CHAPTER 35: "TAKING CHARGE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 35: "TAKING CHARGE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The flight back to Cybrawl was wrapped in an unspoken tension. Emily and I sat in the bow of the Drakkar dropship, neither of us saying a single word. The hum of the engines and the steady rhythm of atmospheric turbulence filled the silence between us far better than conversation ever could. Behind us, the others remained seated, equally quiet—no one dared to disrupt the fragile gravity that had settled over the cabin after the execution on Una.

When our ship pierced the upper atmosphere of Cybrawl, the artificial sky shifted into view—bands of soft auroras generated by the planet’s massive shielding systems shimmered along the horizon. Emily guided the vessel downward toward the mountainous command region, where spires of obsidian metal rose like jagged teeth from the terrain. The command center itself was carved into the cliffs, its architecture a fusion of Viking angles and futuristic alloys.

Emily landed the dropship with practiced ease. The ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics. Still silent, we stepped out into the cold mountain air and walked toward the massive command doors.

Behind us, Alexandria finally broke. “Why are we here, People?” she demanded.

Emily and I didn’t even acknowledge her. Together we continued walking straight toward the two droids managing the operational controls of Cybrawl’s planetary systems. Their eyes glowed a calm azure, unbothered by the storm of emotion brewing behind us.

One of them tilted its head. “How can we assist you?”

I exhaled, turned to Emily, and said quietly, “Lead us to the Sphere, hun.”

Emily nodded once before addressing the droids. “Set the course toward the world of Verdant.”

The droid’s processors whirred. “Understood.”

Without another word, Emily and I strode out of the command center, our footsteps sharp and fast, leaving Alexandria standing there—speechless, confused, and irritated.

Outside on the landing pad, the mountain winds curled around us as everyone regrouped. The vast sky stretched over the towering black peaks, the air crisp and metallic with the scent of snowfall from the higher elevations.

Alexandria finally snapped. “What the hell was that?”

I turned sharply toward her. “What was what? You think you’re the queen of the Rus?”

Her brows tightened, more offended than startled. “I didn’t think you two would be so reactionary.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “And I didn’t think you’d be so out of touch with reality. This isn’t your timeline anymore.”

That shut everything down. No one spoke. Not Serenity. Not Cole. Not Samuel. Not even Pete.

The group fell into a heavy silence as we all faced forward, the cold wind brushing through armor, furs, and metallic plating. Together—despite tensions thick enough to distort the air—we walked across the landing platform toward the towering teleportation portal. The archway pulsed with intricate runes, each symbol lighting up one by one as our presence activated the system.

No words. No questions. Only the thrum of the portal grew louder as we crossed into its light.

Crossing through the portal felt like stepping through a sheet of cold electricity—light bending, sound dimming, the world folding in on itself before snapping back open. When the brightness faded, we found ourselves standing in the factory region of Cybrawl.

Except it didn’t look like a factory region anymore.

The landscape stretched across rolling metallic plains and natural earth, fused seamlessly: chrome pathways weaving alongside streams of luminous water, forge towers wrapped in bioluminescent vines, and industrial structures softened by growths of purple-leafed trees. The constant hum of machinery blended with the vibrant sounds of a living community.

A massive crowd had gathered—not panicked, but peaceful. Viking civilians, newly liberated, stood watching an unexpected sight in the open courtyard.

Beelzebub—hulking, horned, surprisingly gentle in his movements—was teaching Spark how to fly.

Spark beat his wings unevenly at first, nearly toppling over. Beelzebub barked a correction, wings flaring, demonstrating the proper angle. Spark tried again—lifting off the ground for a moment, hovering shakily, before landing in a stumble. The crowd cheered. Even some of the old warriors clapped proudly.

It was surreal. An entity teaching a hatchling how to fly under the watchful eyes of freed Vikings.

I scanned the horizon and noticed newly built homes rising among the structures—triangular Viking houses reinforced with graphene beams, topped with solar glass shingles that shimmered like dragon scales. The settlement had grown: families walking together, engineers repairing automated carts, children chasing holographic animals through the grass.

A small breath escaped me. “I guess… this is the hub of Cybrawl?”

Droid L-84 stepped forward beside us, its metal shell catching the glow of the nearby plasma furnaces.

“No need to keep everyone too separate, right?” the droid said, its tone casual.

“Yes,” I replied quietly. “Viking culture is everyone’s forte.”

Emily stepped closer to me as the crowd continued watching Spark’s clumsy but determined flight attempts. My friends gathered around, taking in the evolving landscape—the harmony of steel and soil, civilization and wilderness, machinery and magic.

After a moment, we turned away from the scene.

Emily, my closest friends, and I walked forward, letting the noise of the cheering crowd fade behind us. Alexandria lingered in place, her expression unreadable. Samuel, Niko, and Khamzat stayed with her, unsure whether to follow us or remain by her side.

We didn’t look back.

The portal behind us dissipated, the air growing quieter as we moved deeper into Cybrawl’s heart—toward whatever waited next in our fractured, expanding world.

Night settled over Cybrawl like a vast crystalline curtain, the artificial sky dimming into deep indigo fractals while neon circuitry pulsed faintly beneath the ground—an imitation of stars glowing underfoot. The factory region quieted, its massive assembly lines folding into standby mode, leaving only the low hum of the pyramid’s internal reactors.

The main factory pyramid—an enormous black A-frame structure forged from graphene stone and obsidian alloys—stood at the center of the district. Its surface shimmered with runic circuitry, glowing faintly like embers trapped beneath ice. Inside, the air vibrated with a mechanical heartbeat, the walls lined with forges, data slates, and ancient Viking banners embroidered with the white wolf skull emblem of the Vikingnar.

In one of the upper chambers, a soft amber light illuminated a metal table where Niko, Samuel, Khamzat, and Alexandria sat together. Tools, holo-scrolls, and ration packs were scattered around from their earlier work. The atmosphere was tense, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Alexandria broke the silence first.

“Do you think teaching William the Viking culture was a mistake?” she asked, her voice echoing faintly against the metal walls.

Samuel—a tall, medium built warrior turned toward her with confusion etched across his face. “What do you mean?”

Alexandria leaned back, arms crossed, her expression sharpened with worry. “I’m saying he’s getting too comfortable here in Valhalla. Plus he has an Immortal in him.”

Samuel let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I guess he’s getting lost in the sauce. He’s starting to use the words ‘mother’ and ‘father’ instead of saying mom or dad.”

Her statement hung in the air like a drifting ember.

Khamzat, sitting opposite them with a stern, stoic posture, raised a brow. “You knew that would happen. Prisoners get acclimated to this timeline very easily… My only question is: why are you concerned with him becoming more Viking, which was inevitable?”

Niko, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, tapped the steel surface lightly before speaking. “Because they want to control him.”

Alexandria’s jaw tightened. “They’re still prisoners. I don’t care if they consider themselves enlightened, they’re still pagan savages.”

Khamzat scoffed softly, leaning in with a half-smirk. “You sound like a good noble Christian.”

“I’m not,” Alexandria snapped back. “I’m just following protocol.”

Khamzat’s calm gaze didn’t waver. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It’s not protocol to dictate what happens in this realm. You can provide aid to the people within—nothing more, nothing less.”

Niko’s eyes narrowed, her voice low and cutting. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

With that, she stood abruptly, pushing her chair back across the metal floor. The sound echoed sharply through the chamber. Without another word, she turned and walked off toward the stairwell.

Samuel reached out instinctively, calling after her. “Come on, babe?”

But Niko didn’t slow down, didn’t look back. Her footsteps faded down the hall.

Samuel exhaled sharply, frustration contorting his face. He spun toward Khamzat. “What the fuck, bro?”

Khamzat simply lifted his shoulders in a slow, unaffected shrug. “Don’t take it personally, brother. I’m just following protocol.”

Samuel threw up his hands—half in disbelief, half in exasperation—his gestures wild and sharp against the calm, humming backdrop of the factory.

The three of them sat in the thick silence that followed, the weight of tension settling like dust.

After a long moment, Alexandria leaned forward, folding her hands. Her voice was softer now, but the edge remained.

“Relax. All I’m saying is that we should keep an eye on him.”

The factory’s lights dimmed further, casting their shadows long across the floor—four silhouettes fractured by worries, conflicting loyalties, and the shifting tides of a world still reshaping itself around them.

Cybrawl’s town square pulsed with life despite the artificial dusk. Bioluminescent vines wound up the sides of the stone-and-steel buildings, glowing violet and blue beneath the hovering light orbs strung overhead. The square—usually a place of trade, training, or festival—had become a cauldron of tension. Dozens of liberated Vikings gathered around the central platform where Olvir stood, his voice booming across the plaza.

Olvir was a broad-shouldered man with a mane of braided blond hair, eyes burning with old-world fire. His anger echoed off the steel pillars of the square.

“The Rus decided to finally show up,” he roared, pacing the stage, “after all these years to help us—after abandoning us!”

The crowd murmured, some nodding, others uneasy. His voice sharpened further when he spotted Emily, Serenity, my friends, and me weaving through the mass of people. His arm shot out, finger pointed accusingly.

“And now these demigods—if you want to call them that—are getting too close with them!”

Whispers burst through the crowd like sparks hitting dry tinder.

Olvir continued, fists clenched at his sides. “Now they won’t let us worship our gods—saying they’re dead!”

I stepped forward, caught off guard. “I wasn’t aware of that?”

Olvir jabbed a finger at me. “Well, be aware. And all of you—except Emily and Serenity—are hiding something.”

I crossed my arms. “Hiding what, exactly?”

Olvir leaned closer over the edge of the platform, as if trying to sniff out truth. “Where did you come from?”

The tension in the square condensed like a storm cloud. I took a breath, climbed up onto the platform beside him, and addressed everyone.

“My friends and I came from a future timeline. The Rus are also.”

A voice from the crowd shouted, “Future timeline?”—but I pressed on.

“The Rus used your timeline as a prison. They sent bad people from my timeline into yours.”

The square erupted with shocked chatter. Olvir raised his hand in silence, then asked: “So are you a Skógarmaðr?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea as to why I was sent here.”

Olvir’s next question cut sharply through the air. “Are the gods dead—like they claim?”

Without hesitation, I drew my sword. The metallic shriek silenced the crowd instantly. Olvir instinctively stepped back as I planted the massive blade into the stone platform with a ground-shaking thunk.

I stepped away from it. “See for yourself. See if you can pick my sword up.”

Olvir hesitated, then approached it. He wrapped both hands around the hilt, tendons bulging as he strained. The sword refused to budge—not even a tremor. He tried again, gritting his teeth, face reddening. Still nothing.

Finally he staggered back, breathless. “I guess he has the power of Thor! It's way too heavy for me to pick up!”

The citizens exploded in cheers and laughter—some slapping each other’s backs, others raising fists toward the artificial sky. The sound filled the entire district with renewed spirit, the kind Vikings carried in their blood.

As the noise died down, Olvir called out once more: “So when do we kick the Rus out of our timeline?”

I turned to face him—and the crowd. “We shouldn’t just yet. I know the Rus are sus, but they mean well. If there’s any issues—they can be dealt with, through us.”

A ripple of agreement moved through the Vikings. My friends stepped closer behind me, forming a united front.

The crowd, once divided, now seemed to breathe as one—uncertain, but reassured.

A storm was coming, but for now, Cybrawl’s heart beat steady beneath the neon sky. 

Night settled slowly over Cybrawl, the artificial stars awakening overhead—etched in deliberate constellations across the sky dome. They shimmered like cold fire, illuminating the natural-tech landscape around us as my group and I left the town square. The path wound between low A-frame homes carved from graphene-reinforced timber, with glowing blue runes pulsing along the beams like veins of ancient magic intertwined with machine logic.

Emily walked beside me at first, our boots tapping on the metallic stonework of the ground. Serenity lingered near her, silent but observant. Cole, Mathew, Elizabeth, Hanna, Pete, Jimmy, and Rick followed in a loose pack behind us. Despite the calm air, the tension from the town square discussion still clung to all of us like static.

Pete finally broke the quiet.

“Why didn’t we use a teleporter?”

I glanced back at him, seeing the faint glow of the artificial moon reflecting off his hair. “I figured we can have a chat amongst friends. What do you think of the Rus?”

Cole didn’t hesitate. “They’re a bit sus, indeed.”

That earned a few tired laughs—but only briefly. Emily moved ahead of me, cutting off my stride by stepping into my path. Her eyes—bright, focused—searched mine. “Hold on. Why do you think my gods, or our gods, still exist?”

The wind brushed through her braids as I lifted my chainsword—Revenge—just enough for its crimson metallic edge to catch the light. “Do you ever wonder where our powers come from? Especially if I’m the only one capable of wielding this chainsword.”

Emily’s gaze dropped to the blade. She studied every rune, every groove etched into the weapon. “You believe the gods gave us these abilities before their death.”

“Or,” I said quietly, “they’re still alive, and the Rus are full of shit.”

Emily’s lips curled into a slow smile. I set my hand gently against her cheek, the heat of her skin grounding me against the cool night.

“That means the gods live on after all,” she whispered.

Before I could answer, Jimmy slipped closer, brow furrowed. “So why are we here exactly?”

I looked around at each of them as we walked through the winding residential corridor lit by soft amber lamps.

“Do any of you remember what happened to you before you got sent here?”

Jimmy was the first to answer. “Pete and I got into a car accident,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We almost struck a pedestrian.”

“Almost struck a pedestrian?” I prompted. “What about everyone else?”

Cole straightened. “Mathew and I were protecting Elizabeth and Hanna from a different group of guys and gals.”

Mathew snorted. “That brawl was a mess.”

I turned to Rick—the quietest of us, always watching more than speaking. He hesitated but finally answered.

“I got into a scuffle with my cousin,” he admitted. “It got out of hand.”

A deep chill wrapped around me as puzzle pieces clicked together in my mind. “My point is that maybe we’re all prisoners. The Rus may have wiped some memories and sent us out into this medieval wilderness as punishment.”

Cole frowned. “If we’re prisoners, then why do we have powers?”

“That was Valrra’s—or the gods’—doing,” I said. “A countermeasure. Or maybe a blessing.”

Mathew raised a hand as if in class. “Maybe we were sent here by mistake?”

“Even if we were sent here by mistake,” I said, “it doesn’t matter. If it’s true that some of the population of Vikingnar were Rus prisoners… now they’re gone. The Rus may want to enforce their will onto the innocent, well-established Vikings in this timeline.”

Cole’s voice dropped lower, more serious than usual. “What do we do?”

I stopped walking. The artificial wind hushed around us, as if waiting for the answer.

“We take charge,” I said. “This realm belongs to the Vikings.”

Silence followed—but it wasn’t hostile. It was an agreement. Understanding. Unity.

We resumed walking, splitting off one by one as the path branched toward our individual A-frame homes. The night lights flickered softly, illuminating the crystalline windows, the carved runic door frames, and the homes glowing like lanterns in the deepening artificial twilight.

One by one, everyone disappeared behind their doors—leaving the quiet hum of Cybrawl to settle over the district once more. 

The main factory pyramid—once just an industrial hub, now the de facto capital of Cybrawl—loomed against the artificial twilight like a black monolith. Its A-frame silhouette cut sharply into the sky dome, every metal beam carved with glowing runes, every surface shimmering with a cold, technological sheen. Inside, the command center hummed with layered mechanical activity: conveyor belts shifting in the distance, holographic projectors flickering with real-time data, and the faint thrum of energy cores deep beneath the floors.

In the center of the room sat Alexandria and Samuel, occupying two workstations positioned beneath a towering triangular window that overlooked the entire factory district. The window framed rivers of molten metal, clusters of Viking homes, and the swirling auroras projected above Cybrawl’s sky canopy.

Samuel looked like a man barely holding himself together. He bounced a small neon bouncy ball off one of the steel walls—thunk, thunk, thunk—each impact echoing sharply.

Alexandria pinched the bridge of her nose. “You look pissed.”

Samuel froze mid-throw, hand suspended in the air before letting the ball drop into his palm. “That’s a bit of an understatement… I hate this fucking job. I was going to be an artist. Now I have to deal with Skógarmaðr.”

The final word came out bitter, almost spiteful. The sound of it drifted through the hollow chamber like an accusation.

Alexandria didn’t flinch. “We don’t even know if William killed his father.”

Samuel scoffed, tossing the ball lightly into the air and catching it again. “Then why would Valrra consider dragging him here along with his buddies?”

“That’s why I’m on edge,” Alexandria admitted, folding her arms. “And why did you even teach William art if you think he’s a Skógarmaðr?”

Samuel looked away, jaw clenching. “Back home, I was trying to be a great artist. But with the rise of AI art… people didn’t seem to care.”

The tension in the room deepened, humming beneath the fluorescent lights.

Alexandria leaned back, expression cool but edged. “Perhaps if you stuck with it, you wouldn’t be here.”

The words hit him like a knife.

“Ouch.”

Her face softened slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Samuel sighed and leaned forward on the desk, palms flat against the cold surface. “It’s okay. The rise of advanced technology was a good thing. I just… I wanted to be remembered for something great.”

He stared at a holographic interface, but his eyes didn’t focus on any of the data. They were somewhere far away—caught in memories of sketches, canvases, concepts that never saw life.

Alexandria watched him for a long moment. She knew what he was—ambitious, insecure, self-absorbed, clinging to the dream of being extraordinary without ever doing the work required. And yet, despite that, she chose not to voice it. Instead, she pushed her chair back and stood.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her uniform, “if you want to be remembered for something, you can start by keeping an eye on our mysterious friend. Even if he did what Valrra said, art is a step in the right direction.”

The statement lingered between them—half encouragement, half directive.

Alexandria left the room without another word, her footsteps fading down the metallic corridor as she went off to her duties elsewhere in the pyramid.

Samuel remained alone in the command center. The glow of the control panels reflected on his face as he leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He imagined galleries filled with his name. Applause. Holoscreens praising his work. Fame—stolen from a future that he believed was stolen from him. In his mind, he was a martyr of creativity, a victim of technological evolution.

But the truth—one he never confronted—was quieter, heavier.

His failing as an artist wasn’t AI’s fault. It was his own.

The factory pyramid hummed around him as he returned to flicking the bouncy ball against the wall.

Thunk.Thunk.Thunk.

Night had settled softly over Cybrawl, the artificial auroras casting long shimmering ribbons of blue and gold across the sky dome. The quiet hum of energy grids beneath the city blended with the distant clang of metalwork from the factory district, creating a strangely soothing symphony.

Our home—an A-frame Viking design fused with modern enhancements—rested near the edge of the settlement, overlooking miles of reinforced forest biome and glowing watch-towers in the distance. Through the rear windows, a simulated breeze gently swayed the digital leaves of the surrounding trees, making them whisper like spirits.

I noticed Emily standing alone on the back porch. Her silhouette was outlined by the pale lights above, her long hair stirring gently in the cool night wind. Something about the way she held the porch railing made my chest tighten—not out of fear, but out of instinct. Something weighed heavily on her.

I stepped outside quietly.

Aside from the fresh night air and the subtle hum of the environment generators, Emily seemed wrapped in her own world. Her shoulders rose and fell with careful breaths, as if bracing herself.

I approached her slowly. “What is it?”

Emily didn’t face me right away. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you have something on your mind.”

There was a silence—a long one. She stared out into the engineered forest, the auroras reflecting in her eyes. At last, she exhaled and whispered:

“I am pregnant.”

The world seemed to pause. Even the hum of the generators felt muted for a moment.

“Wow… I don’t know what to say to that,” I managed, voice caught somewhere between awe and shock.

Emily turned her head slightly, her expression soft but wounded. “Not thrilling to have a child with me, is it?”

My heart dropped. “I didn’t mean it like that, Emily.”

I stepped closer, reaching out gently. I paused, then continued, “Just imagine how tough it would be to raise a child in Valhalla?”

Her expression softened entirely. She closed the distance between us, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I never said it will be easy,” she murmured against my chest, “but I think we’ll pull through.”

I held her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body against the cold night air.

Emily meant well—she always did. She believed in hope, in resilience, in the best parts of humanity even when confronted with the worst this universe had to offer. But behind her, the engineered auroras flickered like distant warnings.

Because the truth weighed in my chest heavier than any weapon I carried:

Our child would grow up in a dangerous universe. A universe filled with villains, Shark People, Demons from fractured timelines, and threats lurking across star systems we had yet to chart.

This wasn’t a peaceful world. That was why I needed to do more than just exist. More than just protect those I cared about.

I needed to set this timeline on the right course—so others could survive, so children not yet born could thrive, so the chaos we inherited wouldn’t consume the future.

I needed to be more than an Immortal. More than a protector. More than a father. I needed to be a Viking—through and through— for Emily, for our child, and for every Viking who called this realm home.

Night settled heavily over Cybrawl’s expanding capital district—formerly the main factory pyramid, now transformed into a fortress of neon-lit steel, transparent glass arteries, and pulsing conduits of blue-white energy. The pyramid cast a long triangular shadow over the new tiers of the city, each level humming with the labor of liberated Viking civilians and the machinery they’d learned to command.

Outside the pyramid’s command center, Samuel walked briskly down a narrow metallic causeway, his boots clacking sharply with each step. His irritation radiated off him like static. He muttered to himself, eyes scanning every alley, every shadow, every doorway.

He was searching for someone.

He was searching for Niko.

The streets in this part of Cybrawl were dimmer, the lights lower to conserve energy during the transition hours. Walkways curved around newly converted housing blocks, some organic in shape, others still bearing the sharp industrial geometry from their factory origins.

Samuel turned down another corridor, looking increasingly agitated. He didn’t know it, but Niko was watching him.

She peered through the narrow slit of a window from inside one of the newly constructed homes—specifically Khamzat’s home. The lights were low inside, only the dim amber glow of a floor lamp illuminating her outline.

As Samuel drew close, Niko’s breath caught in her throat. She ducked beneath the window frame quickly, flattening herself against the wall. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She held her breath, eyes wide.

Outside, Samuel paused, glanced around, and then—luckily—kept walking.

Only when his footsteps faded did Niko finally exhale, shoulders sagging in relief.

Behind her, a bedroom door opened softly.

Khamzat stepped out.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, but quiet in the way mountain lions are quiet—silent, deliberate, composed. His home reflected his personality: minimal decoration, a few traditional woven fabrics hung on the walls, a weapons rack near the door, and a strong smell of resin and herbs that came from the medicinal supplies he kept.

Khamzat looked at her with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Niko swallowed and stood up. “I must’ve gotten lost.”

The lie was thin, fragile as glass, but Khamzat didn’t immediately challenge her. Instead, his eyes caught on something else—a dark bruise blooming along the side of her neck.

His expression changed.

Khamzat stepped forward, slow but deliberate, and gently took Niko’s hand. “How many times has he hurt you?”

Niko immediately pulled her hand away, turning her face. “It’s nothing.”

The denial was automatic, rehearsed—like she’d said those same words many times before.

Khamzat’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t push her.

“Do you have anywhere to stay?”

Niko shook her head.

Quietly—without hesitation—Khamzat nodded toward the interior of the home. “Stay here.”

The simplicity of the offer, the lack of judgment or interrogation, made Niko’s shoulders ease just slightly. She stepped further into the living space.

After a moment, she asked softly, “Could you help rub cream on my neck?”

There was a vulnerability in her voice—not seductive, but exhausted. She just wanted the pain to stop.

Niko sat on the couch, pulling the zipper of her jumpsuit halfway down to reveal her undershirt and bare arms. The bruise on her neck looked worse under the lamplight—dark, swollen, angry.

Khamzat hesitated.

His introverted nature showed immediately: stiff posture, uncertain eyes, hands fidgeting subtly. He wasn’t used to physical closeness with strangers—especially women—and the situation made him visibly uncomfortable.

But he pushed past his discomfort. This wasn’t about him. This was a woman in pain.

He sat beside her, opened a small jar of arnica cream, and gently began to rub the ointment into the discolored skin. His hands were big, careful, steady.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Khamzat finally asked, “How did an Asian end up in the Viking realm?”

Niko let out a small, humorless laugh. “I just decided to follow my partner—if you even want to call him that.”

Khamzat continued working the cream in slow, careful circles.

“Do you guys have kids back home?” he asked.

Niko looked down. “No… In fact, Samuel doesn’t want kids. He takes more interest in his self-image than me.”

Khamzat’s eyes darkened. He had always known Samuel was unusual—arrogant, self-centered, too entranced by his own reflection—but hearing it from Niko made the realization sharper.

He stayed silent until Niko asked softly, “What about you?”

Khamzat stopped moving for a moment.

“I had a wife and kids once… They were murdered by a Christian man.”

Niko’s eyes widened, lips parting in shock.

Khamzat’s voice stayed steady, but there was a tremor beneath the surface—an old wound reopening.

“I tried to stop him, but I got seriously injured, and my family was no more…”

He took a slow breath. “After that traumatic event, my only option for survival was to switch bodies. Afterwards, I heard my family’s killer was shipped here into Valhalla, and I signed up for this job to look for him.”

Niko asked quietly, “Did you find him?”

Khamzat nodded once. “Actually, William found him first… and murdered him.” He let out a small, bitter chuckle.

Niko frowned. “How do you know?”

“I know,” Khamzat said simply, “because I checked records.”

His certainty hung in the room like a quiet verdict. Niko said nothing—only lowered her eyes, her expression caught between fear and relief, guilt and gratitude. And Khamzat, silent again, capped the jar of arnica cream and set it aside, letting the night settle between them like a fragile truce.

Far from Khamzat’s quiet home—past the residential ring, beyond the automated farms, and over the humming shield-barriers—Samuel wandered alone into the outer wilds of Cybrawl.

The night was alive with pale blue light.

Here, the metal-plated ground transitioned to a more organic terrain—soft nano-soil mixed with mosses genetically engineered centuries ago by the Red Dragon Empire. Towering bioluminescent trees rose like cathedral spires, their bark glowing with rivers of drifting blue-white veins, swaying gently in the artificial wind patterns that kept Cybrawl’s ecosystem alive.

Their glow lit the wilderness like a dreamscape—eerie, quiet, beautiful, and isolating.

Samuel walked without purpose, his boots crunching softly over the luminous underbrush. His clothes were disheveled, his eyes distant. In one trembling hand, he clutched a mirror—small, rectangular, metallic, polished to a perfect sheen. He held it as if it were some holy artifact.

Up ahead, a ridge rose gently from the landscape. The hill was crowned with a cluster of tall glowing trees that looked like blue torches piercing the darkness. Samuel climbed toward them, breathing hard, muttering under his breath.

When he reached the top, he looked around the glowing wilderness—empty, silent, untouched by Viking reconstruction crews. Satisfied he was alone, he knelt down.

He set the mirror carefully against the trunk of one of the giant bioluminescent trees. The glass caught the tree’s glow and fractured it into shimmering blues and whites, casting ghostlike reflections across Samuel’s face.

He leaned forward.

He stared at his own reflection with a trembling intensity that bordered on worship. His breath hitched. His shoulders shook.

Then he began to cry.

It started quietly—soft, stuttering breaths, tears dripping onto the glowing grass. But the more he stared at himself, the more the grief twisted, turned, and became something raw… something unrestrained.

Samuel suddenly let out a scream.

It ripped through the glowing trees like a blade—high, desperate, unhinged. The cry echoed across the hills and valleys, startling small nocturnal creatures and making several wyverns perched high on aerial towers hiss in confusion.

His voice carried farther than he intended.

It carried all the way to my house.

I was on my back porch, leaning against the railing, staring into the vast night beyond Cybrawl’s domestic zone. The sky shimmered with faint traces of warp dust from distant starships, and the neon reflection of the city danced faintly against the low-orbit shield.

But the scream pulled my attention sharply.

I activated my binoculars, their lenses adjusting automatically to the darkness. I scanned the horizon until the image stabilized on a hill far off to the west, near the glowing grove.

There—small, shaking, kneeling in front of a tree—was Samuel. 

I watched silently.

He clutched something metallic. The mirror. He pressed his forehead to it like a pilgrim kneeling before a shrine. He didn’t notice anyone, didn’t sense anyone watching him. The scene felt wrong—like catching a glimpse into someone’s fractured soul.

Then the sliding door behind me opened.

Soft footsteps padded onto the porch. Emily’s silhouette emerged, her hair messy from sleep, her presence warm against the cold metallic night air.

She rubbed her eyes and asked, “What’s that noise? And are you coming to bed?”

I lowered my binoculars and turned to face her, letting the strange event fall behind my expression like a closing curtain.

“Sorry, love,” I said gently. “It was just the wyverns acting up.”

Emily sighed, accepting the explanation without suspicion. She turned, walking back inside, her hips swaying the way they always did—effortless, natural, hypnotic. I followed her sweet booty back to bed, the door sliding shut behind us, sealing out the cold air… and with it, the eerie sight of Samuel kneeling under glowing alien trees, worshipping his own reflection in the dark.

For now, I left the strange, distant encounter behind me. But deep down, I knew the universe rarely allowed such moments to be meaningless.

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CHAPTER 35: "TAKING CHARGE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"