CHAPTER 8: “ESCAPE PART ONE” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA”

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 8: “ESCAPE PART ONE” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA”

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The air was different—sterile, calm, unnaturally serene. I awoke slowly, the heaviness in my limbs melting away as consciousness returned like a tide creeping over forgotten sand. My eyes opened to the sight of a white ceiling, the kind used in hospital rooms or modern minimalist interiors. The walls around me were the same pale shade, unmarred, too clean. A thin layer of sunlight drifted in through sheer curtains over a tall, narrow window. The light looked natural, soft—like the beginning of a quiet morning. But it wasn’t Earth’s sun. I knew that much in my bones.

I sat up in bed. The sheets were crisp, the mattress supportive but not too firm. I was fully clothed in my usual leather gear—jacket, pants, and boots—freshly laundered and laid on me with eerie precision. No wrinkles. No dust. As if someone had redressed me while I slept and did so with the care of a dollmaker.

I inhaled.

There was the scent of frying batter. Sweet, familiar. Pancakes.

Pancakes?

I rose from the bed cautiously. The floor beneath me was smooth wood, polished to a shine, and the only sound in the apartment—if that’s what this was—came from the soft sizzling of a skillet and the occasional clink of utensils. The layout was familiar. Cozy, modern. Open-plan kitchen with a sleek island countertop, glass dining table, and chrome chairs.

And she was there.

At the stove, standing in the golden shafts of alien sunlight, was Madeline. Or rather, Maladrie—disguised again in the flesh of Madeline Scoggin. She wore a black, form-fitting dress that hugged her curves like liquid ink. Her black leather thigh boots made soft taps on the floor as she shifted her weight, flipping a pancake with effortless grace. Her long hair was down, perfectly styled. Her skin had that impossible glow, too pristine for a mortal woman. Yet she looked warm, inviting. Human.

Her head turned over one shoulder, eyes catching mine like velvet snare.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” she said with a teasing smirk. “You're awake, and I made your favorite.”

Then, as if to emphasize the casual absurdity of it all, she lifted one leg playfully in the air—an exaggerated pose of affection, reminiscent of an old romance holo.

We sat at the glass table, a silent agreement between predator and guest. She sat closer than I expected, thigh brushing against mine beneath the table as she placed a small stack of pancakes before me, perfectly cooked. Butter melting in the center, syrup already drizzled. My mouth watered despite the surrealism of it all.

We began eating.

The fork felt real in my hand. The food tasted rich, just like home—maybe even better. My stomach welcomed the warmth after so long in cold, dark places. For a moment, it felt almost safe.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the device.

It looked like a standard-issue Wraith comm, but in this place, it had a different purpose. I swiped the screen, and images of artificial women began to appear—Instagram models, scantily clad, striking exaggerated poses designed for attention. Digital flesh. Simulated allure.

I kept scrolling. Not obsessively, but casually. Curiously. Testing the illusion.

Madeline—Maladrie—glanced over but didn’t protest. Instead, she smiled faintly and returned to her meal, cutting into a piece of pancake with dainty precision.

I turned to her. She was too close, her breath subtly scented with something floral and alien. I spoke, but not for confrontation. More like asking a question in a dream.

Was this alright? This strange dynamic? This surreal relationship crafted from desire and control?

She answered without flinching, her voice calm, tinged with honey and steel.

“I’m okay with you pleasing yourself with those girls,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “They’re on a screen anyway. As long as you don’t love them… your heart belongs to me, Will.”

Her words echoed—not just in the room, but in my mind. They vibrated on some inner frequency, digging into places I didn’t realize were still vulnerable.

The moment hung in limbo. Outside the window, the sun never shifted. Time refused to advance. The pancakes stayed warm, and the syrup never hardened.

I kept eating, phone resting beside my plate.

There was no background noise. No birds. No wind. Only the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing beside me, like a metronome guiding a life that wasn’t real.

I looked at her again. Her smile never faded. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes held a thousand lifetimes of manipulation and madness, masked behind the pretty face of a woman I used to know.

And at that moment, I wasn’t sure if I had escaped the horror…

…or simply entered a more seductive layer of the Wraith.

The illusion shattered slowly, piece by piece—like frost cracking beneath the heel of something warm and living.

Madeline’s black-gloved hands slid across the smooth surface of the glass dining table, her fingers tracing invisible lines in syrup and butter, ruining the perfect breakfast like a painting scraped with a razor. Her eyes locked on mine as she climbed sensually across the table, knees knocking against plates, her movements deliberate—fluid like oil, but hollow in a way that twisted something in my chest.

Above her, the chandelier trembled as she grabbed it with one hand, swinging slightly, boots gliding across the slick surface. Her dance was grotesque in its beauty—like a marionette forced into eroticism. She leaned in, close, breath warm and sweet with sugar and rot.

She crawled to the edge of the table, slowly lowering herself until her lips were just inches from mine. Her voice emerged in that falsely coy tone she often used to soften the horror.

“Do you think I’m sexy, Silly Willy?”

The mask cracked.

For a split second, I saw it—not the alluring face of Madeline, but the truth buried beneath: glowing yellow eyes stretched across leathery orange skin, horns curling like sickened bone above a brow marked by ancient runes. Her lips, once soft and red, now blackened and pulsing with alien rot. Her body still retained its humanoid curves, but beneath the dress, her form was slick with a chitinous sheen, insectile and wrong.

It was a flash—barely a blink—but it was enough.

My breath caught. I stumbled back from the table, my chair screeching against the floor as I crashed into the sterile white wall behind me. I stayed pressed there, heart hammering against my ribs, the room suddenly too small and too quiet.

And then I heard it.

The clicking. A rhythmic tapping. Not boots or claws this time—but the unmistakable sound of keyboard typing. Not frantic, but consistent—focused, like someone working late into the night.

I turned away from Madeline’s poised form, now still atop the table. I moved quickly—past the overturned plate of pancakes, through the narrow hall leading to the bedroom door. The air shifted here, cooler, thicker with static.

I turned the knob.

Inside, the lighting was different. Dimmer, soft green LEDs under a desk casting a strange glow across the room. The walls were lined with worn posters, scattered notes pinned with thumbtacks. And at the center of it all—sitting at a computer desk—was a Proboscis monkey.

Its long, awkward nose bobbed with each keystroke. Its little hands moved rapidly over the keyboard with a kind of purpose that was utterly surreal. The monkey wore nothing but a pair of round glasses that were too big for its head, and it didn’t even look up when I entered. It just typed—page after page of something I couldn’t read from a distance.

To the left of the desk, lying on a bean bag soaked in golden sunlight, was a golden dachshund-retriever mix, wagging its tail lazily as it chewed its way through a mountainous pile of bacon. The smell was overwhelming—grease and salt and meat, way too much for a dog that small. Its belly was bloated, sides expanding with each bite, its mouth covered in sticky grease, eyes half-lidded in dumb satisfaction.

The contrast hit me like a jolt. This wasn’t just absurd. It was calculated chaos. A constructed fever dream that wore the skin of peace while the wires of madness twitched beneath.

Without thinking, I moved forward and gathered them both—the monkey still typing even as I lifted it from its seat, the dog letting out a lazy whine but otherwise uninterested. Their bodies felt real. Warm. Breathing. But their placement in this twisted narrative was deliberate—symbols, maybe. Or distractions.

I cradled them both and pushed back through the bedroom door.

Madeline was waiting at the table, one leg still perched, syrup now dripping from her thigh like a wound. She cocked her head as I approached, but didn’t speak. I gave her a forced smile, trying to mask the rising unease in my gut.

"I want to get some excessive, pleasureful fresh air," I said, forcing calm into the words.

She tilted her head again, smirked, and gestured with her hand—as if to say, ‘Be my guest.’

And just like that, the pressure around the room lessened. The illusion remained, but the spell of obedience weakened, as if she believed I was playing her game.

I turned toward the glass door at the back of the kitchen—now visible like a forgotten exit in a dream. I stepped out, dog and monkey still in my arms.

The world outside was nothing like the apartment. The sky above was orange, flickering with aurora-like currents. Towering alien trees twisted upward like frozen smoke, and the ground pulsed beneath my feet, alive with veins of glowing red light.

I didn’t know where I was headed yet—but anything was better than the nightmare masquerading as a domestic paradise.

Somewhere behind me, the door clicked shut.

And somewhere far beneath this world’s surface, I knew Maladrie was still watching. Still waiting.

The wheat fields stretched endlessly in every direction—each stalk a burnt orange hue, waving softly in an invisible wind that didn’t stir the air on my skin. It was quiet. The kind of stillness that feels rehearsed, like the world itself was holding its breath. The sun—or whatever passed for it in the Wraith—hung low and bloated on the horizon, dripping molten color across the land like paint spilled across a canvas. It bathed everything in an amber glow that made the dog’s golden fur shimmer and the monkey’s glassy eyes reflect like crystal marbles.

Despite the beauty, the wrongness was palpable. The sky bore no stars, only those roiling demonic clouds, rolling and boiling like a cauldron on the cusp of eruption. Shapes moved behind the clouds—massive silhouettes that didn’t cast shadows, things with wings too wide and limbs too many. But they kept their distance, content to circle above like vultures waiting for the earth to bleed.

The ground beneath us felt soft, like it had recently rained, but there was no mud. Just a spongy texture, like damp fabric stretched across stone. My boots left slight impressions with every step. The monkey clung to my shoulder, eyes focused ahead, silent as ever. The dog trotted alongside, tongue lolling, belly swinging beneath it as it panted rhythmically—more a walking stomach than a companion, but oddly endearing in its idiotic contentment.

In the distance, the reflective object continued to blink.

Dot. Dot-dot. Dash.

It shimmered like polished chrome beneath the hazy sky, though there was no source of direct light. Something unnatural. Its rhythm pulsed across the field, hypnotic. Not mechanical, not quite biological either. But intelligent. Purposeful. Like a beacon or a lure.

I hesitated, glancing back at the small house behind me.

From here, the house looked like any suburban dream—white trim, a tiny porch, smoke curling from the chimney in lazy swirls. But in this orange world, it was a wound on the landscape. A lie pressed into the truth. I imagined Madeline still inside, draped across the dining table like a cat waiting to pounce, claws hidden behind that crooked smile. Maybe she already knew I’d left. Maybe she always knew.

Still, no shapes moved behind the windows. No eyes watching.

I continued toward the blinking light.

The further I walked, the more surreal the world became. The wheat began to grow taller—no longer reaching my waist, but now brushing against my shoulders, swaying in a rhythm that felt almost sentient. The stalks had subtle faces now—faint impressions like screaming mouths or wide, unblinking eyes stretched beneath the papery skin of the wheat’s surface. They shifted subtly when I wasn’t looking, but froze the moment I stared too long. A trick of the light. A trick of the Wraith.

The monkey dug its fingers into my collar, pressing its head against mine as if trying to shield its gaze. The dog kept walking, wagging its tail like none of this mattered. Like none of it was real.

Then I saw it.

The reflective object wasn’t a machine at all.

It was a mirror.

Suspended in midair. Thin as breath. Eight feet tall, four feet wide. Its edges were carved with delicate runes that glowed dimly, like coals beneath ash. The glass itself rippled like the surface of a still pond, reflecting not me, but something stranger.

My reflection stood inside the mirror, but it wasn’t a copy.

It was me—same clothes, same scars, same weight on the shoulders—but his eyes… they burned white. And behind him was no orange field, no Wraith-sky, no chittering monkey or bacon-fattened dog. Behind him was a cold, infinite black dotted with stars—real stars, constellations that tugged at my memory like half-forgotten dreams. Behind him was space.

The reflection raised its hand slowly. Not mimicking me. Guiding me.

It pointed to the behind me. The mirror broke.

I cradled the mirror shard in my palm, its surface warm, humming with an electric vibration that pulsed up my arm. It was like holding a sliver of awareness—something that remembered more than it showed. Its surface shimmered with residual visions: stars, broken temples, pieces of Earth I hadn’t seen since childhood. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it meant something. I turned the fragment over just as the air behind me thickened with a deep, droning buzz.

Instinctively, I turned, teeth gritted, eyes narrowed.

A massive silhouette stood on the edge of the wheat field—glowing softly in the burnt-orange haze, wings folded behind him like stained glass marred by ancient soot. His insectoid legs clicked gently as he stepped forward, and his eyes, compound and reflective, captured the horizon in a kaleidoscope of distorted light. He bowed slightly at the waist with an oddly regal presence for something so alien.

“I mean you no harm,” the creature said, his voice reverberating inside my head more than in my ears. “I am Beelzebub. Once the Lord of the Flies. Now... Lord of the Wasps.”

I didn’t lower my guard. Not yet.

Beelzebub tilted his head, sensing my suspicion. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’ve met the goddess of excess. She wears a thousand skins. All of them are beautiful. All of them are traps.” His antennae twitched. “But I am not her. I bring no illusion. Only truth, decayed and winged though it may be.”

He stepped aside and motioned for me to follow. My dog waddled forward stupidly, sniffing his clawed feet with innocent trust. The monkey clung tighter to my neck, chittering nervously.

Beelzebub’s wings flared once as he turned and began to walk, cutting a path through the wheat. I followed, still wary, but drawn by curiosity and something else—a subtle gravity, like the mirror piece I held, was vibrating in resonance with his presence.

We traveled in silence across the field until it broke open into a vast clearing.

The wheat gave way to a garden unlike anything I had seen.

It was a graveyard made from reverence.

Massive statues of beings long forgotten stood in solemn poses, half-crumbling, frozen mid-gesture like actors who had outlived their audience. Some wore armor that flaked like rusted memory. Others held scrolls, spears, branches, all made from ancient stone. Cracks webbed across their faces—yet sorrow was etched into their features. Wings folded, crowns shattered, hands raised as if in eternal plea.

Beelzebub raised one clawed hand toward the statues.

“These are the fallen gods,” he said softly. “They were once fed by the belief of mortals. Prayers, fear, worship, even hatred—it all gave us form, gave us shape. Gave us power.”

He moved closer to a statue of a serene woman, vines curled around her waist like chains. Her eyes had been chipped away, her hands missing.

“But when mortals ceased to believe, when the world turned to machines and noise and light, they forgot. And we… we turned to stone.”

His voice grew somber.

“That’s what happens when no one remembers. When no one feels. We wither. And we crumble.”

I looked around the garden. The statues were endless—spiraling off toward the misty edge of the horizon. Each one is unique. Each one bearing the signature of an entire age that had passed away, unnoticed.

“Is this… Ragnarok?” I asked, quietly.

Beelzebub nodded. “And the judgment that comes with it. Not from a single god, mind you—but from neglect. From a lack of intensity. No more love so strong it could split worlds. No more terror so vast it could shake the sky. The gods are starving, William. The Cult of Excess has devoured the emotions that once sustained the balance.”

His words made my skin crawl. I turned back to him.

“Then how are you still alive?” I asked.

The wasp god’s wings buzzed, but not aggressively. Almost like a heartbeat.

“I went underground. Beneath this realm, where light doesn’t reach and dreams decay. I built a cocoon and thought for many centuries.” He looked up at the sky, then back at me. “I once sowed plague. I was filth, pestilence, and rot. That was my domain. But the world changed. Immunity rose. The mortals grew stronger, cleaner. Even I… fell ill from irrelevance.”

He spread his clawed hands, as though showing me the scars.

“But in that isolation, I pondered a new purpose. A way to rejoin existence without consuming it. And so I chose to become a god of healing.”

His eyes sparkled for a moment—not with malice, but resolve. “Not because I seek to be worshipped again. But because the Wraith is failing. It’s become too unstable for souls to pass through safely. Maladrie and the Cult of Excess have torn holes in the cycle. Souls don’t reincarnate anymore. They dissolve. Or worse—become fuel for her.”

He turned away, walking through the statues again. I followed.

“Your arrival isn’t random,” Beelzebub continued. “You carry something inside you. Something the Cult wants. And something we need to restore balance.”

“What do I carry?” I asked.

Beelzebub looked back over his shoulder.

“You have an immortal inside of you.”

I gripped the mirror fragment tighter in my hand. It pulsed—responding to the truth. I had no idea what it meant yet, but I could feel it mattered.

We stopped before a crumbled statue. This one was different—familiar somehow. Its face was mostly eroded, but a sword carved from obsidian still rested at its side. Something about it chilled me. My monkey trembled slightly, clinging to my chest.

Beelzebub placed a claw against the statue’s stone chest and spoke.

“You were once one of us, William. Before time split, before memory was severed. Before your flesh became a suit of armor.”

He turned to me, mandibles clicking in a faint rhythm.

“And now… you must become more than that.”

A wind swept across the garden, carrying with it whispers that weren’t quite language. The dog barked once. The monkey whimpered.

The Wraith shifted again.

And I realized—I hadn’t escaped Madeline’s dream.

Not yet.

The descent into the cavern was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—not just a movement downward, but a shift in atmosphere, sensation, even gravity. The air grew warmer, fragrant with a sharp, mineral tang, like the breath of an ancient volcano tamed by flora. Soft orange grass coated the floor like velvet moss, glowing slightly beneath our feet with bioluminescent speckles that pulsed in time with some invisible heartbeat deep within the planet.

Vines coiled up the sides of crystalline columns, which sprouted from the earth like massive, transparent trees. Flowers bloomed on them—amber and tangerine petals like delicate solar flares—and between them were wasp and bee-like entities, each distinctly humanoid in posture, yet fully insectoid in nature. Their wings glistened with resinous iridescence. They worked in synchronized harmony, mining from the earth with precision tools forged from brass and bone. Instead of chaos, there was serenity. These creatures didn’t buzz with menace—they moved like physicians in a sanctum, extracting minerals essential for something greater than power. For healing.

“Welcome to the Underbloom,” Beelzebub said as we entered the core of the cavern. His voice echoed against the crystalline walls like a low, reverent hymn. “This is where the forgotten forces tend to the restoration of soul resonance. These insects you see? They once haunted human dreams as nightmares. Now they serve as healers, caretakers of broken frequencies.”

At the center of this living biome was a monolithic table—grown rather than constructed. Its edges were smooth and curved, as if molded by thought instead of hand. The surface was metallic but alive, shifting in hue between gunmetal gray and deep obsidian. It pulsed softly, waiting.

“Lie down,” Beelzebub said.

I hesitated. Every instinct told me to run. But the mirror shard in my pocket buzzed like it was urging me forward. So I stepped onto the platform and laid myself across its surface, the orange grass whispering as it bent away from my boots.

Beelzebub walked beside me, holding two stones—one a bright, translucent green that vibrated like it was alive; the other, a deep orange that shimmered like heated honey trapped in amber.

“The body is a receiver, William. A filter. You’ve buried truths inside yourself. Hidden data. Forgotten feelings. These stones work not by sorcery, but by frequency. Magic,” he added, “is simply science yet to be codified.”

He placed the green stone gently upon my chest, directly over my heart. I could feel its energy hum into my bones. The orange stone he placed just above my groin, where ancient traditions once said the soul rooted itself to the flesh. Together, the two began to glow—not harshly, but like embers waking from a long sleep.

Then something happened.

My chest began to rise unnaturally, a magnetic pull lifting something intangible out of me. I clenched my fists instinctively, but there was no pain. Just release. A warmth filled my ribs and moved upward, then outward. Like smoke given shape, a luminous orb of energy emerged—glowing, swirling, shaped by memory and thought. As it drifted into the air, it condensed, solidifying.

A small, sleek data device—black, triangular, with a glowing silver emblem on its face—settled into Beelzebub’s palm.

“Hidden in plain sight,” he said, placing the device gently on my lap as the stones dimmed and rolled off my body. “Buried deep inside your nervous system, locked away with emotion you refused to face. But it’s out now. The stonework did its part.”

I sat up slowly, a shiver running down my back. The table was still warm, like it had just healed a wound. My monkey sat on a nearby crystal, watching me with intelligent eyes. The dog lay in the grass, tail wagging lazily.

I looked at the device.

“Go on,” Beelzebub said, “open it.”

With trembling fingers, I unlocked the mechanism. A soft chime echoed from the device as it projected a holographic screen above itself. Dozens of files, data logs, archived transmissions. One folder blinked slowly—“EMILY EAGLE – PRIORITY.”

I tapped it.

Her image appeared first. A woman with black hair cascading down her shoulders, olive-green eyes like dew-covered moss, and pale skin that seemed to glow under a subtle digital light. The sight of her made something twist inside my gut. Not recognition. Not yet. But the echo of something old—something holy.

I frowned. “I don’t… I don’t remember her.”

Beelzebub placed a clawed hand on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “You weren’t meant to remember Emily. Not until now. You’ve been navigating a reality without your past—just fragments. Dreams. But to move forward, you have to fall. Hit rock bottom. Burn through illusion. Now the climb begins.”

The hologram shifted, cycling through images—me and her standing together on a beach under a twin-sunned sky. Another of us in a forest city surrounded by futuristic towers wrapped in ivy. Then… a shot of her alone, surrounded by flames. She was screaming. Reaching.

I looked away.

Beelzebub handed me something else. A chunk of deep black stone that glittered faintly despite the low light. Shungite.

“Protection,” he said. “This stone grounds electromagnetic chaos. Interdimensional interference. It will guard your mind from psychic intrusion.”

Then he held out more—small gifts. A ring forged from polished bone. A single golden rose encased in glass. A tiny orb that contained a suspended starlight—barely brighter than a firefly.

“For Emily,” he said. “Each gift is a memory. You’ll know when to give them. These will anchor your love to reality again.”

I took them carefully, the weight of responsibility dawning in my chest.

The wasp god stood straight again, his wings unfolding in the ambient glow of the Underbloom.

“There is much still to face. The Cult will not allow reunion without resistance. And Maladrie has no intention of letting you ascend. But with what you now carry—truth, love, memory—you have a chance.”

He stepped aside, gesturing to a nearby tunnel leading out into the deeper Wraith.

The deeper we descended into the underground garden, the more surreal it became. The architecture no longer resembled tunnels but massive cathedral-like arteries carved from the bones of extinct colossi. Bioluminescent vines twisted through the ceilings, their amber and violet lights refracting through crystalline fungi that pulsated in response to our movement. The air shimmered like static between worlds, thick with pollen and magnetic ions. Everything down here had the surreal quality of being both ancient and unborn at once, like walking through the dreams of a dying planet.

And then, through the haze of orange blossoms and shimmering mist, I saw him.

Deathskull.

He stood near the base of a petrified root system that twisted like a throne grown from ancient sorrow. His armor was scorched in places, his cloak tattered, but his eyes—those glowing, unblinking skull-like sockets—were sharp, alive with grim determination.

I approached slowly, disbelieving. “Deathskull?”

He turned, his jaw clenching slightly as if holding back a tidal wave of emotion.

“I was rescued,” he said simply. “By him.” He gestured toward Beelzebub, who stood quietly behind me, his wings folded like cathedral windows. “Lord of the Wasps… He found me before the Wraith could devour my essence. Pulled me out just before I became something… else.”

Deathskull’s voice carried weight—like a soldier returned from the frontlines of a forgotten war.

I narrowed my gaze. “What did you see?”

He looked away for a moment. “The Region of Lust and Excess. It’s worse than the outer edges of the Wraith. That place isn’t just corrupted—it’s seductive. Addictive. It doesn’t just feed on you; it convinces you to feed on yourself.”

I nodded grimly. “The other legions are gone,” I said. “Maladrie crushed them. The Lord of Violence—Caine—serves her now. The rest of the dark gods? Slain. Devoured. Forgotten.”

Deathskull exhaled, a low, metallic rasp. “Then it’s worse than I feared. That means she… Maladrie… is evolving faster than we expected. She didn’t conquer through bloodshed alone. She seduced the universe. One pleasure at a time.”

I crouched near a phosphorescent flower, brushing my fingers along its pulsating petals. “The militant control groups—those faith-driven tyrants? They’re extinct. They discovered their greatest pleasure wasn’t devotion—it was murder. When they unraveled, some tried to overcome their urges. But others… gave in. They pledged themselves to her.”

“That explains everything,” Deathskull muttered. “In the physical realm, we thought we were fighting political disputes. Cultural divides. Civil wars. But those were just symptoms. The real war… It was spiritual. Psychological. Emotional.”

“Control,” I agreed. “But not through doctrine anymore. Through indulgence.”

Deathskull stared into the abyssal glow of the garden’s horizon, where strange insectoid priests floated above pools of glowing nectar, their antennae weaving complex gestures in the air like monks lost in prayer.

“She’s reshaped the battlefield,” he said. “Made it so subtle that no one notices they’ve already surrendered. Porn. Junk food. Narcotics. It starts as stress relief. But it becomes parasitic. These things steal your drive, your purpose. They dull you until you can’t recognize the enemy.”

“In Vikingnar,” he continued, “I saw it spreading. Citizens becoming bloated with stimuli—yet starving for meaning. Everything became entertainment. Everything, a distraction. And now? They don’t care who dies, as long as they feel good.”

A silence settled over us, thick with unspoken grief. Even the insects mining around us seemed to pause in reverence.

“We need to get out of this hellhole,” I finally said. “People need to know what’s coming.”

Beelzebub stepped forward. “Then let us do what your world forgot how to do,” he said. “Let us raise someone from the dead who still remembers the truth. Someone whose soul resonates with clarity.”

I blinked. “You can do that?”

Beelzebub’s wings shimmered, shifting through hues of molten gold and copper. “Only if their essence still echoes. Only if their bond with you is strong enough to call them back.”

Serenity.

The name rose in my mind like an ember catching wind. She had once been a guiding light, a warrior of purity and conviction. She was trustworthy. Loyal. And she had died defending us.

“Serenity,” I said aloud.

Deathskull looked at me sharply. “You think she can come back?”

“She’s the only one I’d trust with the message,” I replied.

Beelzebub nodded solemnly. “Then follow me.”

We ventured through a passage lined with walls that looked like they had been carved by wasp mandibles—intricate honeycomb patterns filled with glowing data-runes, ancient and futuristic at once. We emerged into the Armory of Resonance—a chamber unlike anything I’d seen before.

The Armory of Resonance roared with energy as we descended deeper into its sacred heart.

Crimson veins of power pulsed through the blackened stone, arcing like lightning into massive pillars that surrounded the chamber. These columns were carved with the names of the fallen—etched in ancient glyphs, some human, some alien, others incomprehensible. Between each pillar, walls of weapons shimmered under magnetic force fields: plasma-edged axes, psionic bows, vibroblades made of folded light, and armor suits suspended mid-air in perceptual readiness.

In the center of the chamber, a massive circular pit opened up like a crater. Inside, glowing armor discs floated within a rotating gyroscopic framework. Each disc spun with a hum of restrained violence, whispering ancient code and spiritual intent.

Beelzebub stepped forward, his clawed fingers outstretched. “These are the soulbound armor discs. Each forged with the essence of warriors long passed and the memory of wars long forgotten. Choose one that resonates with your spirit.”

Deathskull didn’t hesitate—he reached in and grabbed a disc pulsing with dark violet light. It clamped to his chest, liquefying into his body before hardening into sleek, biomechanical plates that merged with his skeletal exosuit. Serrated shoulder blades formed instantly. Twin scythe-like swords emerged from his back.

I approached the pit. Beelzebub reached in and pulled out a matte black disc with red tracer lines, like veins of molten lava sealed within obsidian.

“This one’s yours,” he said, handing it to me with reverence. “Deathskull and I made a few… modifications.”

The disc felt warm in my palm—alive. A subtle vibration ran through my bones the moment I touched it.

“What kind of modifications?” I asked.

Deathskull chuckled darkly. “You’ll see. Just activate it.”

I pressed the central rune, and the disc cracked open with a sharp hiss. It floated away from my palm, scanning my body in vertical sweeps. Then—boom—it exploded in a silent shockwave of nanites and light, forming plates across my chest, arms, legs, and helmet in mere seconds. It felt weightless, yet unbreakable.

A HUD blinked to life inside my visor, powered by a hybrid AI—probably stitched together from fragments of Deathskull’s own neural mesh. The chainsword icon pulsed in the top left corner. Next to it, a new glyph shimmered: RAGNITE CORE INITIATED.

Everyone else followed suit, stepping forward to claim their gear. The room pulsed with the energy of rebirth, as if we were not just suiting up, but being rewritten into symbols of defiance against the Wraith.

“I’ve been collecting gear like this for ages,” Beelzebub said, walking toward the rear of the armory. “From fallen troops. From forgotten worlds. The war for pleasure has been going on longer than your ancestors have breathed air.”

He waved his hand and a secondary vault opened.

Inside—weaponry arranged like a cathedral’s altar. On the walls, runed swords and axes hung like relics of dead gods. Blasters of unimaginable design sat in glass panels, humming with condensed starlight.

But in the center of it all… floated my chainsword.

It hovered, slowly rotating, its black hilt coated in ancient script. Red lightning danced across its teeth as it spun, the blade infused with both technological wrath and mystical resonance. It had a voice, a will of its own. A relic of who I used to be—and who I had yet to become.

Beelzebub smiled. “Justice awaits her wielder.”

I stepped forward, hand outstretched. The moment I touched the hilt, a surge of memory and instinct flooded my body. The blade pulsed with my heartbeat. My HUD synchronized with it. It was more than a weapon—it was a beacon.

Once armed, Beelzebub gestured for us to gather around a tactical display etched into a crystalline slab on the floor. It glowed with a holographic terrain model of Sunrise Peak—a jagged mountain that erupted from the center of the Wraith’s corrupted plains. Dark clouds swirled around its summit, where something unnatural pulsed like a dying star.

“This,” Beelzebub said, pointing, “is where Serenity’s soul remains tethered. Her reincarnation is being obstructed by a demon guard posted near the peak. A monstrous thing—one of Maladrie’s favorites. It must be eliminated for the soul to complete its cycle.”

I nodded. “What’s the extraction plan?”

“I’ll use this.” Beelzebub held up a glowing, multifaceted gemstone—iridescent and pulsing like a tiny galaxy trapped in crystal. “This Soul Prism will allow me to locate Serenity’s essence once the guard is down. I’ll capture her soul before it fades, you’ll speak your message—remind her who she was—and then I’ll implant the gem into her original body, still preserved in stasis.”

Deathskull tapped his blades against his back uneasily. “Assuming Maladrie hasn’t laid more traps.”

“She has,” Beelzebub said. “But this is the only shot we’ve got.”

Before we moved out, Deathskull paced near a column, brooding. His usual edge had dulled—he seemed distracted, troubled. I approached him.

“What’s eating you?” I asked.

He looked at me, his voice low and dry. “I can’t stop thinking about the Cult of Excess. How it’s not just demons we’re fighting—it’s what they represent. They’re the personification of everything collapsing in the physical realm. People don’t even know they’re being controlled.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But it’s not pleasure that’s the enemy. It's an abuse of it. Control through indulgence. If we try to fight it by shaming people who enjoy life in moderation, we’ll become another form of tyranny.”

Deathskull stared at me.

“If we start punishing people for being human,” I continued, “then we’re just the same as the cult—only with different robes. We can’t win by banning pleasure. We win by teaching responsibility. Balance.”

Beelzebub joined the conversation, nodding. “Exactly. True evil doesn’t rise from desire—it comes from ignorance. From forcing your will onto others. Maladrie isn’t dangerous because she represents pleasure—she’s dangerous because she weaponizes it to feed her own hunger.”

Deathskull sighed. The glow in his eyes flickered. “You’re right… I was programmed to eliminate control groups. To strike surgically at organized tyranny. But now I see… building a counter-control group won’t stop this. We’ll only be mimicking the enemy.”

He straightened, blade humming faintly. “Then let’s not build another empire. Let’s build resistance.”

A tense silence followed. Then Beelzebub broke it with something more chilling.

“She’s been watching you, you know,” he said to me.

I raised a brow. “Who?”

“Maladrie. She’s been trying to seduce your mind. Sending dreams. Images. Girls who resemble her, but… twisted into the people you love. It’s how she steals your heart.”

I went cold.

“Emily… Serenity…”

“She sees them as competition,” Beelzebub said. “Maladrie is possessive. She wants you, even if it means consuming everything that gives you JOY.”

I clenched my fists.

Not anymore.

“Enough talk,” I said, voice clear again. “Let’s get to Sunrise Peak. We’ve got a soul to rescue… and a demon to kill.”

We stepped through the vault doors, chainsword humming at my side, cloaks fluttering in the static air. The mission had begun. And somewhere on that cursed mountain, Serenity was waiting.

The dead would rise.

And this time, we would bring the fire of truth with us.

The wind howled like a primal spirit as we began our ascent toward Sunrise Peak.

The terrain had grown jagged and unfriendly—crimson rock carved with unnatural geometries, as if the mountain had been twisted by unseen hands. In the distance, the sky churned with indigo storm clouds, rippling with flashes of unnatural green lightning. An occasional thunderclap rumbled through the air, but there was no rain. Just pressure. The weight of something ancient pressing down on us.

I led the way, chainsword slung across my back, each step grinding against the fractured stone. Behind me, Beelzebub walked with practiced silence, his eyes flicking through spectral readings on a floating HUD. Deathskull followed, his skeletal boots crunching gravel and bone beneath him. The monkey and the dog—survivors from our previous mission—trailed silently, their instincts honed to the shifting energies around us. The dog’s ears were back. The monkey gripped a plasma spear with twitchy hands.

We moved like ghosts through the ridgeline, ascending with caution.

It was Deathskull who broke the silence.

“You said earlier that trying to control pleasure—trying to remove it—only creates more suffering,” he muttered. “How do you know that?”

I didn’t look back. I just spoke the truth, cold and steady.

“Because I’m from Earth.”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. The shame campaigns. The fear tactics. The surveillance states are designed to stamp out excess. We tried everything—censorship, purges, rehab cities, digital blockades. Didn’t work. Not really. For every control system we built, people just found a darker, more twisted outlet. Politicians don’t listen to peasants like me. We did what we could. We always do… but the rot goes deeper than laws or lectures.”

Deathskull said nothing at first. Then: “So what’s the answer?”

I looked up at the mountain. “Understanding, boundaries with truth, not fear.”

Silence again. The wind carried the scent of iron and ozone.

After a few minutes, Deathskull spoke again, this time quieter. “Do you want to rescue the survivors?”

I stopped walking.

The path ahead narrowed into a steep climb, but I turned slowly, meeting his glowing red eyes.

“No.”

The word came out sharp. Honest.

“I used to hate those people. Not because I was evil… but because they hated me. Back on Earth, they mocked me, rejected me, called me a freak. Sure, when we first arrived on Earth, they acted like friends. Fear will do that. But when things calmed down… when they had a choice? They disrespected us. Went through the portal alone, thinking they knew better.”

I shrugged. “They made their bed. I don’t owe them a damn thing.”

Deathskull gave a subtle nod.

Beelzebub didn’t say anything. Neither did the animals.

We continued the climb in grim silence, the summit looming ever closer.

Then… we reached the outer ridge.

The ground plateaued, opening into a narrow ledge overlooking a massive lava basin. On the opposite side, the Demon Guard stood sentinel—twice the size of any man, its body a swirling mass of plated armor and fire-tentacles. Its head resembled a hybrid of bull and machine, a glowing sigil pulsing on its forehead.

I raised my hand. “Wait here,” I whispered.

No arguments. Just nod.

I slipped around the ledge, crouching low, cloaking my presence as best I could. The Demon Guard shifted its weight but didn’t see me. It muttered to itself in a language older than death. With each breath, a foul mist hissed from its gills.

I lunged.

FWOOOOOSH—my chainsword ignited as I brought it down with full force into the back of the beast’s neck. The blade screamed, ripping through armor, flesh, and dark soul-matter. It didn’t even have time to roar. Just a gasp, a twitch—and the demon collapsed into the dust like a puppet with its strings cut.

I wiped my blade and looked up.

Beelzebub joined me, scanning the skies. “That was easier than expected.”

“Too easy,” I said. “We need to move. Now.”

We reached the summit in under two minutes.

And there it was…

The Monolith.

Jet-black and impossibly tall, it rose like a needle into the heavens. Sigils across its surface danced with prismatic light. The air around it vibrated with the hum of cosmic frequency. Beelzebub approached it with reverence, placing the gemstone into a shallow slot at its base.

The Monolith responded instantly—whirring, spinning, then pulsing as a portal into the Soul Stream opened overhead. A cascade of glowing orbs descended—souls in raw form, drifting like stardust in a whirlwind.

Beelzebub called out coordinates, scanning the flow.

“There—no, wait… that’s not her…”

A blue light dropped from the stream, manifesting in a humanoid shape.

A girl landed in front of us—her body forming slowly, her essence disoriented.

“Sarah Stephens?” I asked, stepping backwards.

The girl blinked… and I immediately knew.

“…No,” Beelzebub said. “It’s not her.”

The girl looked up at me with pleading eyes—but I could see the soul was mismatched, confused. I took a breath… then nodded.

“Send her back.”

Beelzebub said a brief incantation, and she dissolved into light—swept back into the torrent of drifting spirits.

Then…

The winds changed. The Soul Stream bent like a spear.

A second figure shot down—blazing like a comet—and landed on top of me, knocking me to the ground.

“OOF—!”

She straddled my chest, eyes wide, hands on my face. “It’s you!” she gasped, voice full of shock and joy. “It’s really you! Hello!”

I froze.

It was her.

Serenity.

She looked even more beautiful than I remembered. Her blue eyes sparkled like twin stars, her black hair flowing in slow waves like the void itself. Her pale skin had an ethereal glow, and her small, slightly upturned nose crinkled as she smiled. A single tear slid down her cheek as she leaned forward and kissed me. On my lips—soft, warm, filled with longing.

I kissed her back… for a moment.

But there was no time to indulge.

“Serenity,” I said, gently pushing her up. “You have to find Emily. Warn her about the growing threat in the Wraith. Maladrie’s influence is spreading.”

Serenity looked at me, her hands clinging to mine. “I don’t want to leave you again…”

“I know,” I said, squeezing her fingers. “But I’ll see you again. I promise. We’re stronger now. All of us.”

Beelzebub stepped forward, handing Serenity a second gemstone—smaller, brighter.

“This will reincarnate you into your original body,” he said. “Go now. Before the portal closes.”

Serenity kissed my hand… then turned and leapt back into the Soul Stream, the gem clutched to her chest. She vanished in a spiral of light.

Gone—but not lost.

We all stood in silence for a long moment.

Then I turned.

“Let’s move. We’ve got a long way down.”

We descended the mountain trail quickly, passing through stone arches and molten ravines. At the base of the slope, nestled along the dark river, lay the rusted remains of an old shipyard—a forgotten relic of some long-dead exodus.

Rows of gutted boats lined the shore, some partially buried in dark ash, others held upright by twisted scaffolds. The river ran black with oil and stardust.

We approached a boat made of scrap metal. Deathskull scanned it with a neural pulse.

“Functional,” he said. “Looks like she floats.”

Beelzebub crossed his arms. “Then that’s our way out.”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“She’s alive,” I whispered.

“And soon… so will we.”

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CHAPTER 8: “ESCAPE PART ONE” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA”