CHAPTER 33: "NEW BLOOD" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 33: "NEW BLOOD" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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Meanwhile, on the world of Oakenar, a neighboring world to the capital of Skaalandr, the temperate desert stretched outward in quiet contradiction. Vast oak trees—thick-trunked, gnarled, and ancient—rose from sandy soil, their broad canopies casting islands of shade across rolling dunes. Saber-tooth cats lay sprawled beneath the trees, massive fanged predators unmoved by the distant thunder of marching armies. Their chests rose and fell slowly as the twin suns warmed their fur, unaware that their world was being claimed by something far older and far crueler than hunger.

Nature itself remained intact, untouched by the corruption creeping across the land. The same could not be said for what now marched beneath the oaks.

Maladrie’s demonic hell horde advanced in disciplined waves, their iron boots and clawed feet grinding the soil into darkened paths. Corrupted Knights—what little remained of them—followed in rigid formation, their armor cracked, stained, and warped by infernal influence. Each step they took bled corruption into the ground, turning golden sand into bruised earth.

Oakenar had once been a tourist world, known for its balance of wilderness and culture. At the heart of the largest oasis stood a sprawling metal lodge, once a marvel of Viking engineering blended with modern comforts. Now it has been converted into a command hub for the hell horde. The structure’s angular metal walls remained untouched, its Viking architecture preserved with near reverence. Maladrie had no interest in remodeling.

Black and white demonic banners hung from every tower and archway, each depicting a sword with a shark impaled and twisted around the blade, its form almost caressing the steel. The symbolism was cruelly deliberate. The banners snapped in the desert wind like warnings written in cloth.

Maladrie herself sat upon a makeshift throne at the lodge’s highest platform, her presence bending the air around her. She had no desire to alter this world. There was no need. She planned on destroying the entire universe soon enough anyway.

As her army prepared their gear—blades humming, armor sealing, demonic engines roaring—Hasan approached the throne. Walking beside him was a lone droid, battered and scorched, its metal frame bearing the scars of escape. It was one of the few Demondroids that had survived the battle for Cybrawl.

Maladrie rose from her throne, her movements fluid and predatory, wings folding slightly as her gaze fixed on them. “What happened?”

Hasan gestured toward the droid, his expression tight. “This droid has something to tell you.”

The once-proud Demondroid stepped forward, its posture stiff, voice wavering beneath layers of corrupted code. “My goddess, I’m afraid to tell you that Cybrawl was taken by William.”

The air seemed to tighten. The banners stilled for a moment, as if even the wind hesitated.

Maladrie’s eyes narrowed, glowing with restrained fury. “And Deathskull?”

The droid hesitated, servos clicking unevenly. “Deathskull was defeated, and the other droids are being reprogrammed to be slaves to the king—”

The sentence never finished.

The droid’s body convulsed violently. Its optics flickered. Its arm snapped upward, wrist cannon unfolding and locking directly onto Maladrie’s chest. Code screamed through its systems, something foreign forcing control.

Before the cannon could fire, Hasan moved.

In a single motion, he drew his flame sword and smashed it down across the droid’s head. The impact shattered metal and circuitry alike. Black fluid sprayed across the sand as orange sparks erupted outward, sizzling against the desert air. The droid collapsed in a heap at Maladrie’s feet, twitching once before going still.

Hasan straightened, breathing heavily, then turned to Maladrie. “Great. Now what do we do?”

Maladrie did not even look at the fallen machine. Her gaze had already lifted toward the horizon, toward something unseen.

“We’re going to conquer the River of Souls. William and his group of morons were too preoccupied with the physical realm. They forgot to save the ethereal.”

The words carried weight far beyond the desert, echoing with cosmic implication. Hasan’s shoulders slumped slightly as realization set in. “What about our plan to start fresh? We lost Deathskull and Cybrawl.”

Maladrie turned sharply, irritation flashing across her demonic features. She lifted a hand and smacked her own forehead in frustration, claws clicking against horn. “Deathskull was just a machine with a broken spirit and was bound to implode. Besides, we have an endless supply of bodies to throw at our enemies. We still have a sphere, and there’s another way to harness the energy needed to start a new universe. Before Deathskull’s death, he left us with great new technology to siphon energy.”

Hasan frowned, unease settling into his expression. “The energy to do what exactly?”

Maladrie’s patience snapped. Her wings flared slightly as her voice sharpened. “To annihilate this shit-verse and start over! Fool, you’ll see what I’m talking about. Now let’s lead our army to the gates of the River of Souls, sir.”

Hasan’s demonic face fell into a deep, defeated scowl. The weight of endless war, endless loss, pressed visibly upon him. Slowly, he nodded.

Together, they turned.

The hell horde began to move once more, ranks shifting as a massive portal tore open ahead of them. Reality split like a wound, revealing the churning darkness of the Wraith Dimension beyond. Ethereal winds howled outward, carrying whispers of the dead and the unborn alike.

Maladrie led her forces forward without hesitation.

One by one, the demons, knights, an engine of war, vanished into the portal’s black light. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the gateway collapsed inward, sealing the Wraith Dimension shut. Oakenar was left behind in silence, its oak forests still standing beneath the suns, unaware that the fate of all existence was now marching elsewhere.

Maladrie advanced at the head of the hell horde beneath an orange, dust-choked sky. For once, her form was fully enclosed in dark, rustic gray metal armor—plates layered over her humanoid frame, the helm concealing her horns, shadowing parts of her face, muting the infernal elegance she usually displayed without restraint. The armor looked ancient and deliberate, forged not for protection but for ceremony, as if she were honoring an ending rather than preparing for a beginning.

Behind her rode Hasan, mounted atop his demonic cerberus. The beast’s three heads snarled in low, overlapping growls, claws digging into the scorched soil with every step. The rest of the demonic hell horde followed in heavy formation, their numbers vast, their presence warping the land beneath them. Maladrie moved quickly, impatiently, and it was obvious even to the lowest demon that she believed the corrupted Knights were slowing the entire operation down.

She stopped without warning.

The army slowed, then halted in rippling waves. Maladrie looked around, her armored head tilting upward toward the burning orange sky. In the distance, beyond the barren terrain, a vast wheat field shimmered faintly in the heat, golden and untouched—a quiet mockery of what once was and what soon would not be.

Maladrie turned sharply, whipping her black hair back as she faced her forces. “I think we should pause here and take a break. I also have a gift for our loyal knights, and you, Hasan.”

The words carried an unsettling calm.

Hasan shifted uneasily atop his mount, confusion creeping across his demonic features. Around him, hulking orange demonic Minotaurs began moving through the ranks, each carrying trays of small vials filled with a clear liquid. The glass caught the light, glinting innocently as they were handed out one by one.

A Minotaur approached Hasan and placed a vial in his hand. The liquid inside sloshed gently. Even through the glass, its scent was unmistakable—sharp, fermented, unmistakably alcoholic.

Hasan frowned. “I don’t understand. Why give us a gift?”

Maladrie’s armored gaze settled on him, unreadable behind metal and shadow. “You pressuring the knights to join me was very much appreciated, hun.”

Hasan glanced around. The corrupted Knights had lowered their visors, their rigid discipline dissolving into relief as they drank deeply from the vials. Some leaned back in their saddles, others raised the glass as if in silent toast. For a brief moment, it almost resembled celebration.

Hasan hesitated, then shrugged.

He drank the entire vial.

The effect was immediate. “You idiot.”

Maladrie’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Hasan’s eyes widened in panic as he felt something tear through his insides. Around him, the Knights began to sway. One by one, they fell from their Dorse mounts, armor crashing against the ground. Harsh, wet coughing echoed across the halted army as blood spilled from behind sealed visors.

Hasan tried to speak, but no words came.

Maladrie stepped closer, towering over him. “You really thought I would allow you to live when you dwell on your failures instead of rejoicing in being in my presence? You’re a sad, castrated creature—and I just set you free.”

Hasan slipped from the back of his demonic cerberus and collapsed into the dirt, coughing violently as dark blood stained the ground beneath him. His vision blurred. Through the haze, he saw Minotaurs surrounding his mount, their massive axes rising and falling. The cerberus shrieked once before all three heads went still.

Yet something strange happened.

Despite the pain, despite the betrayal, Hasan pushed himself upright into a kneeling position. His breathing slowed. His expression softened. His mind drifted backward through time, through memory.

He remembered wings.

He remembered light.

He remembered being an angel.

He remembered love—true love—for the goddess Freya, before the fires of Ragnarok had torn the heavens apart. The memory filled him with warmth, with clarity, with joy so profound it drowned out the agony consuming his body.

Around him, the corrupted Knights began to convulse. From their mouths poured a thick, brown, pasty substance. Hasan vomited the same strange material as it began to seep from the cracks in his orange demonic skin. The substance spread rapidly, coating flesh and armor alike, hardening as it flowed.

The sap-like liquid enveloped Hasan first, then the Knights, forming grotesque cocoons where bodies once knelt and writhed. The battlefield grew eerily silent as life was sealed away beneath the hardened shells.

Maladrie did not watch for long.

When the executions were complete, she turned to her Minotaurs and issued her final command without hesitation.

“Kill the mounts, since there are no riders. Those knights really lost their luster.”

The Minotaurs obeyed instantly.

With the cocooned remains left behind and the corpses of mounts scattered across the soil, Maladrie resumed her march. The hell horde followed, stepping past the remnants without pause, moving steadily toward the distant wheat fields that swayed under the orange sky.

What remained of Hasan and the corrupted Knights was left behind—sealed in silence, freed only in death.

Meanwhile, at the colossal gates of the River of Souls, the air vibrated with tension.

The cavern that led to the sacred river was vast and ancient, its walls carved by time and energies far older than the stars themselves. Bioluminescent veins of violet and gold pulsed through the stone, casting shifting light across the assembled defenders. The Wasp humanoid entities moved with sharp precision, their chitinous forms clicking softly as they prepared for war. Though their society had always been guided by a ruling will, they now stood without a leader—yet not without purpose.

They knew the demonic hell horde was coming.

And they intended to fight.

Armor plates were fastened tightly over segmented bodies, locking into place with magnetic seals. Purple energy swords hummed to life, their blades vibrating at a frequency capable of cleaving both flesh and spirit. Spears were stacked in disciplined rows, their tips glowing faintly with stored charge. Plasma rifles—new, experimental additions to their armory—were distributed carefully, their cores whining as they powered up for the first time in a true defensive stand.

Inside the cavern, one wasp humanoid stepped forward, assuming command through action rather than title. His wings buzzed sharply as he moved along the gathered ranks, ensuring readiness, correcting stances, forcing speed where hesitation lingered.

“Hurry up, let’s move! Gather everyone willing to fight and collect the weapons! Even though Beelzebub isn’t here right now, we must defend this place at all costs!”

The words echoed off the cavern walls, carrying urgency and defiance in equal measure. The warriors responded instantly, tightening formation, lifting weapons, their compound eyes reflecting the glow of the River deeper within the cavern.

Then the sound came.

A low, resonant growl rolled through the stone, not hostile, but impossibly powerful. It came from far below—older than fear, older than war. The cavern trembled as the sound grew closer, the vibrations rippling across the crystalline floor.

From the depths emerged the Golden Dragon.

Its scales shimmered like living sunlight, each plate etched with ancient runes that glowed softly as it moved. Massive wings folded against its sides, brushing the cavern walls with deliberate care. Its eyes burned with a calm, eternal intelligence—an awareness of every soul that had ever passed through the river it guarded.

Among the wasp humanoids, the Dragon was legend made flesh.

The protector of souls.

The eternal sentinel of the passage into higher realms.

Now, it has come to defend once more.

The Wasp Warriors fell into formation around the Dragon as it advanced, its presence stabilizing the very energy of the cavern. Together, they moved as one—out through the gates, into the open expanse beyond the River of Souls.

Outside, the sky burned with orange and ash.

Across the wheat field, Maladrie’s army approached in a dark, crawling tide—demons, minotaurs, war machines, and corrupted remnants marching beneath a corrupted horizon. The hell horde stretched far beyond sight, its movement shaking the ground with every step.

The defenders halted at the threshold.

The Golden Dragon raised its head, wings spreading slowly as radiant light spilled across the battlefield. Purple energy blades ignited in unison. Plasma rifles were lifted and locked onto advancing targets. Spears lowered, armor braced.

Two forces stood facing one another at the edge of the River of Souls. One side driven by conquest and annihilation. The other is bound by duty, memory, and the sanctity of every soul yet to pass. The battle was moments away.

In the vast wheat fields bordering the sacred threshold of the River of Souls, the air became charged with violence. Tall golden stalks bent and snapped beneath the boots, claws, and hooves of Maladrie’s hell horde, their advance churning the land into ruin. What had once been a tranquil passage between worlds was now a battlefield, illuminated by firelight and crackling energy.

Maladrie stood at the forefront of her forces, her dark, rustic gray armor catching the glow of burning skies. With a sharp motion of her hand, she ordered the assault. Orange plasma rifle fire erupted from the demonic ranks, streaking through the air like falling stars. Shock cannons followed, their concussive blasts tearing through the wheat and sending waves of heat across the field.

The Wasp Warriors responded instantly. Purple energy shields flared to life in unison, forming a radiant wall against the oncoming barrage. Plasma splashed and dispersed across the shields in violent flashes of orange and violet, the collision of energies echoing like thunder across the plains.

Then Maladrie drove her army forward.

The hell horde surged ahead, crashing into the wasp formations with brutal force. The battle collapsed into chaos almost immediately—energy blades clashed, spears pierced armor, plasma rifles were discarded as warriors slammed into one another at close range. The wheat fields became a tangle of broken stalks, shattered bodies, and glowing weapons locked in savage struggle.

Above it all, the Golden Dragon dominated the sky.

Its massive wings beat with thunderous power as it swooped low, claws tearing demonic warriors from the ground and hurling them aside like broken dolls. Golden fire and raw force scattered Maladrie’s troops, the Dragon plucking demons from the battlefield with terrifying precision. Each pass thinned her ranks, and the sight of the ancient protector refusing to fall gnawed at Maladrie’s patience.

Her frustration boiled over. “Bring the harpoon. We need to get that Dragon out of the sky!”

A demonic warrior sprinted forward through the carnage, carrying a massive harpoon launcher fitted with a poisoned, barbed arrow. The weapon hummed with unstable energy as it was brought to bear. Maladrie’s eyes narrowed, her gaze locking onto the Dragon’s chest as it banked through the smoke and fire.

“Be careful. We only have one shot at this!”

The demonic warrior steadied his aim, hands trembling as the Dragon’s immense form filled his sights. He fired.

The harpoon screamed through the air and struck true—but not where intended. Instead of piercing the Dragon’s heart, the poisoned tip buried itself deep into the creature’s liver. The impact sent the Dragon spiraling, its roar shaking the heavens as its wings faltered.

The Golden Dragon crashed into the wheat fields with earth-shattering force.

Yet it did not die.

Snarling in agony and fury, the wounded beast rose once more, blood and radiant energy spilling from its side. It lashed out at anything that came near, its claws carving trenches into the ground, its jaws snapping with primal wrath.

Maladrie did not hesitate. “Split a group off from the main force to finish off the beast!”

A contingent of demonic warriors broke away, charging toward the fallen Dragon with blades, cannons, and dark magic. They swarmed the ancient creature, drawing its attention as the rest of the hell horde pressed forward.

Amid the chaos, Maladrie was confronted by the Wasp Warriors’ second in command. The wasp leader moved with disciplined grace, his armor scarred and cracked, his purple energy blade humming as he stepped into her path.

Maladrie tilted her head, studying him. “I was expecting Beelzebub?”

The Wasp Warrior leader gave a simple shrug, his wings twitching behind him.

“I guess you’ll have to do, for now.”

They collided in a storm of motion. Purple energy clashed against Maladrie’s dark power as the two circled, struck, and countered. The wasp leader fought with precision and resolve, darting in with rapid slashes, forcing Maladrie back step by step. Sparks flew as weapons met armor, each blow echoing with lethal intent.

Maladrie retaliated with overwhelming strength, her strikes heavy and merciless. The ground cracked beneath her feet as she drove forward, forcing the wasp leader to defend again and again. He was fast, but every exchange left new damage etched into his armor, every block pushing him closer to exhaustion.

Still, he fought on.

In a final burst of speed, the wasp leader slipped past Maladrie’s guard and slashed across her face. The blade cut through metal and flesh—but the wound meant nothing. The damage healed almost instantly, leaving only Maladrie’s expression twisted with rage.

The strike had not harmed her.

It had only angered her.

With brutal efficiency, Maladrie ended the duel. One decisive blow sent the wasp leader to his knees, and in a single, merciless motion, she beheaded him. His body collapsed into the ruined wheat, lifeless and still.

Maladrie straightened and surveyed the battlefield.

Her warriors were cutting down the remaining Wasp Warriors with ease now, overwhelming them through sheer numbers and brutality. Purple shields flickered and failed. Energy blades dimmed and fell from grasping hands. The defenders of the River of Souls were being erased.

Only the Golden Dragon remained.

Wounded but unbroken, the ancient creature continued to fight, tearing through demonic warriors and seers alike. It seized a charging minotaur in its jaws and bit the massive creature clean in half, roaring defiantly as blood and fire spilled across the field.

Maladrie’s gaze dropped to the ground beside her.

A fallen Wasp Warrior lay still, his purple energy spear resting in the dirt beside him. Maladrie seized the weapon and retrieved a vial of the clear liquid. Without hesitation, she poured the fluid over the spear’s glowing tip, the substance hissing as it fused with the energy.

She turned toward the Dragon.

With perfect aim, Maladrie hurled the spear.

The weapon pierced straight through the Dragon’s chest, impaling its heart. The ancient protector let out one final, thunderous roar before collapsing. Its massive body struck the ground beside the last of the fallen Wasp Warriors, the light in its eyes fading at last.

Silence followed.

Maladrie had won.

The hell horde surged forward, rushing past the corpses and into the cavern beyond the wheat fields. They poured into the River of Souls’ sanctuary, sacking everything in their path, tearing through relics, structures, and sacred ground alike as the echo of destruction carried deep into the heart of the realm.

Deep within the main factory pyramid of Cybrawl, the air hummed with reclaimed purpose. The oppressive atmosphere left behind by Maladrie’s occupation was steadily being dismantled piece by piece, circuit by circuit. I stood on an elevated platform overlooking the factory floor, watching as Ikeem worked alongside Droid L-84, their movements precise and methodical as streams of data flowed across hovering holographic interfaces.

Below us, rows of Demondroids stood restrained in awakening cradles, their skeletal metal frames motionless as reprogramming sequences rewrote their corrupted cores. Sparks flickered softly, not violent this time, but controlled—surgical. The smell of ozone mixed with warm metal filled the cavernous pyramid.

“That virus worked like a charm.”

Ikeem barely looked up as he responded, his fingers still dancing across the controls. “The demons spread their malware into these machines. We just returned the favor.”

One by one, the Demondroids powered down and reactivated—this time without the orange corruption burning behind their optics. Their eyes now glowed a calm neutral hue, obedient, liberated. As the warehouse doors slid open, a fresh batch of reawakened droids stepped forward, immediately joining the others in a task that felt symbolic rather than ordered.

They were tearing down Maladrie’s banners.

Great sheets of black and white fabric, depicting that disgusting mockery—a skeletal wolf head bursting from the Wraith—were ripped from steel walls and cast aside. In their place, the Vikingnar banners were raised once more. Red and black backgrounds unfurled proudly, bearing the forward-facing white wolf skull, the white crown, and the white chainsword beneath it. Symbols of defiance. Of liberation. Of survival.

For the first time since Cybrawl fell, the city looked like itself again.

That moment of quiet victory didn’t last.

I noticed Beelzebub and Emily approaching from the far end of the platform. Their strides were purposeful, but their expressions carried weight—concern etched into every movement. Instinctively, I straightened.

“What is it?” I asked.

Beelzebub stopped a few paces away, wings folded tight against his back. “You shouldn’t get comfortable with settling back in. There’s something I have to show you two.”

We moved quickly through the pyramid’s upper halls, past massive windows that revealed Cybrawl’s breathtaking exterior—lush artificial forests interwoven with glowing conduits, waterfalls cascading beside steel spires, nature and technology existing in deliberate harmony. It was beautiful. Too beautiful, given what we were about to see.

We descended into the teleportation chamber.

The Wraith Portal stood dormant at its center, its surface like frozen smoke. I stepped forward and activated it as Beelzebub provided the coordinates. Reality folded inward, and moments later, we stepped through.

The Wraith Dimension greeted us with its familiar orange sky, heavy and oppressive. The air felt wrong—thick, stagnant. Before us stretched a dead wheat field, every stalk brittle and blackened. Scattered across the land were corpses: dead Dorses, fallen corrupted Knights, shattered demonic elites—some of them encased in translucent gelatinous cocoons, frozen in grotesque stillness.

“What the hell happened to them?”

Beelzebub had no answer—at least not at first.

As I moved closer, something caught my attention. Glass crunched beneath my boot. I knelt, lifting one of the empty vials, its surface smeared with residue. More were scattered throughout the field.

“It looks to me like these corrupted knights and a demon elite willingly drank something from these vials?”

Emily knelt beside one of the cocoons, studying it carefully. “Should we take one of these cocoons for Ikeem to study?”

“No,” I said, standing. “It will just be dead weight. It’ll slow us down.”

Instead, I took one vial that still contained traces of the clear liquid and slipped

it into my leather pouch. Beelzebub noticed and nodded. “I see smoke in the distance.”

I followed his gaze. A dark plume rose beyond the fields, twisting into the orange sky like a warning signal. We moved quickly, weaving between corpses and shattered armor, toward the cavern entrance.

“Hurry, something is not right!”

The closer we got, the worse it became. The battlefield near the cavern was annihilated. Wasp Warrior corpses littered the ground—broken wings, shattered armor, fallen energy weapons dulled and silent. The devastation was absolute. Beelzebub froze, then dropped to his knees beside a massive, unmoving form.

The Golden Dragon.

Its once radiant scales were dulled with blood and ash. Wings torn. Chest pierced. A guardian that had stood for eons—slain. Beelzebub wept in silence.

It was a deeply unsettling sight, watching a being as ancient and powerful as him mourn beside the fallen protector of the River of Souls. When he finally rose, there was no hesitation left in him—only resolve.

Inside the cavern, devastation continued. Every chamber had been ransacked. Relics smashed. Walls scorched. Sacred structures reduced to rubble. We descended deeper, until the air grew cold and hollow.

At the river docks, we stopped. The River of Souls was gone. The riverbed lay cracked and dry, its ancient channels empty. Above, the sky was wrong—there was no stargate, no radiant passage for awakened souls. The silence here was suffocating.

“I don’t understand?”

Beelzebub stared at the empty channel. “Water is what connected the Wraith Dimension to the higher realms. It helped awakened souls travel onward. That was the last known river system in the Wraith—and it’s gone.”

“So souls are trapped here?”

“Or elsewhere.”

“There’s got to be a way to fix this.”

Beelzebub turned slightly toward me. “Please tell me you’re not naïve enough to bring a hose from the physical realm to refill this dried-up riverbed?”

I shook my head. “You’re naïve to think I don’t have a viable solution. Our Drakkar spacecraft run on advanced Wraith Drives. They allow safe travel across Vikingnar intergalactic territory. There has to be a way to convert a Wraith Drive into a portal so awakened souls can travel into the higher realms after they’re deceased.”

Beelzebub considered this, then nodded slowly. “It seems like that’s our only option. But we may need the Arckons Sphere—which happens to be in enemy hands somewhere.”

Emily stepped forward, her eyes focused, certain. “I know someone who can help us find the sphere.”

“It’s settled… let’s go.”

“Wait!” Emily stopped abruptly, crouching near the riverbed. Something rested there—smooth, dark, and faintly warm.

An egg. She carefully lifted it, the object roughly the size of a football. Cracks spread across its surface, glowing faintly. We watched in silence as the shell split open and a newborn dragon emerged—red and black scales, a pronounced crest, smoke curling from its tiny nostrils.

Small. Fragile. Alive. Emily smiled.

I felt something I hadn’t in a long time. “You see, Beelzebub—not everything was lost.”

He looked at the hatchling, then at me. “I appreciate your optimism. If our roles were reversed, I guess I’d owe you one.”

With the newborn dragon cradled safely, we turned away from the dried riverbed and began walking toward the open portal ahead—leaving ruin behind us, and carrying the faint but undeniable weight of hope forward.

Meanwhile, back in the Wraith, the echoing grief left behind in the cavern, the land itself began to change.

The battlefield where the corrupted Knights and the demon elite had fallen lay unnaturally still beneath the orange sky. The wind no longer stirred the dead wheat. The scattered armor, twisted weapons, and shattered remains of mounts were half-buried beneath drifting ash and pale dust. At the center of this desolation rested the cocoons—dozens of them—bulbous, swollen, and fused to the ground as if the Wraith itself had grown tumors.

The cocoons pulsed.

At first, the movement was subtle. A slow contraction. A faint tightening of the brackish membrane that sealed them shut. The surface of each cocoon glistened with a sickly sheen, somewhere between resin and rotting sap. Thick veins ran through the semi-organic casing, glowing faintly as if something beneath them was circulating a new kind of life.

The remains of the fallen Knights were no longer still inside.

Metal armor cracked and warped as if being digested. Steel plates bent inward, drawn tight against whatever force was reshaping the contents. Bone fragments dissolved into the gelatinous mass, while corrupted circuitry sparked briefly before being absorbed and silenced. The demon elite’s cocoon was larger than the rest, its surface stretched tight, bulging in irregular shapes that shifted and pressed outward from within.

Something inside pushed back.

A wet tearing sound rippled across the field as the cocoons began to split—not cleanly, but violently. The dense casing resisted, stretching far beyond what it should have been capable of, strands of viscous matter clinging together like sinew refusing to snap. Dark fluid seeped from the fractures, pooling onto the cracked soil below and hissing faintly as it made contact with the Wraith’s corrupted ground.

Silhouettes moved inside. Whatever was hatching bore little resemblance to what had been consumed.

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CHAPTER 33: "NEW BLOOD" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"