CHAPTER 31: "REVEAL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner

CHAPTER 31: "REVEAL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The command center deep within Skogheim’s fortress thrummed with restrained urgency. Vast walls of black stone and alloy rose high above us, etched with ancient runes and threaded with faint red energy veins that pulsed in time with the holographic systems. At the center of the chamber, the command table projected layered red holograms—star maps, population clusters, and shifting enemy-controlled sectors—each image flickering as new data poured in from distant worlds.

Emily stood next to me with her arms folded, her posture rigid, eyes locked on the projections that showed countless points of light scattered across nearby systems. Each point represented lives displaced, entire populations ripped from their homes and now drifting without protection. Anisia, Serenity and Hanna stood close together, whispering nothing, their silence heavier than words. Mathew leaned forward slightly, studying the data with a furrowed brow, while Rick, Jimmy, Pete, Cole, and Elizabeth formed a loose semicircle around the table, all bearing the same quiet tension. Droid L-84 stood perfectly still, red optics glowing steadily as internal processes ran at impossible speeds.

Samuel’s presence anchored the room—arms crossed, jaw tight, already calculating logistics and weapons output. Beelzebub loomed nearby, his wasp-like form partially illuminated by the holograms, wings folded in respectful stillness. Ikeem stood opposite him, fingers twitching faintly as though already manipulating unseen systems in his mind.

Alexandria’s voice cut through the low hum of machinery as she addressed the room, the red holograms shifting in response to her gestures. “There are millions scattered across planets near us.”

The display expanded outward, revealing the outer sector of Vikingnar—once structured, now fractured and burning with enemy presence. Her expression tightened. “I have no idea where they came from?”

Beelzebub stepped forward slightly, his compound eyes narrowing as recognition set in. “Sigvard freed them somehow.”

A ripple of realization moved through the group. The weight of Sigvard’s final actions pressed heavily against the room, reframing his sacrifice not only as a delaying tactic, but as an act of liberation on a scale none of us had fully grasped.

Alexandria exhaled slowly before continuing, her tone shifting from confusion to resolve. “We need to safely transport them to somewhere safe.”

I stepped closer to the table, the holographic light reflecting off my armor and casting red shadows across my exposed wolf features. The solution felt obvious now that the pieces were finally visible. “Cybrawl can house the entire population of Vikingnar. Trillions of people can safely live on one artificial planet in peace. Cybrawl generates its own atmosphere, air, gravity, and extra urban and suburban areas within pocket dimensions on this lifeboat of a planet.”

The projection shifted again, revealing Cybrawl—its layered pyramids, atmospheric processors, and sprawling artificial ecosystems rotating slowly in three.

dimensional space. I turned slightly toward Droid L-84. “Isn’t that right?”

The droid inclined his head with mechanical precision. “Luckily, I was one of the last architects of Cybrawl. Its current corrupt ruler, Deathskull, has no idea what’s in his possession.”

A murmur passed through the group. Even Samuel’s stern expression cracked for a brief moment as the implications settled in.

I pressed forward, unwilling to waste time. “We should also move your precious ancient portal into Cybrawl.”

Alexandria’s gaze snapped toward me, sharp and calculating. “How are we going to do that?”

The answer was already unfolding in my mind, pieces aligning too cleanly to ignore. “I just told you—with Cybrawl’s pocket dimension technology. We need to move fast before Maladrie sends Deathskull back to glass this planet. I also deserve to know what is really going on.”

For a long moment, Alexandria said nothing. Her eyes searched my face, then flicked briefly to the others—warriors, engineers, survivors—all depending on decisions made in this room. At last, she nodded, the weight of inevitability settling into her posture.

She turned back toward the command table. “Droid L-84, can you locate Cybrawl?”

The droid’s red optics brightened fractionally as internal safeguards disengaged. “With Ikeem’s help, I can find Cybrawl’s location locked away in my hardware.”

Alexandria finally turned to face me fully, her expression no longer guarded, but resolute. The hum of the holograms softened, as though the room itself sensed what came next. “I can only show you a small portion of our origin, and how you ended up here—while everyone else stays behind to work.”

The command center remained alive with motion as plans began to take shape around us, but in that moment, everything narrowed. Whatever truths Alexandria was about to reveal had been buried deeper than war, deeper than Maladrie’s schemes, deeper even than Deathskull’s calculations.

And at last, they were about to surface.

Emily and I followed Samuel and Alexandria through the inner corridors of the base, leaving behind the noise of war rooms and humming machinery. The hallway narrowed as we descended, the walls transitioning from polished alloy into older stone reinforced with embedded conduits—layers of civilization stacked one atop another. The air felt cooler here, heavier, as though it remembered things the surface had long forgotten.

We entered an elevator shaft unlike anything built in the modern sections of the fortress. Its frame was ancient, forged of dark metal etched with runes that glowed faintly red as the platform began its silent descent. Far below, the ancient underground metropolis revealed itself in fragments—vast arches, collapsed spires, and long-abandoned streets frozen in a state of quiet decay. I had seen it before, yet knowing we were passing it again stirred something uneasy in my chest.

This place was not dead. It was dormant.

But instead of leading us deeper into that buried city, Samuel guided us off the platform just before it reached the lowest levels. We were led to a structure that stood apart from the ruins—an unmistakably Viking-made portal, carved with Nordic symbols and reinforced with technology far beyond its apparent age. It stood deliberately separated from the ancient gateway to the Dark Dimension, as though its builders understood exactly what must never be allowed to touch.

The four of us stepped into the portal.

On the other side, the air was warm and clean. Sunlight greeted us.

We were still in Skogheim.

An island rested quietly in the middle of a vast lake, its surface shimmering beneath a clear blue sky. In the distance, Skogheim’s capital city rose against the horizon—its walls, towers, and energy shields softened by distance, appearing almost peaceful from here. The contrast felt intentional, as if this place had been hidden away to preserve something fragile.

We followed Samuel and Alexandria up a grassy hill, the wind carrying the faint scent of water and stone. At the crest stood a Scandinavian-style chapel, modest in size yet heavy with age and meaning. Its wooden beams were reinforced with metal bands, and its stone foundation bore the wear of centuries. No guards. No weapons. Only silence.

We stepped inside.

The chapel was dim, lit by soft daylight filtering through stained glass high above us. The centerpiece window depicted Ragnarok—fire, ruin, gods locked in battle—but something about it was wrong. The figure the Vikings had worshipped as Helena bore the unmistakable features of Maladrie. Orange skin. Demonic elegance. Power mistaken for divinity.

Samuel raised his hand and pointed upward.

“Yeah,” he said, “these Vikings worshipped the gods who died out but sent their best warriors, the Nasga People, to save them from Maladrie.”

The weight of that statement settled slowly, like ash.

I turned toward him, anger and disbelief tightening my jaw. “Who in the fuck are you people? There’s no way you’re from NASA.”

Samuel didn’t react. Instead, he guided us toward a podium near the center of the chapel. It was encased in a shimmering red energy shield, humming softly, reverently. Resting atop it was an old book, its leather binding cracked with age. “This,” Samuel said, “is an old King James Bible. And look at the verse.”

I leaned in, reading silently. “God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.”

I looked back at Samuel. “What’s so special about it?”

He reached forward and deactivated the strange energy field with a precise motion. “Pick the book up, and get a better look.”

The moment my gloves touched the cover, a subtle vibration ran through it. I looked again at the verse—and my breath caught.

The word “his” was gone.

Her worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.

My pulse quickened. I flipped to the beginning, my hands suddenly unsteady, and read a verse I knew by heart.

God created mankind in her image.

I looked up sharply. “God is a mother? What’s happening?”

As the words left my mouth, the ink began to move. Black letters liquefied, dripping from the pages onto my gloves, splashing against the stone floor like blood. The book grew heavier in my hands as its structure collapsed inward, the pages dissolving until nothing remained but residue and silence.

Samuel spoke, his voice low and grave. “Will and Emily, you need to understand that both of you and I are from a future Earth. We are in the past. This is the medieval time period—the Viking Age.”

Emily turned sharply toward him. “What are you talking about? I grew up here!”

I steadied myself and looked at her. “Emily, it’s okay. Just let him explain what’s going on.”

Samuel took a slow breath, as if bracing himself. “Our people aren’t just NASA. We’re actually from CERN. On my timeline, we discovered the Wraith Particle, which allows space travel by slipping outside of space and time through the Wraith. Our achievements didn’t last. There was a devastating civil war in the United States that caused its collapse. After the fall, NASA was bought out by CERN. That’s when we discovered the Wraith Particle could be used to build the most advanced machine in our shared history—a time machine. This timeline became the perfect place to imprison war criminals.”

I cut in immediately. “This timeline? You said shared history. Are you saying this techno-Viking age split off from all other timelines?”

Samuel nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.”

My mind raced. “If Hugh Everett the Third’s theory is correct, how come I can’t see a copy of myself in this timeline?”

Samuel answered without hesitation. “Because timelines function as channels. Once you tune into a past or future timeline, you become your ancestor or descendant. That’s probably why people are forgetting who Wilson was. Only you remember. You became your own ancestor.”

The chapel felt smaller now.

“Why was Emily, the others, and I brought here in the first place?” I demanded. “You go around pulling people from different timelines and imprisoning them?”

Samuel’s expression darkened. “We discovered that raw emotion from the medieval period interfered with the Wraith Particle, causing Ragnarok. Despair, violence, wrath—across multiple timelines, but especially this one. That anguish birthed Maladrie within the Wraith and destroyed the other Wraith gods. We—Rus Vikings, the wardens of this timeline—built Vikingnar as an intergalactic civilization. We imported Replica biotech from another timeline. Not just to build warriors, but to give citizens stability, comfort, and hope. The Wraith feeds on despair. We had to starve it. I take it Valrra chose you for a reason.”

I staggered slightly, pressing a hand to my head as the realization crashed down on me. “I can’t believe you… Valrra… Alexandria… all this time. I knew we weren’t in the future. Every planet—semi-historically accurate Vikings. Shield maidens without tattoos. Warriors without beards. Armor that shouldn’t exist.”

Emily steadied me, her hand firm against my back.

Samuel spoke carefully. “I think we’re starting to earn your trust. But we have to find Valrra. She’s the only one who can locate Crimseed—the first artificial planet we ever built. That’s where the time machine is. Without her, I can’t communicate with our origin timeline.”

I exhaled bitterly. “Fabulous. You do realize Valrra is being held hostage by the Hell Horde, right?”

Samuel’s urgency finally broke through his composure. “We have to find her. We can’t let any Wraith being learn the nature of physical reality. Multiple timelines collapsed around the same event—human civilizations encountering the Arckons.”

I looked at him sharply. “Are you saying the Arckons are more dangerous than Maladrie and her hell realm?”

Samuel shook his head slightly. “Not exactly. The Arckons—and everything from those timelines—were wiped from existence. That’s all I know. And that’s why we need your help.”

The chapel fell silent again, the stained glass of Ragnarok glowing softly above us—no longer myth, no longer prophecy, but history repeating itself under different names.

And this time, we were already inside it.

Emily and I remained inside the abandoned Viking chapel long after the weight of Samuel’s revelations had settled into the stone walls. The place felt hollow now, as if the truth had drained the last illusion from it. Dust drifted through narrow shafts of light, and the stained glass of Ragnarok loomed overhead like a frozen accusation. The gods were dead, the myths exposed, and what remained was the only consequence.

Samuel broke the stillness by motioning toward the rear of the altar room, his voice calmer than it had any right to be. He wanted to show me something—something he had kept hidden here, far from war rooms and command tables.

Emily did not follow.

She sat down slowly on one of the wooden pews, her posture folding inward. The armor she usually wore like a second skin was gone, replaced by the quiet gravity of grief and betrayal. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, as if she were staring through centuries rather than stone. Alexandria noticed immediately and sat beside her, close enough to offer warmth without intrusion. Emily did not speak, but she did not pull away either.

I followed Samuel. Behind the altar, concealed behind panels carved with ancient runes, was a narrow passage that led to a compact elevator—older than the base above, yet unmistakably engineered with precision far beyond its apparent age. The doors closed with a soft mechanical sigh, and the platform carried us upward through the chapel’s spine.

When the doors opened again, we stepped into the upper level of the cupola. The space stunned me.

This was not a storage room or a hidden surveillance post. It was a full-fledged art studio—carefully maintained, deeply personal, and completely out of place atop a forgotten Viking chapel. Canvases leaned against the curved walls.

Sketches were pinned in careful rows. Jars of brushes, paint, ink, charcoal, and pastels crowded long tables worn smooth by use. Light poured in from narrow windows that wrapped around the dome, bathing everything in a soft, natural glow.

And sitting on one of the desks was an old Mac laptop. Ancient by our standards. Outdated to the point of absurdity given the technology Samuel had access to. Yet it hummed quietly, stubbornly alive. I moved closer, drawn first to the artwork.

The style was unmistakable—semi-realistic anime figures rendered with careful attention to color, expression, and anatomy. Many of them were women, their faces varied but their eyes strikingly consistent. There was a softness in the lines, a restraint that suggested familiarity rather than fantasy. Then I noticed the signature in the corner of several pieces. Samuel Yang.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Well Samuel Yang, it seems you have a fad for drawing semi-realistic anime girls. I’m not judging, I just like the colors of your artwork.”

Samuel didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked relieved. “Yeah, I draw Niko a lot. It helps me to stay true to her.”

I nodded slowly, studying the way the colors layered over one another, the subtle imperfections left intentionally uncorrected. “So creating art helps you? Why show me this?”

Samuel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he handed me a sketch pad and a pencil. “I figure art can help you.”

I didn’t like the way that sounded. It felt like a test—subtle, unspoken, and deliberate. Still, I kept my muzzle shut and went along with it.

He started me with the basics. Shapes. Circles. Cylinders. Perspective lines. It was grounding in a way I hadn’t expected, the simple act of translating thought into form without machines doing it for me. Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Eventually, I turned the page and began something harder. A dinosaur.

Samuel glanced over. “Why draw a dinosaur?”

I didn’t stop sketching. “Because I finally know why they’re thriving on multiple planets in this timeline.”

The words surprised even me. The creature took shape beneath my hand—a tyrannosaurus rex, broad and powerful, but crowned with a crest that didn’t belong to Earth’s fossil record. I didn’t know why I added it. It simply felt right.

I kept drawing as I spoke again. “So, will I ever get to see which timeline you came from?”

Samuel leaned against the table, arms crossed. “You’re not missing much. My original timeline was similar to yours.”

I snorted quietly. “You picked one hell of a timeline to send your undesirable people from your timeline to.”

Samuel didn’t argue. “Yeah. All of our criminals were most likely killed by these vicious medieval people. Now we need these people more than ever to fight an intergalactic war against demons—and maybe send Maladrie back to hell where she belongs.”

The pencil paused. “I can respectfully say I feel bad for these regular medieval people who have to deal with the fallout of your bullshit,” I said. “Especially Emily.”

Samuel’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, William.”

There was no deflection in his voice. No justification.

I sighed. “It’s alright. I understand why I was kept from knowing the truth about this reality for too long… at least you’re not a backstabbing android.”

Samuel gave a dry exhale. “Please tell me you don't despise technology because of one android?”

I shook my head. “No. Droid L-84 has been more reliable than that traitor Deathskull. I gave him too much power.”

“Yes you have,” Samuel said. “Technology should bend to your will—not you bending to its needs. I want to show you something.”

He guided me to the Mac workstation and opened a program I recognized instantly—Blender. The interface was primitive compared to what we used now, but it was familiar enough. He walked me through the basics, efficient and patient, until a simple 3D donut appeared on the screen.

I didn’t see the point.

“I can see you view these activities as useless when there’s wars happening,” Samuel said.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I guess I’m good at art, but I’m no artisan.”

“I’m trying to point out your over reliance on machines,” Samuel said, “and how you blindly trusted Deathskull to run an intergalactic civilization. Even the small tasks you find enjoyable and meaningless can never replace spirit. Technology can only enhance your spirit—not replace it.”

The words hit harder than any accusation.

He was right.

Somewhere along the way, I had started thinking like a machine—efficient, detached, interchangeable. I had handed over responsibility because it was easier than trusting people. Easier than trusting myself.

Emily’s face surfaced in my thoughts uninvited. Her presence—her humanity—was the only thing that kept me anchored. And now, standing in this quiet space above the war, I realized art might be the second thing doing that.

Before we left, my eyes caught something resting near the windowsill.

A bass tagelharpa.

I sat on the stool, lifted the instrument, and began to play. The sound was deep and raw, vibrating through the stone beneath my feet. Ancient. Unforgiving. Honest. My fingers moved instinctively, as if they had always known where to go. The melody carried weight—grief, resolve, and something like hope twisted together.

When the final note faded, I lowered the instrument and said quietly, “Huh… maybe I need to rely on my own skills more.”

The chapel remained silent—but for the first time since the truth had been revealed, the silence felt steady rather than hollow.

Downstairs in the nave of the abandoned Viking chapel, Emily sat alone on one of the long wooden pews, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bowed as if the weight of the stone ceiling pressed directly onto her spine. The chapel felt colder here, stripped of the quiet intensity that filled the cupola above. Dust lingered in the air, unmoving, and the great stained-glass window depicting Ragnarok cast fractured bands of muted color across the floor. The old gods burned eternally in glass, frozen in their final moments, watching yet another truth unravel beneath them.

Alexandria stood nearby, hesitant. She had the posture of someone accustomed to command, yet now she seemed unsure how to step forward without causing further damage. Emily did not look up. She did not acknowledge her presence. Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle.

At last, Alexandria spoke. “What is it?”

Emily’s head lifted just enough for the light to catch her eyes. They were sharp, hurt, and exhausted all at once. “Do I have to point out the obvious? I was born into this world without knowing it was being controlled by you people.”

Alexandria stiffened slightly, the words striking deeper than accusation—they carried betrayal. “Nobody is controlling you. We did what we thought was best to protect this reality.”

Emily finally turned to face her, her expression tight, her voice trembling beneath restraint. “What’s the point when there’s other timelines filled with joy? This universe—the homeworld I knew—and my life feels fake.”

The chapel seemed to echo that word. Fake. As if the stones themselves recoiled from it.

Alexandria stepped closer now, lowering herself so they were nearly eye level. Her voice softened, deliberate and steady. “I assure you, everything you know in this universe or timeline is very real. Especially the culture, its people, its beauty, and its flaws. Now there’s a very real threat trying to take everything from you and everyone from this timeline—and ours. You’re also not missing out on any other timeline. They’re all boring. They lack substance.”

Emily’s hands clenched in the fabric of her dress. “So do they all end the same?”

Alexandria hesitated, genuinely caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Emily’s voice lowered, almost breaking. “Does Maladrie win every time?”

Alexandria shook her head firmly, the movement decisive. “No. That’s why Valrra sent William to help us. And when you and William are together, you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

The words lingered between them, not as comfort, but as a fragile truth—one Emily did not immediately reject, yet could not fully accept. She looked away again, toward the floor, toward the scattered light of dying gods.

Before anything more could be said, Alexandria’s wrist gauntlet pulsed with a sharp red glow. The sudden intrusion of technology into the sacred silence felt jarring. She glanced down, her expression shifting from empathy to focus.

An alert. Droid L-84 had found something. Moments later, footsteps echoed through the chapel as Samuel and I returned from the upper levels. The air felt different now—tense, compressed, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Alexandria straightened and turned toward us, her voice carrying authority once more.

“I believe we got the location of Cybrawl.”

The weight of those words settled heavily. Cybrawl—the artificial world. The lifeboat. The secret Deathskull ruled without understanding. The one place that could change everything, or doom it entirely.

Our brief moment of stillness was gone.

The four of us left the chapel together, stepping out into the open air where the island stretched gently beneath a clear blue sky. Tall grass rippled around our legs as we crossed the fields, the chapel shrinking behind us like a relic already fading into history. The lake shimmered ahead, calm and indifferent, its surface betraying nothing of the wars, lies, and revelations churning beneath the stars.

At the shoreline, the portal waited—unstable, humming softly, its surface folding reality inward on itself.

Without ceremony, we stepped through. And whatever fragile peace we had found was left behind on that quiet island, beneath dead gods and broken truths.

The main laboratory of Skogheim hummed with a restrained urgency, its vast interior alive with red holographic light and low mechanical resonance. Towers of instrumentation rose like metallic ribs around the central command space, their surfaces etched with ancient runes and modern circuitry fused into a single language of survival. Overhead, suspended conduits pulsed softly, carrying energy between systems that had been rebuilt, repaired, and reforged countless times across wars no history ever fully recorded.

Emily and I stood beside Alexandria, Samuel, Ikeem, and Droid L-84 as the air itself seemed to vibrate with possibility. The red holographic projection bloomed outward from the central console, resolving into a detailed stellar map of Vikingnar’s intergalactic sector. At its heart, the artificial world of Cybrawl glided silently through space, a colossal construct of impossible geometry—nature and industry locked in perfect equilibrium—slowly drifting away from the center and toward the outer reaches.

“So where is Cybrawl located?” Alexandria asked, her voice steady but sharp with expectation.

Droid L-84 stood connected to the projection, cables extending from his skeletal frame into the console like veins feeding a heart. The artificial planet rotated slowly in the hologram, its pyramidal factories and atmospheric processors glinting in simulated starlight. The trajectory line extended outward, unmistakable.

“They are coming to us,” Droid L-84 said. The words settled heavily in the room.

“Already?” I asked, my eyes tracing the projected path as the implications unfolded in my mind.

“You still have time to unwind, while I come up with a plan to take back Cybrawl,” Droid L-84 replied, his tone calm, almost unsettling in its certainty.

“Good, let’s come up with a plan,” I said instinctively, already feeling the familiar pull of strategy and inevitability tightening around my thoughts.

Alexandria shook her head, and when she spoke again, the answer was not what I expected. “Why don’t you and Emily take a break.”

The suggestion landed like a disruption in gravity. “You’re kidding, right? And whatever happened to the ‘Star Castle’? Is it safe?” I asked, tension slipping through my composure despite myself.

Without hesitation, Ikeem moved to a nearby console. His long fingers danced across glowing controls, ancient symbols merging with advanced schematics. With a subtle shift in the room’s lighting, the massive observation window at the far end of the laboratory revealed the night sky over Skogheim.

At first, there was nothing. Then space itself seemed to ripple. The invisibility cloak disengaged. Hanging silently above the capital city was the Star Castle—an immense, ancient monolith shaped like an inverted pyramid, its surface etched with symbols older than Vikingnar itself. It floated with effortless authority, dark and silent, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. The structure felt less like a machine and more like a thought made solid—watching, waiting.

My mind eased instantly. The Star Castle was still ours. Still hidden. Still untouched. I nodded slowly.

“You see,” Ikeem said, “the cloaking technology is invisible to enemy radar. Ain’t no way the Hell Horde is going to figure out what we have.”

Samuel turned toward Emily and me, his expression lighter than it had been in a long while. He laughed, a sharp break in the laboratory’s tension. “Now get out of here! Get a drink or something.”

There was no argument left in me. The exhaustion I’d been suppressing finally surfaced, heavy and undeniable. Emily felt it too—I could see it in the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, in the way her breath slowed.

We turned and left the laboratory together.

Beyond the base, Skogheim’s capital city unfolded beneath a deep, star-filled sky. The streets glowed with soft amber and crimson light, energy lanterns casting long shadows across stone and metal alike. Gothic spires rose beside Scandinavian rooftops, and beneath them flowed the quiet movement of people who knew war was coming, yet still clung to life in the hours they were given.

For the first time since the alarms had sounded, since truths had been torn open and worlds set in motion, Emily and I walked without armor, without commands echoing in our ears. The city breathed around us—alive, defiant, and fragile.

Cybrawl was moving. The war was not over. But for now, Skogheim still stood. And so did we.

​​The walk back to the tavern was slow and heavy, our boots echoing softly against the stone streets of Skogheim’s capital. The city lights shimmered against drifting snow, and although the war pressed in from every direction, there was a strange stillness in the air—an exhaustion shared by everyone who still dared to breathe. Emily and I carried our frustration in silence, our thoughts knotted with revelations that refused to settle neatly into place.

That weight lifted, if only slightly, when we noticed the glow spilling from the tavern’s dining hall.

Music rolled out first—deep, rhythmic, unmistakably Viking in its cadence. Then laughter, the clatter of plates, and the warmth of firelight flickering against wooden beams. Inside, a feast was underway. Long tables overflowed with food, mead, and people from countless worlds and era's pressed together in shared defiance of the darkness waiting beyond the walls.

Cole and Hanna spotted us immediately and waved us over. “Hey, you want to come and dine with us?”

“Alright.”

The word came out before I could overthink it. Emily and I weren’t thrilled at the idea of socializing, not with our minds still reeling, but hunger has a way of cutting through pride and misery alike. We took our seats beside Hanna and Cole. Across from us sat Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Elizabeth, and Mathew, their faces lit by firelight and fatigue in equal measure.

I let myself absorb the room. Intergalactic travelers and medieval natives alike filled the space—warriors, engineers, villagers, hybrids of flesh and machine. Despite everything, many of them smiled. They clapped to the music, swayed with mugs raised high, and for a fleeting moment choose joy over fear. It struck me how striking so many of them were—not just in appearance, but in spirit. Beauty born not from peace, but from endurance.

“These people sure do know how to have a good time despite the chaos.”

“You mean medieval people.”

Cole’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

A female server arrived, placing ale and water before us before disappearing back into the crowd. I lifted the mug, took a long sip, and felt the burn ground me. “We are really in a fuckoh, guys. All of us except Emily and Serenity are currently in a separate timeline.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Right, we’re in the future.”

“Wrong. Once you travel into the future or past, you are then placed in a separate timeline. It’s a theory by Hugh Everett the Third.”

I drank again before continuing, letting the words settle. “We’re in an alternate medieval timeline with interdimensional beasts, space travel, robots, aliens, and man-made monsters.”

Jimmy’s face was drained of color. “So does that mean there’s multiple copies of us? And did the Rus Vikings kidnap us here!?”

“You need to calm down, Jimmy!” I lowered my voice, scanning the room to be sure no guards were paying attention. “There are multiple versions of us, but you’ll only see them in a mirror. Once you time travel into the future or the past, you become your descendants—or in our case, ancestors. It’s like tuning into different channels, and we’re forced to be in this one because it needs to be saved from the demons.”

Jimmy swallowed hard. “Or?”

“Or all the timelines collapse under the Hell Horde’s fury.”

Jimmy folded inward, elbows on the table, hands gripping his head as despair finally overtook him. Silence spread across our group, heavy and suffocating.

“And how does Emily feel about this?” Hanna asked gently. “Knowing her world has been heavily influenced by outsiders?”

I shook my head. “Does it look like she’s happy?”

“I am angry and relieved at the same time. I’m angry that beliefs were shattered, but relieved that I found the true nature of this vast universe. But most importantly, I’m happy I found good people to call ‘friends,’ and my true love.” She turned to me then, her green eyes steady and unflinching, and wrapped her arms around me. The certainty in her embrace cut through every doubt I’d been wrestling with.

Mathew then jokingly says, “And good friends excludes Anisia, right?”

Laughter rippled around the table, brief but genuine, even pulling a smile from Emily.

“Where’s anus breathe anyway?”

Pete gestured toward a table across the hall. Anisia lay slumped over it, passed out drunk, while nearby Serenity sat rigid and hollow-eyed, Beelzebub beside her, his insectoid form oddly gentle as he leaned close in quiet support.

Emily noticed immediately. She stood, concerned overtaking her expression, and moved toward Serenity.

That was when Samuel and Niko entered the dining hall, their arrival punctuated by cheers. Before I could protest, a bass tagelharpa was thrust into my hands. The ale dulled my annoyance just enough that I gave in.

The music poured out of me effortlessly—low, dark, and resonant. Fingers moved on instinct, strings vibrating with something older than thought. The room quieted as people listened, the sound threading through smoke and firelight like a living thing.

Across the room, Emily tried to reach Serenity. Serenity bolted.

Outside, snow fell softly beneath the stars. Emily followed her just in time to hear. “What’s wrong with you, Serenity?”

“Why do you care? You’re the one who sent me away in the first place.”

Serenity collapsed onto a bench, tears streaking her face as snow gathered in her hair.

“We’re still close friends… Come on, we’re like sisters.”

“I thought we were sisters?” Serenity stood and walked back toward the tavern.

Emily lingered, watching her go, then turned back only to be stopped by Beelzebub. “It’s best to leave her alone for a little while.”

“What happened to her?”

Beelzebub shook his head. “After a battle which killed off Haj Tooth, Serenity was captured, and Maladrie tortured her, sexually. That’s all I can say.”

Inside, Emily returned to the tavern quietly, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a dull thud that was almost lost beneath the low murmur of voices and the crackle of fire. Snow clung to the hem of her boots and melted into dark stains on the floorboards as she stepped back into the warmth. Her face was pale, her eyes distant, as if part of her had been left outside beneath the falling sky.

I was still playing.

The bass tagelharpa rested against my chest, its ancient strings vibrating under my fingers. The sound rolled through the dining hall—deep, droning, mournful. It wasn’t festive anymore. It carried weight, grief, and something feral beneath the surface. Conversations had faded into whispers. Even the laughter that had once filled the hall was gone, replaced by uneasy attention fixed on the music.

Emily moved through the crowd and stood beside me. I felt her presence before I saw her, the familiar gravity she carried pulling me back from the edges of my own thoughts. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply stood there, close enough that I could sense the tension in her posture, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

As I played, something shifted.

Not a sound—at first—but a feeling. A pressure, like the air itself had thickened. From the corner of my eye, I noticed it: a distortion in the firelight, an unnatural stretch of shadow that didn’t belong to any beam, pillar, or moving body. The music continued, but my instincts sharpened, every sense screaming that something was wrong.

The shadow grew.

It climbed upward, tall and wrong, cutting across the tables and the walls. The people nearest it hadn’t noticed yet, still caught between exhaustion and drink. Anisia lay slumped at her table, unmoving, her breath slow and shallow.

I finished the solo.

The final note rang out and died in the air, leaving the tavern in sudden, suffocating silence. No applause followed. No cheers. Just the crackle of fire and the soft creak of wood as people shifted uncomfortably.

I looked up. The shark creature stood on the table above Anisia.

Its form was towering and grotesque—two powerful legs bent backward like some exoskeletal mockery of nature, its body black and white, slick and predatory. Multiple arms hung at its sides, one pair human-like, the other ending in long, curved claws. Its lower jaw split open like a pizza cutter, mandibles flexing as it loomed over her.

Anisia stirred. Her eyes fluttered open just in time for the creature to strike.

Claws tore through her black-and-blue leather jumpsuit and sank into her stomach. Her body jerked upright as the beast hauled her closer, its mandibles snapping forward to inject venom into her neck. Her scream barely had time to form before it was cut short.

I moved.

The tagelharpa hit the floor as I lunged, grabbing the creature’s leg and yanking with everything I had. The table splintered as the beast crashed down. People screamed and scattered, chairs overturning, mugs shattering against stone.

I overpowered it brutally, ripping one of its clawed arms from its socket.

Blackened blood sprayed across the floor as the creature shrieked and thrashed.

I raised the severed arm, ready to end it—

“No, don't kill her!” Serenity’s cry cut through me, raw and desperate.

Emily stepped forward instantly. “Stop! It’s not Haj Tooth.”

For a fraction of a second, everything froze—the creature writhing beneath me, Anisia collapsing lifelessly beside the shattered table, Serenity standing there with tears streaming down her face.

Then instinct won. I brought the severed clawed arm down with all my strength, decapitating the shark creature in a single, savage blow. Its head rolled across the floor, mandibles twitching before going still. The body collapsed, finally lifeless.

Silence followed—thick, horrified, absolute. Serenity broke.

She sobbed uncontrollably as Emily tried to reach her. “Serenity, it’s ok.”

“Fuck off you bitch.”

She fled into the depths of the tavern, her footsteps echoing long after she was gone.

Emily stood beside me, her shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked floor and the remains of the creature. Behind us, the shaken crowd slowly came back into focus as Samuel’s voice rose above the chaos.

“Is everyone alright?”

The feast was over. The music was gone. And whatever fragile illusion of safety we had clung to inside those walls had been ripped apart—just like the creature at my feet.

The descent into the ancient underground metropolis felt heavier than before, as if the stone itself had absorbed the violence that had unfolded above. Massive stairways spiraled downward beneath Skogheim’s capital, their obsidian steps worn smooth by centuries of forgotten civilizations. Blue and red ambient light still pulsed faintly through crystalline veins in the walls, casting long, shifting shadows across the vast underworld. The city below had once felt alive—mysterious, ordered, purposeful—but now it felt wounded.

Emily stayed close to me as we walked, her presence steady, grounding. Around us moved Cole and Hanna, Mathew and Elizabeth, Rick, Jimmy, and Pete, their expressions tight and wary. Droid L-84 glided silently beside Serenity, while Beelzebub’s insectoid silhouette reflected the colored lights in sharp, angular fragments. Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Ikeem, and Alexandria followed behind, all of us drawn forward by an unspoken understanding that something was deeply wrong.

When we reached the laboratory, the change was immediate and unmistakable.

What had once been a place of precision and controlled chaos—humming consoles, holographic displays, sealed containment units—now lay in ruin. Panels were torn from the walls. Holographic emitters flickered weakly or lay shattered on the floor. The air carried the faint metallic scent of ruptured systems mixed with something far worse.

Bodies lay scattered across the obsidian floor.

Scientists in hazmat suits were sprawled where they had fallen, some near consoles, others near the exits, as if they had tried—and failed—to flee. Their suits were torn open, visors cracked, the sterile white fabric stained dark. The stillness around them was absolute, broken only by the low hum of failing power conduits embedded in the walls.

Only one figure moved.

In the far corner of the laboratory, a female scientist sat huddled against the stone wall, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her hazmat suit was intact, untouched, but her eyes were wide with terror, her breathing shallow and rapid. She flinched as I approached, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry but I have to ask…” Before I could finish, she raised a trembling arm and pointed toward the far end of the laboratory—to the paddock.

The containment area that once housed the Kraken People stood open, its reinforced barriers shattered outward. Ikeem and I moved toward it slowly, stepping over debris and broken equipment. Emily remained just behind me, her gaze fixed ahead, her jaw clenched.

Inside the paddock, the truth revealed itself.

The massive kraken egg lay split open, its shell cracked and hollow. Nearby, the two kraken creatures that had once occupied the enclosure were dead, their enormous forms collapsed against the stone, wounds torn through them with brutal efficiency. The walls bore deep gouges, claw marks carved into the obsidian as something powerful had forced its way out.

There was the sign the creature was here. “I guess it’s some type of mutation.”

The words hung in the air as Ikeem studied the scene, his mind already racing through theories and possibilities. “Not exactly…”

He turned toward me, curiosity overriding the horror etched into his features. “How do you know?”

I didn’t look away from the destruction as I answered. “Because Shark People have always existed.”

The moment the words left my mouth, the ground beneath us lurched violently.

The entire underground metropolis trembled, a deep, resonant shockwave rolling through stone and metal alike. Cracks raced along the walls. Loose fragments fell from the ceiling, clattering across the floor. Instinctively, Emily grabbed my arm as we all staggered, struggling to keep our footing.

We moved outside the laboratory together, emerging into the open expanse of the ancient city just as it began to change.

The transformation was unsettling in its precision.

Where carvings of kraken tentacles once adorned pillars and archways, they were gone—replaced seamlessly, as if they had never existed. Statues reshaped themselves before our eyes, stone flowing and reforming into towering figures of Shark People, their jagged silhouettes frozen in predatory dominance. Along the walls, murals rewrote themselves, depicting Shark People and Dragons emerging from a dark dimension, descending upon worlds to fulfill a singular, ominous purpose.

It wasn’t destruction. It was a revision.

History itself was being overwritten, reality adjusting its own memory to accommodate a new truth. The city wasn’t crumbling—it was updating.

Emily stood beside me in stunned silence, her eyes reflecting the shifting lights and impossible changes. Around us, the others watched with a mixture of awe and dread as the underground metropolis finalized its transformation, settling into a new, terrifying continuity.

I broke the silence quietly, the weight of understanding pressing down on me.

“Don’t you see. Time is fickle.”

The city fell still once more, its new identity locked in place, as if it had always been this way—and always would be.

---

CHAPTER 31: "REVEAL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"