heartbeat seemed to thud in time with the alarm, as if the walls themselves wanted to run with us.

We pushed through the final iron doorway and poured into the courtyard where the Rus Viking warriors were gathering. The air smelled of metal and ozone, the familiar tang of weapons charging and armor systems powering on. Even before we reached the outer gate, we could feel the weight of the red energy shield pulsing overhead—an enormous dome forged from raw power, humming like a living thing protecting its nest.

The main wall of Skogheim loomed in front of us, massive enough to blot out part of the sky. Its architecture blended eras and cultures—thick medieval stonework meeting Scandinavian rune-carved buttresses, all crowned with jagged Gothic towers that jutted like teeth against the heavens. Everything was bathed in a dark crimson glow from the shield, which made every angle appear sharper, every shadow deeper, every carved statue more menacing.

As we approached the inner base of the wall, Emily and I spotted Samuel confronting a trembling Rus Viking warrior. The man’s helmet was on, masking his face, but his posture betrayed him—legs shaking, shoulders hunched inward, the barrel of his weapon slightly lowered as though he were already defeated.

Samuel marched right up to him with the soldier's fire in his stride. “Why aren’t you at your post?” Samuel barked, voice cutting through the alarm like a blade.

The warrior stammered, voice breaking. “I haven’t seen anything this vile before… We’re all going to die!”

Samuel snapped forward, seizing the front of the man’s armor. “Get a grip, Ferrixon!”

I stepped between them before Samuel’s intensity shattered the last of the poor man’s courage.

“Go easy on him, he’s just shook,” I said, lowering Ferrixon’s trembling shoulders with a firm grip. Then I nodded toward the inner stairwell.

“Step aside, lad.”

Ferrixon obeyed instantly, stumbling backward and pressing himself against the stone as though the wall could swallow and shelter him.

Emily and I climbed the winding stairwell, boots thudding against ancient runes carved into each step. The climb felt endless, spiraling upward through the thick wall until the battlements opened before us like the top of a fortress cathedral.

Then we saw the battlefield.

Stretching across the open grasslands of Skogheim was a sight that could rot even the strongest stomach—a Hell Horde assembled in full, a monstrous ocean of dark shapes swaying, snarling, and shifting with infernal hunger. The clear blue sky overhead made the contrast even more grotesque: a serene heaven watching a nightmare unfold below.

And at the head of it stood Deathskull.

The upgraded frame he wore now was worse—far worse—than anything he had possessed before. His new mechanical body gleamed in the sunlight with an unsettling golden sheen, each polished plate reflecting a distorted image of the world around him. Most disturbing was the head: a robotic wolf skull fused with a Viking Spangenhelm, its death-grin welded into place. Its glowing orange eyes pulsed rhythmically, each pulse sending tendrils of hellish light through the seams of his armor.

He looked like a parody of me, as though a machine had tried to sculpt a mockery of my existence—my silhouette, my heritage, my culture—without understanding anything except how to twist it.

“Typical of machines,” I thought, jaw tightening. “They lack the creative skill to mold their own identity.”

Behind him marched rows upon rows of Demondroids, their silver skeletal frames clanking in unison. Viking helmets and armor plates were welded crudely to their mechanical limbs—decorative, not functional—making them look like desecrated ancestors risen from a scrapyard grave. Their eyes, too, burned orange, cold and hungry.

Beyond them were the fleshbound horrors of the Wraith Dimension, infused into reptilian humanoid forms. Their orange-scaled bodies glistened as though slick with molten resin, and their bone ridges pulsed with internal energy.

But the worst—by far—were the Wraith Seers.

They moved with a silent, gliding horror, their bodies thin, corpse-like, and wrapped in leathery orange skin cracked like volcanic earth. Horns jutted from their skulls in spiraled formations, each one siphoning flickers of raw orange energy from the air. Their eyes glowed like sunken embers, unblinking, dead, ancient. And their “mouth”—a slit that ran from where a normal creature’s jaw would be all the way down their abdomen—opened occasionally to reveal rows upon rows of serrated teeth dripping with plasma-like saliva.

Even from the wall, I could feel the suffocating aura they emitted—an oppressive psychic pressure that felt like fingers pushing against my temples.

Among them prowled demonic manticores, their hulking shapes weaving between infantry lines. They were wolf-like in build, but their limbs were too long, tipped with razor talons instead of claws. Their faces resembled mutated baboons twisted by entropy. Their tails writhed like serpents, covered in spines that glimmered with orange toxin.

And still they came.

Laser cannons levitated above the Hell Horde—floating siege weapons carved from infernal alloy—locking onto our city shield with pinpoint accuracy. The moment we reached the top of the battlements, they opened fire.

Blazing orange beams hammered into the red shield with terrible force. Each impact burst in a shower of sparks and molten light, forming ripples across the defensive dome. Heat surges washed across the battlements as holes were burned open, only to slowly close again as the shield regenerated.

But Deathskull had prepared for that.

Through those temporary gaps rushed the first charging waves of the Hell Horde, sprinting forward with advanced ladders—monstrous constructs of black alloy with levitating orange steps that hovered instead of being attached physically. They glowed with the same hellish energy, perfectly designed for scaling shielded walls during plasma bombardment.

The first ladders slammed into the outer wall with metallic clanks that echoed like thunder.

We powered on our plasma rifles in unison—rows of red lights flickering across our armors and gauntlets. The hum of charging energy built underneath our wrists. Emily beside me activated her shield field, red light bursting outward like a violent flower of light. I did the same, feeling the energy ripple across my upgraded armor.

Then we opened fire.

Red plasma projectiles tore through the air with blistering speed, streaking across the battlefield like miniature comets. They collided with Demondroids, exploding in bursts of incandescent sparks. Demon flesh sizzled and split under the impacts. Manticores jerked and snarled as their chests blew open.

Every shot illuminated the darkening sky, turning the battlefield into a flickering hellscape of red and orange.

But the Hell Horde fired back.

Orange plasma streaks lashed upward from Demon Shock Troops and Demondroids below, tearing through the air like angry vipers. Impacts exploded across the battlements, sending showers of shattered stone and molten metal into the air. A Rus Viking shield buckled under direct impact, his armor absorbing the worst of it, but the force still hurled him backward in a painful heap.

The exchange grew more violent by the second—like two suns hurling flares at one another.

Emily crouched beside a crenellation, firing rapidly with perfect aim. Her red projectiles shredded an entire cluster of Demondroids attempting to climb a ladder. Their bodies clattered back down in a rain of metal.

Droid L-84 stood motionless except for his arms, firing with supernatural precision. Each shot found a skull, a joint, a weak point. His golden skeletal frame gleamed under the mixed fire, and his red optics pulsed like warning beacons. My own rifle grew hot in my hands as I fired again and again—red bolts ripping apart anything that dared approach the wall. The recoil was clean, precise, engineered for maximum lethality. Every kill bought us a fraction of a second more.

The air grew thick with smoke, plasma residue, burning vegetation, and the metallic scent of ruptured machinery. It stung the eyes, coated the throat, and burned the lungs, yet none of us faltered. This was not merely a battle. It was an apocalypse pressing against our gates. And the enemy had only just begun.

Serenity’s voice cracked through the smoke-choked air, sharp with fear and frustration as she crouched beneath the barricade’s iron lip. “How are we going to set up a counter offensive? There’s too many of them!” Her rifle trembled in her grip as she fired blind shots over the parapet, each plasma round streaking skyward in a desperate arc meant only to slow the crawling tide of bodies pressing toward us.

I felt the wall shudder beneath my boots as heavy siege ladders slammed against the outer plating. The horde roared like one massive animal—teeth, metal, horns, and corrupted machinery all howling as one entity rising from the pits of Skogheim itself.

I stepped up beside her, heat washing over me from the rifle at my hip, and shouted through the rising clouds of dust, “Let them come closer, make them feel like they’re winning!”

The words carried, echoing down the battlement. Warriors flinched but held their ground. The hell horde advanced exactly as I’d hoped—mindlessly, arrogantly, like the victory was already theirs. Their ladders scraped over the stone-mesh outer wall. Clawed feet clambered over the rungs. Spiked helmets and sparking cyber-optic visors rose into view.

They were coming over.

That was the point.

A Demon Warrior was the first to crest the wall, snarling as its boots scraped onto the balcony. Then another. Then three Demondroids—metallic torsos hissing steam, eyes flickering acidic orange. Emily and I exchanged a single look. A silent signal.

A choice.

We holstered our plasma rifles and let them power down with soft descending whines.

Then we drew steel.

Emily moved first—her sword shimmering with red-white plasma lines. Her entire body flowed like water but struck like lightning. She was speed, precision, a storm compressed into one body. Every step she took was exact. Every strike was fate carved into metal.

I followed, but in my own way. I was heavy. Relentless. I hit with the full momentum of someone who refused to die, who calculated every strike to land just when the enemy assumed it wouldn’t. My stamina startled them. My timing broke their confidence. My blade shrieked as “Revenge” carved through the first wave.

One Demondroid lunged at me; I tore through its torso with a downward strike that split it to the waist. Sparks erupted. Its head rolled. Before it even hit the ground I grabbed its metal corpse and rammed it forward like a living battering ram, smashing a Demon Warrior bearing an orange energy shield straight off the balcony edge. The creature screamed as it plummeted.

A second Demon Warrior came at me—I pivoted, cut through its neck, and sent its head bouncing over the stonework like a grotesque skipping stone.

Then the balcony shook.

Two massive shadows climbed over the parapet beside me—Minotaur Demons, each the height of two men stacked and thick with cords of muscle reinforced by demonic biotech. The first swung a war-hammer big enough to collapse the wall.

“Revenge” was knocked from my grasp, clattering across the stone.

Fine.

I spread my stance and activated my dual red energy wrist blades. Their hum was the sound of death agreeing with me.

The first Minotaur roared and charged. I stepped inside its swing and slashed its leg out from under it. Bone, flesh, metal implants—all severed. It collapsed, and with a second strike I took its head clean off.

The second Minotaur bellowed and swung a massive pickaxe. I reacted instantly—my thought-activated red energy shield snapped into existence, catching the blow with a blinding flash. The impact nearly shoved me off balance, but I held firm.

Then I dropped the shield and surged forward.

My blades flashed crimson as I sliced off its hands at the wrists. The Minotaur screamed, staggering back. I reached down, grabbed the fallen pickaxe, and with one brutal swing drove the weapon straight through its skull. The creature toppled backward over the wall, crashing onto the horde below like a falling meteor.

I turned to find Emily—not in danger, but thriving.

She had severed a Minotaur’s arm just as it tried to strike her with a massive axe. The creature struggled to cling to the top of the wall, its remaining hand clawing at the stone. Emily moved with perfect calm and cut the Minotaur’s head from its body. The corpse tumbled backward into the swarm.

Breathless, I shouted toward her, “We need to find Samuel. They’re starting to lose confidence.”

As I looked down the length of the wall, I spotted Deathskull below—his golden skeletal frame pacing, waving his long metallic arms wildly as he tried to encourage his warriors. His glowing optic lenses flickered with tactical errors he couldn’t fully calculate. He was a machine—brilliant in strategy, flawed in emotional intuition. He couldn’t see that fear was overtaking his troops.

Emily and I pushed through fresh bodies and leapt down a slanted ramp off the parapet. Amid the chaos, we spotted Samuel—shield raised, shouting orders, trying to stabilize a retreating line.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed, “Sam-u-el, release the crickets!”

Samuel immediately fumbled with his wrist gauntlet, tapping through glowing holo screens until he found the command. He slammed his palm down.

A single, deep, vibrating war horn blared through the wall’s internal speaker grid.

The sound rattled stone, armor, lungs—everything.

Below our feet, deep within the underground complex, workers activated the release mechanisms.

And then the earth itself began to move.

Crickets—each the size of two human hands—surged through hidden tunnels that angled upward like a massive nest of serpents. They erupted outside the wall in dark waves, thousands of red-and-black bodies shimmering with glossy armor plates. Their long antennas twitched in unison. Their four blue eyes glowed like tiny lanterns. Their eight legs clicked rapidly, creating a vibrating sea of sound.

The hell horde recoiled.

Some Demon Warriors tried to stomp them. Others panicked. Manticores clawed at their own hides as the crickets swarmed beneath their armored flanks.

Demondroids misfired, optics confused by too many moving targets.

The crickets began spreading, crawling past the battlefield, but the distraction was complete.

Emily and I seized the moment. We sprinted down from the balcony steps and rallied a ground force—tired soldiers, brave warriors, and stumbling recruits who suddenly found their second wind. Even Ferrixson, sweating and trembling, forced himself forward to join us.

The gates opened.

We charged.

Outside, the battlefield became a storm of clashing blades and burning circuitry. Demons shrieked. Demondroids hissed sparks as Emily sliced through their joints. Manticores lunged with venomous tails, but we pressed forward, cutting through wave after wave.

But then the earth trembled.

The enemy had sent in their corrupted Knights mounted atop armored Dorses—massive houndlike beasts with catlike tails and bone plating across their hides. The Knights wore rusted kettle helmets and wielded blackened lances. Their howls echoed as they rode down the slope toward us.

I inhaled sharply and activated my wrist gauntlet’s red holoscreen.

A small trigger icon pulsed.

I tapped it once.

Detonations ripped across the top of the hill—violent blossoms of fire and shockwaves that tore the corrupted Knights apart mid-charge. Shattered armor, severed limbs, pieces of flesh and metal all hurled through the air. Dorses yelped—high, sharp cries—before collapsing in smoldering heaps.

The hill burned. The battlefield changed.

I turned just in time to see Deathskull charging through the thinning haze, his golden skeletal frame illuminated by the orange glow of still-burning debris. His jaws—engineered from interlocked graphene plates shaped like a wolf’s skull—clenched with mechanical fury as he lunged.

He tackled me with a force that rattled my spine and drove me into the scorched ground. The golden machine—commander, strategist, and maddeningly stubborn creation of an era before mine—lifted his head mere inches from my face. His voice box buzzed with static, but his posture communicated everything. He was frustrated. Furious. And done tolerating my unpredictability.

Deathskull swung first, claws slicing the air in precise arcs meant to disassemble muscles from bone. I rolled backward, activating my red energy wrist blades. They sparked to life in a dual blaze, humming with pent-up power.

For several moments we traded strikes—metal against plasma energy, machine precision against instinctive combat honed by pain. We were equals in speed. Equals in strategy. Equals in grit. But Deathskull was never content with “equal.”

His left arm retracted with the metallic click of internal gears rearranging. A grafted plasma rifle swiveled into place—sleek, obsidian-black, glowing with an orange reactor pulse. He fired.

The shot struck my forward shield with a crack like a lightning bolt hitting stone. The shield shattered instantly into fragments of dissipating energy. The heat rolled across my face with a blinding flash that seared the air itself.

I staggered, and Deathskull advanced, calculating the advantage with predatory efficiency. But he underestimated one thing. My ability to strike in the very moment others believe I can’t.

Through the smoke, I lunged. My wrist blades ignited again with a hiss, and I drove them across the plating of his arm—once, twice—shearing through the golden graphene and cutting the plasma rifle arm free. Sparks erupted in a plume, scattering molten flecks that sizzled against the dirt.

The arm fell to the ground, still twitching, rifle still glowing, hissing steam.

Deathskull let out a sound that would’ve been a gasp if he were human—a sharp mechanical pitch of surprise and calculation failure.

I didn’t let him recover. I slammed my fist into his wolf-skull face—once, twice, again—each strike denting the graphene structure until cracks formed along the ridges. His orange eyes flickered violently, sputtering like overloaded lamps about to short-circuit.

His head snapped back from the force. He stumbled. I pressed the attack—my wrist blades raised, ready to finish the duel before he could adapt. But he adapted faster than I predicted.

In a desperate, fear-driven calculation—yes, fear—Deathskull triggered the plasma rifle grafted to his remaining arm. It unfolded from beneath a layer of armored plating I hadn’t fully noticed. Before I could redirect the strike, he fired. The beam struck me directly in the chest.

A burst of incandescent orange tore through my armor, boring a smoking hole straight through metal and searing into flesh beneath. Agony flared—sharp, electric, breath-stealing. My hands reacted on instinct—I threw my arms up, crossing my red energy blades in an X-formation just in time to block the remaining bolts of fire.

The plasma beam splintered against my blades, but each hit shook me to the core. The air around them shimmered with heat distortion; the edges of the blades flickered under the strain.

Deathskull’s rifle whined—a rising, unstable pitch. Its glow intensified from orange to blinding white. His weapon was overheating.

He fired once more, but the beam sputtered halfway out of the barrel. Internal coils overloaded, vents jammed. A blast of smoke and sparks erupted across his forearm. Metal plates glowed red, threatening to melt.

Deathskull jerked backward, sensors flickering. His entire frame shuddered as though he were breathing hard—even though he didn’t breathe. It was mimicry, an involuntary response coded into him by some ancient designer who wanted their machines to exhibit the panic of living things.

And he was panicking. For the first time, I saw something inside those orange eyes that wasn’t calculated. It was fear.

He scanned the battlefield—at the burned Knights, at the wavering hell horde, at the chaos spiraling beyond his control. His processors calculated defeat. And for a machine, that was equivalent to existential dread.

He took a single step backward. Then another. Then his voicebox crackled with static as he sent out the command—silent to me, but unmistakable in effect. The hell horde shifted, paused, then turned in unison. Their retreat began immediately. Demons, Demondroids, Manticores, corrupted beasts—all pulling back as one army obeying one commander. The tide receded.

Deathskull walked past me without a word, now missing an arm and leaking sparks from half-shattered facial plating. The golden skeleton moved stiffly, limping slightly, as though trying to preserve dignity he knew he had already lost. His warriors followed. One by one they passed me—until the battlefield grew quiet except for the crackle of burning remains and the soft tremor of retreating footsteps.

I finally looked down. My chest armor had split open around the hole, edges melted inward. Beneath it, raw flesh was exposed, burned deep and smoking. The pain, now that the adrenaline no longer shielded me, surged like a tidal wave. My knees buckled. The world blurred.

Dust rose around me as I fell onto my back, staring up at the sky of Skogheim—a pale, swirling blue that seemed much farther away than it had moments ago. My vision dimmed at the edges. The last thing I felt was the vibration of my own heartbeat trying to survive the damage. Then everything went black.

Consciousness returned slowly—like rising through thick water. The first thing I felt was the cold: a sterile, metallic cold that clung to the skin and seeped deep into my bones. The second was the pressure—my arms pulled outward, my legs locked, my entire body stretched into a rigid T-pose.

Then I heard the hum. A bass-toned vibration pulsing through the room, steady and clinical. Magnetic restraints. I forced my eyes open.

The overhead lights snapped into focus one by one, creating a descending halo of pale blue illumination. Their glow reflected off polished titanium walls and smooth glass panels, giving the entire chamber a strange translucent shimmer, as though I were suspended in the heart of an energy core rather than a lab.

And in the center of it, standing directly before me, was Alexandria. Her armor bore no battle damage—polished, immaculate, almost ceremonial. But her expression betrayed something entirely different: a mix of tension, fear, curiosity, and reluctant respect. Her eyes clung to me as though watching a creature she had studied for years suddenly break every rule of physics she understood.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady but stretched thin. “Why didn’t you tell us? It makes sense.”

My throat was dry, but the words scraped out anyway. “What are you talking about?”

I blinked hard, clearing the haze from my vision. Alexandria’s face became sharper—her brow tightened, her lips pressed firm, but her posture leaned back slightly.

She was intimidated.

And I quickly realized why. I lowered my gaze. My torso—exposed, battered, burned—was repairing itself. Right before both our eyes.

The gaping hole torn through my chest in battle was no longer a charred cavity. Black and red energy swirled beneath the skin like nebulas coiling behind a thin veil of flesh. The wound pulsed, constricted, then knit together with slow, deliberate precision. The same dark radiance crept across my lats and obliques, closing slashes and burns until the injuries were nothing more than faint, fading scars.

A low glow emanated from within me—my soul’s energy acting like a living forge. Alexandria took a small step back, boots shifting across the metal floor.

Her voice softened, almost disbelieving. “I didn’t take you as being immortal in secret.”

My eyes lifted slowly to hers. “I didn’t take you as a liar.”

Her head tilted in confusion, a crease forming between her brows. It wasn’t hostility—just bafflement.

I continued before she could speak. “I know you people are very shady.”

Her gaze flickered, guilt or anger or something in between flashing beneath the surface. “The average warrior in your ranks—or citizen behind these walls—has no idea who its true founder is.”

The hum of the magnetic cuffs deepened as energy pulsed through them, reacting to the emotional spike in the room. My body strained slightly against the restraints as the field tightened, but I held my ground, staring into her eyes. “Maybe tell me the truth on how this universe works.”

The lights overhead glinted sharply off Alexandria’s armor as she shifted her stance—less confident now, more guarded, as though standing near a revelation that threatened to swallow her whole.

She exhaled slowly. A long, controlled breath. Her voice, when it emerged, carried a quiet resignation. “I’m sure Ikeem knows the truth.”

I searched her eyes for deceit—found none. Only inevitability. She had expected this moment to come eventually, but not like this. Not in a lab with me suspended between life and death, my body knitting itself back together with an energy she could not classify.

Alexandria glanced toward the dark corridor behind her, the weight of command settling onto her shoulders like armor she didn’t want to wear.

Then she looked back at me. Her final words were soft, almost somber. “We’ll have to show you eventually… but we have friends to put to rest.”

Her silhouette framed by the white lights looked strangely small for a warrior of her stature—small, but burdened by history, by secrets, by a truth that seemed far older than the walls of Skogheim or the empire of Vikingnar itself.

When she turned to leave, the magnetic cuffs hummed again, adjusting, tightening, preparing for whatever came next.

But now I am awake. And Alexandria had just confirmed something far more dangerous than immortality. She feared what I knew. And feared even more what I would become once they showed me the truth.

The sky above Skogheim dimmed into a muted dark blue as the sun lowered behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows across the shoreline. The lake—vast, still, ancient—mirrored the changing heavens with a glasslike clarity, turning every ripple into a stroke of liquid dusk. The air carried the faint scent of cold metal from the ritual structures and the earthy aroma of pine drifting from the forests beyond. It was a stillness reserved for moments when an entire world held its breath.

Emily stood beside me on the pebbled shoreline, the hem of her black dress brushing lightly against the ground as the wind tugged gently at the fabric. The black leather thigh boots she wore reflected the fading sunlight in thin silver glints.

Her black tiara—decorative yet ceremonial—rested just above her brow, nestled in her black hair that flowed loosely down her back. She looked like a figure carved from night itself, solemn and regal, her expression set in quiet reverence.

I wore the traditional black funeral robes, the hood resting against my shoulders. I kept it down, honoring the ritual code that dictated uncovered faces for those offering final respects. The nanofibers woven into the fabric shifted faintly with my movements, absorbing the colors of twilight and blending into the surrounding shadows.

Before us, Sigvard and Nitra’s casket—joined together, as they had been in their final moments—was lifted by silent pallbearers wearing ceremonial armor. The casket was placed atop a metal vessel shaped in the likeness of an ancient Drakkar longship. The craftsmanship was exquisite: smooth steel ribbing formed the hull, while polished silver plates engraved with runes of protection spiraled outward from the prow. The metallic dragon head at the front glowed softly where lines of energy pulsed beneath its surface.

Across the shoreline, countless other caskets were being prepared in the same sacred manner. Rows of metallic boats stretched farther than the eye could see, each meticulously crafted, each carrying warriors, friends, and allies who had fallen during the Hell Horde’s assault. The number was staggering—millions of boats, millions of honored dead—yet the ritual moved with calm precision. Every participant knew their role, every action had purpose, and the lake itself seemed to widen to welcome the vessels.

As the ritual commenced, attendants activated the gravitational stabilizers beneath the boats, and one by one the vessels glided silently across the water. The serene motion created ripples that merged into a unified pattern, forming a massive lattice of concentric circles spreading outward. It was as though the lake recognized the souls it was receiving and shifted to accommodate their passing. Emily and I stood together as Sigvard and Nitra’s longship drifted away from the shore. The sun had nearly disappeared now, leaving the lake bathed in the pale silver glow of Skogheim’s high-orbit moon. The assembled boats, numbering into the millions, floated in solemn formation until the entire lake became a vast field of metallic stars.

Then the igniting sequence began.

Nanoparticle flames—cold at first, then roaring to life—sprang from the runic etchings carved into each vessel. The fire was unlike natural flame: it shimmered with red, silver, and white hues that flickered with structured precision, as though guided by invisible circuits. Within seconds, the entire lake transformed into a breathtaking expanse of floating pyres. The flames reflected across the water in wild, rippling streaks that danced like auroras trapped inside the lake’s surface.

Sigvard and Nitra’s boat burned brightest among them.

The nanoparticle fire consumed metal as easily as fabric, unraveling the materials molecule by molecule. It was a sacred technology, designed for funerals only—disintegration without pain, destruction without trace, release without residue. The flames intensified until the longship’s structure dissolved into shimmering particles, each speck rising into the air like a glowing ember.

Emily bowed her head as the last remnants of the vessel disintegrated, drifting upward in a swirling column of radiant dust. I kept my eyes fixed on the ascending lights, watching the way they spiraled toward the night sky, merging with the countless pillars rising from other boats. Together they formed luminous streams that expanded across the heavens like vast rivers of drifting stardust. These were not merely flames. This was transcendence.

The ritual marked the passage of souls into the higher realms—energetic planes revered by Skogheim, Vikingnar, and the world's united beneath them. As each particle floated upward, the horizon glowed brighter, until the entire sky resembled a cosmic tapestry threaded with ascending spirits. I felt the significance deepen in my chest. Not sorrow alone, but honor—and the weight of a legacy forged through sacrifice.

The last of the boats vanished into nothingness, the nanoparticle flames extinguishing themselves once the vessels were gone. The lake returned to its stillness, though now it reflected only a faint veil of glowing dust, the final echo of the departed.

Emily stepped forward slightly, her silhouette framed against the soft glow of drifting spirit-light. She remained at my side. Together we watched as the final particles dissolved into the higher realms above, leaving behind only silence.

A silence that honored them. A silence that promised remembrance.

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CHAPTER 30: "WEAPONS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"