"ARCHIVES"

bY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 34: "GET LOW" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" Meanwhile, the artificial world of Cybrawl shifted with mechanical purpose, its will expressed through cold precision rather than emotion. From orbit, cylindrical machines detached from Cybrawl’s underbelly like seeds released into the void. They burned through the atmosphere in controlled silence, streaking toward Skogheim’s surface before angling downward and drilling straight through stone, soil, and ancient bedrock. The descent was violent, yet calculated. When the machines reached the underground metropolis, they halted abruptly, suspending themselves in midair as if gravity itself had lost its authority. Their smooth metallic shells split open along hidden seams, revealing rotating cores that emitted thin red laser grids. The beams swept across obsidian floors, ancient stone walls, collapsed laboratories, and forgotten corridors—mapping, cataloging, remembering. Nothing was missed. Once the scans were complete, the machines synchronized. A low-frequency hum rippled through the underground city, resonating through every pillar and archway. Space bent inward. Light warped. The ancient metropolis—its blue and red ambient glow, its shattered history, its silent grief—was slowly engulfed, folded inward like a relic being sealed away. A portal bloomed around it. In a blink that felt like a held breath finally released, the underground metropolis vanished from Skogheim, transported whole into one of Cybrawl’s pocket dimensions. Above it all, far beyond the atmosphere, the Star Castle moved. The upside-down floating pyramid—ancient, monolithic, and defiant—drifted through the void toward Cybrawl. Its surface reflected distant stars as it breached the artificial planet’s atmosphere, entering clean skies untouched by smoke or war. Below, the jungle-alpine canopy darkened as the pyramid cast a vast, triangular shadow over the land. From the factory regions, droids and Vikings alike looked upward, watching in silence as the Star Castle began to fade—not destroyed, not lost, but phased, slipping sideways into a pocket dimension of its own. When the transition completed, both the underground metropolis and the Star Castle now existed together inside a specific pocket dimension of Cybrawl. 04888144. This place was nothing like the worlds left behind. The sky was pitch-black, absent of stars, pierced only by distant glimmers reflecting off a sprawling boulder field and jagged, rocky terrain. The ancient city now sat exposed above ground, its structures rising stark and solemn against the darkness. Overhead, the Star Castle still floated—silent, unmoving, eternal—like a watchful god suspended in a dead sky. It was here that Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Ikeem, Droid L-84, Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Mathew, Elizabeth, Cole, Hanna, Serenity, Beelzebub, Emily, and I arrived. This place was not meant to inspire comfort. It felt stored. Archived. Shelved away from reality. I looked around at the endless black terrain and looming stone formations and said, “This place gives me the warehouse vibe.” The words echoed strangely, swallowed by the open space. Emily’s eyes scanned the boulder field, her expression tightening as she took in the oppressive landscape. She said, “This place is so ugly.” As if responding to her words, a raven perched atop a nearby boulder suddenly took flight. Its wings snapped open with sharp intensity, the sound cutting through the silence. It startled Emily enough that she recoiled instinctively. “Ah!” she screamed. The raven circled once, then swooped lower—too close. Its black wings passed just above my head, feathers rustling through the air like a warning. Emily’s face showed genuine concern now, her grip tightening as she stared after it. I looked up at the circling birds and said, “What the hell is with these birds?” Droid L-84’s optics followed the flock with calm precision before he said, “I guess they’re guardians of this pocket dimension.” Mathew then asks, “Which pocket dimension is this?” Droid L-84 turned his robotic head sharply to say, “Pocket Dimension 04888144, to be exact.” Emily reached for my hand, and I took it without hesitation. Together, we continued forward with the others, our footsteps crunching softly against the rocky ground as we approached the gates of the ancient city—now standing where it never should have been, displaced yet intact. As we passed beneath the towering stone archways, the air shifted. A sudden eruption of wings filled the space as an entire flock of ravens burst forth from the city’s structures. The birds descended in chaotic spirals, their calls sharp and disorienting. Instinctively, we ducked, raising our arms as shadows and feathers swept past us in a violent storm. Then—silence. The ravens scattered into the dark sky, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. We slowly straightened and looked ahead. Standing just beyond the gates, calm and unmoved by the chaos, was Alexandria—already there, already waiting. The pocket dimension of 04888144 stood still once more, as if acknowledging her presence. The pocket dimension remained still, as if the ancient city itself were listening. Black stone streets stretched outward beneath our feet, worn smooth by centuries that no longer belonged to any single timeline. Above us, Star Castle hovered in the artificial darkness, its inverted mass casting a permanent shadow across the ruins below. No wind stirred. No sky moved. Even the ravens had vanished, leaving behind a silence that felt preserved rather than natural. It was there, beneath that floating monolith and among displaced history, that I broke the quiet. I asked Alexandria, “Now that we’ve moved everything, we should consider getting the Arckon Sphere.” Her response came without hesitation, grounded and deliberate, echoing against the stone. “Not so fast. We still have civilians to move. We need to consider taking back territory and re establishing communication with other sectors of Vikingnar.” The words settled heavily. Around us, the group shifted, some glancing toward the gates of the city, others up toward Star Castle, as if weighing the scale of what had already been done. I answered, “Are we trying to empire-build or save the universe?” Alexandria’s gaze never wavered. “Not an empire. A civilization. Clearly, an empire didn’t work the first time.” I nodded slowly, the truth of it stinging more than I wanted to admit. The echoes of fallen banners, failed crowns, and broken rulers seemed etched into the stone around us. I said, “I understand you want people to expel positive energy, but we need to get our priorities straight. We need to get the Sphere.” Alexandria’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why?” I turned toward Serenity. The dim light of the pocket dimension caught the edges of her armor, her posture tense but resolved. I said, “Serenity, tell her why it’s important.” Serenity stepped forward, her voice steady despite everything she had endured. “When I found Maladrie’s journal, it said she wanted to build a pyramid and activate the Sphere on top of that pyramid, destroying the universe as we know it.” The words lingered, heavy and absolute. Alexandria folded her arms, considering. “How does the Arckon Sphere even destroy timelines?” Before Serenity could answer, Mathew’s voice cut through the stillness, blunt and unapologetic. “Nobody knows, nobody cares, and nobody wants to find out.” I exhaled and followed, “Which is why the Sphere is our top priority, even if it means saving the souls of the dead.” That finally shifted Alexandria’s expression. Her voice softened, somber now. “What do you mean?” Beelzebub stepped forward, his presence carrying an unspoken weight. “The River of Souls is gone.” Alexandria turned sharply toward him. “River of Souls?” Beelzebub continued, his tone heavy with loss. “The only safe passage for deceased souls into the higher realms is gone. The Arckon Sphere is our only hope of freeing dead souls into the higher realms.” For a moment, Alexandria said nothing. Then, measured and almost dismissive, she replied, “That’s what you people are worried about? All we need is the power of belief. Just believe all deceased souls will reach the higher realms on their own.” Beelzebub shook his head slightly. “If it were only that simple. The Wraith is a reflection of what happens here in the physical realm.” Alexandria’s voice firmed again, returning to command. “Which is why we need to make the most of it. We need to gather our lost civilians, give them homes, get more warriors, and retrieve the Sphere, in order to stop more bloodshed from happening.” I stepped forward, the ruins beneath my boots reminding me of how fragile civilizations truly were. “What if there’s more bloodshed while trying to restore Viking society? What then? Do you think their souls will still make it to the higher realms?” Alexandria met my gaze without flinching. “Yes. I do, actually. That’s what Valrra believes, which is why we need to find her as well.” She paused, the silence stretching just long enough to matter, then continued, “I’m willing to make a compromise. We need to move our lost civilians into Cybrawl, get more warriors, locate the Sphere, establish communication with lost sectors of Vikingnar, and retrieve the Sphere. Rescuing Valrra seems a ways away, but if we move fast, it could be done.” No one spoke after that. We stood together in the dilapidated ancient city, displaced from its world yet alive within this dark pocket dimension. Above us, Star Castle hovered like a silent witness, its presence both reassuring and ominous. There were no cheers. No declarations of victory. Only understanding. And agreement. After our meeting concluded, all seventeen of us stepped beyond the threshold of pocket dimension 04888144, exiting through a collapsing veil of folded light and returning to the main environment of Cybrawl’s artificial world. The dimensional seam sealed behind us without a sound, as if reality itself exhaled and smoothed over the incision. Cybrawl unfolded before us in layered perfection. We walked together through the nature-friendly factory region, where advanced industrial structures blended seamlessly with living ecosystems. Massive production spires rose like metallic trees, their surfaces wrapped in mosses engineered to absorb radiation and excess heat. Conveyor paths of transparent alloy moved silently overhead, carrying raw materials harvested from dead stars and reconstructed matter streams. Below, water channels flowed with recycled clarity, feeding groves of bioluminescent plants whose soft glow illuminated the pathways beneath our feet. The air smelled clean, impossibly clean, filtered through planetary-scale atmospheric processors hidden far beneath the terrain. This was not merely a factory district. It was a statement. Proof that industry and life no longer had to exist in opposition. As we continued walking, Alexandria broke the silence, turning her attention toward Emily and me. “So you guys don’t believe in free will?” Her voice echoed slightly against the curved alloy structures surrounding us, carrying neither accusation nor judgment, only curiosity sharpened by experience. I answered honestly, my gaze drifting toward the horizon where the artificial sky met distant megastructures & jungle. “I want to, but realistically we can’t wilt evil away with just thoughts.” The words felt heavier once spoken, settling into the space between us like an unresolved equation. Alexandria listened, her expression thoughtful rather than defensive. “It seems like you thought I believed free will is built without action. I know you can’t have one without the other… In simple terms, we’re on the same team.” Emily and I exchanged a glance. There was a quiet understanding between us, one shaped by loss, war, and survival across collapsing realities. We turned back toward Alexandria, prepared to respond— When suddenly, a sharp rustling sound erupted from Emily’s leather purse. Before either of us could react, the purse burst open. A flash of red and black shot upward, wings unfolding clumsily as a small infant dragon tumbled into open air. Its scales shimmered like molten obsidian streaked with crimson veins, and a jagged crest crowned its oversized head. The creature hovered unsteadily, eyes impossibly large and glowing with newborn curiosity. Alexandria froze. “What the hell is that?” Emily, unfazed, stepped forward protectively. “Relax, it’s our new pet dragon, Spark. We found him in the Wraith.” The dragon fluttered closer, circling us in uneven loops, its wings beating too fast, too hard, as if unsure how much effort flight actually required. Alexandria narrowed her eyes. “Why are his eyes so big?” Emily answered without hesitation. “He’s just a baby.” As if on cue, Spark let out a small hiccup and burped a flicker of flame, no larger than a candle’s breath. The fire dissipated harmlessly into the filtered air. I sighed, watching the creature wobble mid-flight. “He’s a burping baby, and who said anything about a pet? We agreed on having Beelzebub raise it.” Almost instinctively, the dragon veered away from us and drifted toward Beelzebub. It landed gently on his left shoulder, curling its tail around his collar as though it had always belonged there. Beelzebub remained perfectly still, ancient eyes studying the infant creature. “I must train him to be the new guardian of souls. Once we create the new gateway of souls, of course.” Emily crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Fine.” Without warning, she wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, squeezing with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Alrighty then! But that means silly Willy is my pet for an eternity.” Despite the pressure, I didn’t resist. Emily leaned forward and kissed my forehead, smearing black lipstick across my skin. I didn’t complain. Not when she smiled like that. Not when she was my inamorata, my anchor in a universe that refused to stay still. Across from us, Serenity watched in silence. Her expression was blank, but the tension in her posture betrayed something sharper beneath the surface. Jealousy, restrained but unmistakable, lingered in her gaze. The moment shattered when two liberated Demondroids approached us. Their metal frames bore scars from past conflicts, their once-hostile postures now neutral, almost hesitant. Emily and I immediately disengaged, our attention snapping back to the present. One of the droids spoke, its voice modulator steady but uncertain. “King William, will we ever serve in battle under your command again?” I didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not, metalheads. Your betrayal was a disgrace, and only flesh-and-blood people are allowed to be warriors now.” The second droid stepped forward, audacity flickering through its optics. “Then why does Droid L-84 get to fight alongside you?” I met its gaze evenly. “His programming is different from yours. You metalheads will be spending your time building from now on.” The two Demondroids said nothing more. They turned and walked away, their heavy footsteps echoing down the polished pathways. I turned toward Droid L-84. “Some of their old code is still within them. Why is that?” Droid L-84 answered calmly. “Because we didn’t discuss with Alexandria on disbanding the droids from combat yet.” I blinked. “Oh.” Alexandria immediately responded. “Yeah, oh. So we’re not using them for any combat role?” I nodded slowly. “I only trust Droid L-84 with any combat role. I figured he could whip some techno-magic bullshit to replicate himself.” Alexandria nodded in understanding. “Got it. Now let’s take you to your new homes.” She gestured forward. Ahead of us, a portal ignited, its surface shimmering with soft white light, tuned precisely to Cybrawl’s residential sectors. Without hesitation, all seventeen of us followed Alexandria toward it, stepping together into whatever Chapter Ten still had waiting on the other side. On the other side of the portal, the world changed. The sterile perfection of Cybrawl’s factory regions gave way to something far more familiar, something deliberately designed to feel lived in rather than engineered. We emerged into Cybrawl’s suburbia region, a vast expanse of carefully sculpted terrain stretching to the artificial horizon. Rolling hills rose and fell naturally, despite being entirely synthetic, their slopes dotted with clusters of Viking-style homes that gleamed softly beneath the manufactured sky. The houses were unmistakably Vikingnar in spirit, yet unmistakably Cybrawl in construction. Graphene metal beams formed the skeletal frames of longhouses and peaked-roof dwellings, their surfaces etched with faint runic circuitry that pulsed like veins of subdued light. Walls of reinforced glass reflected the alpine scenery around them, mirroring snow-capped mountains in the distance and the slow drift of cloud systems calculated down to the molecular level. Above it all, wyverns soared. They cut through the sky in wide, lazy arcs, their wings catching the light as they rode invisible thermal currents generated by Cybrawl’s climate engines. Some were distant silhouettes, others close enough that the low thunder of their wingbeats could be felt through the ground rather than heard. Their presence gave the place an ancient dignity, as though the planet itself had agreed to remember what it once meant to be wild. It felt like home. Not the kind of home forged through years of peace and roots driven deep into the soil, but the kind born out of necessity. A temporary sanctuary, built for warriors who no longer trusted permanence. Emily and I separated from the others and made our way toward one of the houses resting near the edge of the neighborhood. Its structure was simple, almost modest by Cybrawl’s standards, but there was intention in every angle. The doorway recognized our presence and slid open soundlessly, revealing an interior bathed in warm, ambient light. Inside, the house balanced comfort and restraint. The floors were smooth alloy layered beneath synthetic wood textures, designed to feel familiar beneath bare feet. Furnishings were minimal but deliberate, each piece clearly printed and assembled with care rather than excess. The wide glass panels along the far wall overlooked the distant mountains, giving the illusion that the world extended endlessly beyond the threshold. Emily turned slowly, taking it all in. She looked at me and asked, “What do you think?” I lowered myself into a reclining chair positioned near the window, the material adjusting instantly to my weight and posture. For a moment, I simply stared outward, watching a wyvern bank sharply against the artificial sky, its shadow gliding across the valley below. Finally, I answered, “It will have to do for now.” The words weren’t dismissive. They were honest. This place wasn’t meant to replace what we had lost, only to hold us together until something stronger could be built. Emily lingered nearby, clearly wanting to say more. Her body language shifted, weight transferring from one foot to the other, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass wall as though grounding herself in the reality of it. The silence stretched, comfortable but heavy, thick with everything left unsaid. Exhaustion crept in before any further words could form. The chair cradled me more deeply than expected, its internal systems detecting fatigue I hadn’t consciously acknowledged. The distant sounds of Cybrawl’s suburbia faded into a soft, ambient hum, the measured rhythm of a world that never truly slept but allowed others to. My vision dimmed. Thoughts scattered. And before the moment could become anything more, sleep claimed me, pulling me under as the artificial sky continued to glow softly beyond the glass. Meanwhile, in the main factory region of Cybrawl, motion and intention replaced rest. The vast industrial plain stretched outward beneath a pale, engineered sky, where nature and machine intertwined seamlessly. Artificial gardens bloomed between towering fabrication pylons, their leaves threaded with faint circuitry that shimmered when caught by the light. Rivers of suspended drones flowed through the air like metallic currents, carrying components, raw matter, and entire architectural segments from one sector to another. At the heart of one such garden circle, Beelzebub stood calmly, his presence grounded and ancient amid the hum of technology. Before him, the little dragon Spark fluttered clumsily through the air. Spark’s red-and-black scales reflected flashes of light as he struggled to maintain balance, his oversized wings beating in uneven bursts. His pronounced crest bobbed with each correction, and his tail flicked instinctively as he tried to follow Beelzebub’s silent guidance. The makeshift garden circle had been repurposed into a training ground, with hovering hoops formed of hard-light suspended at varying heights and distances. Spark darted forward, missed the first hoop entirely, spiraled slightly, then corrected himself with an indignant chirr that crackled faintly with heat. His wings adjusted, his body leveled out, and on the second attempt he passed cleanly through, landing awkwardly but upright on a stone platform grown deliberately from the garden floor. Beelzebub watched closely, patient and unwavering. Again and again, Spark practiced. Short flights became longer arcs. Erratic landings slowly transformed into deliberate descents. Each successful maneuver brought with it a subtle change in the young dragon’s posture, as though instinct long buried in his blood was awakening piece by piece. Not far from the garden circle, the ground itself trembled—not from instability, but from precision. An unused Viking-style pyramid, forged entirely from black graphene, rose slowly from its resting position as if answering an unspoken command. The structure was massive, its angular sides etched with ancient Nordic geometry fused with advanced circuit lattices. Gravity no longer claimed it. Droid L-84 hovered nearby, issuing silent directives through encrypted channels as dozens of industrial droids surrounded the pyramid. Fields of blue-white energy wrapped around the structure, lifting it smoothly into the air. Despite its size, the pyramid moved with effortless grace, rotating slightly as it was guided toward a new alignment within the factory region. While Spark practiced coordinated landings, the pyramid drifted like a dark star. Between directing the relocation effort and monitoring energy output, Droid L-84 turned its attention toward the garden circle. Its optical sensors tracked Spark’s flight patterns, recording data with clinical precision. After observing another successful pass through the hoops, Droid L-84 finally spoke. “Are you sure a dragon can make a good guardian?” The question carried no doubt, only calculation. Beelzebub did not look away from Spark as he answered. “Yes. But we could use extra guards, men and women, just to be safe.” Spark landed again, this time more confidently, folding his wings with a soft rustle of scales. A thin wisp of smoke escaped his nostrils as he lifted his head, crest flaring faintly with residual energy. Droid L-84 processed the response, then inclined its head slightly. “I ask, because I’m certain William’s theory on our Wraith Drives is correct. We can easily make a gateway for departed souls to travel through… I’d also like to apologize for what happened to your home.” The words lingered in the air, heavy despite their calm delivery. Beelzebub’s expression shifted, not with anger, but with a deep, restrained sorrow that came from centuries of duty finally severed. His gaze drifted momentarily away from Spark, toward nothing in particular. “My people have been guarding that place for centuries. It was only a matter of time before it fell. The Wraith became unstable. I see this gateway as our only option to bypass the False Light.” The garden circle fell quiet. Spark tilted his head, sensing the gravity of the moment without understanding it. He shuffled closer to Beelzebub, resting against his leg, the heat of his small body a living reminder that something had survived. Beelzebub resumed the training with gentle precision, guiding Spark through another sequence of hoops, this time higher, closer to the open factory sky. Droid L-84 returned its focus to coordinating the pyramid’s placement, its systems calculating load distribution, dimensional anchoring, and future conversion possibilities. They worked in silence. Above them, on the highest tier of the main factory pyramid, Alexandria stood overlooking the entire operation. From her vantage point, Cybrawl unfolded like a living schematic: factories breathing, gardens growing, structures shifting into place as though the planet itself obeyed her will. Her expression was composed, but her attention was absolute. A soft vibration pulsed against her wrist. Alexandria lifted her arm as her bracelet activated, projecting a translucent holo-screen into the air before her. The image stabilized to reveal a droid pilot, its form flickering slightly due to distance and signal compression. The droid spoke with crisp clarity. “We’re in the vicinity of the lost civilians of Vikingnar.” Alexandria’s eyes narrowed, not with fear, but with resolve. She responded immediately. “We should prepare for the moving process.” The holo-screen dissolved as the call ended. Below, the black graphene pyramid settled into its designated position, locking into Cybrawl’s grid with a deep, resonant hum. Spark completed another controlled landing, wings folding neatly at his sides, his eyes bright and alert. Across Cybrawl, systems adjusted. Preparations began. And unseen by those who worked tirelessly beneath the artificial sky, the next phase of survival was already in motion. Back in the suburban region of Cybrawl, stillness settled into the architecture like a held breath. I remained asleep in the reclined chair, my body slack, my armor discarded nearby, my mind far from rest. The house—constructed of graphene beams and glass panes—filtered the artificial daylight into muted bands that slid slowly across the floor. Outside, the distant calls of wyverns echoed between mountain ridges, their silhouettes passing like living shadows across the sky. Sleep did not bring peace. In the dream, the world was dim and circular, enclosed by standing stones etched with symbols I recognized but did not understand. The air felt heavy, charged, as if reality itself had been stretched thin. My hands moved with purpose I did not consciously choose, guided by something older than thought. The act was ritualistic—precise, inevitable—driven not by rage, but by necessity. There was no face, no name, only the weight of consequence pressing down like gravity. The ground beneath my feet pulsed faintly, responding to the act as though it were part of a larger mechanism. Then the dream fractured. Light cut through the darkness as awareness rushed back into my body. Emily stood before me, her presence grounding, real, undeniable. I stirred, the lingering echo of the dream clinging to me like smoke, and asked, “What is it?” Emily’s expression was gentle but firm, the kind that left no room for resistance. She said, “It’s time to get up, sleepy head.” I shifted in the chair and sat upright, the recliner releasing a soft mechanical hiss as it adjusted to my movement. The dream receded, but it's unease lingered, settling somewhere deep behind my ribs. I rubbed my eyes and turned my head toward the wide glass window that overlooked the street. Outside, the neighborhood had changed. Viking-style homes—angular, elegant, reinforced with advanced alloys—lined the streets in neat symmetry. Between them moved people who did not yet walk with the confidence of settlers, but with the cautious hope of survivors. Families carried what little they had. Children paused to stare at the sky, transfixed by the sight of wyverns circling overhead. Elders stood quietly, hands resting on walking staff or the shoulders of loved ones, as if grounding themselves in the reality that they were finally somewhere safe. I watched them for a long moment, the weight of leadership pressing in as clearly as the glass before me. I asked, “Are those people lost civilians?” Emily followed my gaze, her reflection faintly visible in the window beside mine. She nodded once and said, “We’re going to re-establish communication with every other Viking.” The words carried more than logistics—they carried intent. Restoration. Connection. Responsibility. I drew in a deep breath. The air felt clean, engineered but alive, and as it filled my lungs, the fatigue that had dragged at my bones began to loosen its grip. The unease from the dream dulled, replaced by focus. Whatever had stirred in my subconscious, it would have to wait. I stood, the chair easing back into its neutral position behind me. Without another word, I followed Emily toward the door, leaving the quiet of sleep behind and stepping back into a world that was moving forward—whether I was ready or not. We then find ourselves on a dropship. The Drakkar dropship cut through Una’s upper atmosphere with a low, controlled hum. Frost gathered along the edges of the cockpit glass as we descended, the sky outside shifting through pale blues into a muted violet haze. Below us stretched a rugged alpine world—jagged mountain ranges capped with snow, deep valleys carved by ancient glacial movement, and forests of tall, violet-hued vegetation swaying gently in the wind. The planet looked untouched, almost sacred, as if war had somehow passed it by. As we flew lower, an abandoned Viking city emerged from the terrain. Stone and graphene structures stood intact, their architecture unmistakably Vikingnar—towering halls, angular rooftops, and elevated walkways built for both ceremony and defense. The city was pristine in structure, but lifeless. Surrounding it were numerous bio-lab factories, their designs utilitarian and industrial, their surfaces worn with age. Many of them bore outdated insignias and weathered seals, suggesting they had existed long before Maladrie’s influence. I leaned forward in my seat, eyes scanning the landscape. “A lot of these bio-lab factories were already established?” Emily, seated beside me, kept her focus on the controls as the ship angled toward a clearing near one of the larger facilities. “These established factories were always a part of Vikingnar. Deathskull just converted them to suit the needs of Maladrie.” The dropship descended smoothly and touched down near a bio-lab factory fused directly into the base of a radio spire. The engines powered down, and the ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics. The moment we stepped off the ship, the smell hit us. Death. It clung to the air thick and sour, carried by the cold wind sweeping through the streets. The ground before us was littered with bodies—Demonic Jackal Warriors sprawled across stone roads and collapsed against walls. They wore white robes now soaked and torn, their contorted canine faces frozen in expressions of shock and agony. Each corpse bore the same grotesque wound: ruptured abdomens, torn outward from the inside, as if something had violently forced its way free. I stared at the carnage, my stomach tightening. “What the hell happened here?” Alexandria surveyed the scene grimly. “It looks like Anubis’s warriors weren’t granted the luxury of mercy. Especially after failing Maladrie.” I stepped carefully between the bodies, my eyes drawn farther down the street where fog rolled thickly between the buildings. “What else is here?” “There were civilians here… We should get moving though.” We passed rows of empty containment canisters lining the streets—clear pods once meant to hold people. Many were shattered. Others stood open and empty, their interiors scratched and clawed from the inside. The fog grew heavier the closer we moved toward the radio tower, pooling at ground level and obscuring the entrance like a barrier. Then I saw them. In the distance, barely visible through the haze, two figures hung suspended from an electrical wire. The shapes were unmistakable. My legs gave out before my mind could fully process it. I dropped to my knees, unable to lift my head, the weight of recognition crushing my chest. Emily was beside me instantly. Alexandria noticed and stopped. “What’s happening?” Emily didn’t soften her tone. “That was his mother and stepfather. Idiot.” Alexandria inhaled slowly, then turned to the rest of the group, shifting into command. “Nikko, Samuel, Khamzat, scout the area. Droid L-84, come with me to revive the radio tower.” Nikko, Samuel, and Khamzat moved off into the fog, weapons ready. Droid L-84 followed Alexandria toward the radio spire doors, which loomed tall and sealed, their surface etched with corrupted symbols and scorch marks. Alexandria reached the control panel and forced the doors open. The moment they parted, something exploded outward. Chains clattered violently as a bruised, bloodied incubi came bursting through the gates and collapsed onto the ground at our feet. His body was covered in restraints, his skin marred with deep purple bruises and burns. The fog poured out behind him like breath from the underworld. It was Zach. I slowly lifted my head from the fog-choked ground, my vision locking onto the broken form sprawled before the open gates of the radio tower. Zach lay there in chains, bruised and trembling, the incubi’s wings torn and useless against the stone. The smell of blood, ozone, and decay thickened the air, blending with the distant hum of the ruined city. Something inside me snapped. I stared at him, every muscle in my body coiling tight, and I said, “You did this! You did this to my family!” The words echoed against the silent buildings. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I surged forward, rage overriding reason. Zach recoiled instinctively, curling inward on the ground like a cornered animal. Emily moved faster than I did. She caught me mid-stride, her arms locking around me, her weight anchoring me in place before I could reach him. The restraint only fueled the fire burning in my chest. Alexandria stepped forward, her voice sharp and unyielding as the cold wind swept through the street. “We don’t even know that this specific demon killed your mother and stepfather. If he does, we must deal with him later.” I twisted against Emily’s grip, never taking my eyes off Zach. “This isn’t any demon—this is Zach! My sworn enemy, and I’m certain he killed my mother and stepfather!” Alexandria’s expression hardened, but she did not retreat. “Okay. You’ll get to do his execution later.” Zach’s head jerked upward at that. His voice cracked, desperate and thin beneath the chains. “But I didn’t kill his mother!” That was enough. I tore free from Emily’s hold and closed the distance in an instant. My boot connected with Zach’s face in a dull, final impact. His head snapped sideways, and his body went limp, the chains clattering uselessly against the stone as he collapsed unconscious. I stood over him, breath ragged, hands shaking, ready to do far worse. Footsteps approached through the fog. Niko, Samuel, and Khamzat emerged from between the buildings, their expressions tense and confused as they took in the scene before them—the bodies, the open tower, the broken demon at my feet. Alexandria turned to them. “Did you find anything?” Samuel hesitated, then gestured subtly toward Zach. “No… but what is this?” I didn’t let Alexandria answer. I looked down at the unconscious incubi, then back up at the ruined city, the hanging wires in the distance, the empty canisters, the silence where life once existed. My voice was cold when I said, “We have fresh meat for the gods.” The fog closed in around us. I dragged Zach’s limp, chained body across the broken stone until we reached a fallen tree at the edge of the abandoned street. The trunk had split long ago, its core bleached and hardened by time, making it as unforgiving as the ruins surrounding us. The fog clung low to the ground, swirling around my boots as I forced him upright against the wood. With methodical precision, I raised the pommel of my chainsword and drove iron nails through his weakened, orange demonic hands, pinning them flat against the trunk. Each strike echoed through the empty city like a ritual drumbeat. I then forced his head back and fixed his lower jaw into the stump, sealing it in place, ensuring silence where lies once lived. His white robe hung loose and filthy, torn by my hands until his back was fully exposed to the cold air of Una. The others stood in a wide circle around us, no one intervening, no one speaking. The world itself seemed to hold its breath. I activated the red energy blade embedded in my wrist. Its glow cut through the fog, casting sharp crimson light across Zach’s exposed skin. With deliberate slowness, I drew the blade across his back. The air filled with the scent of scorched flesh as the demonic hide gave way. When the surface was stripped, I brought my chainsword down against his exposed ribs, each impact precise and unrelenting. Bone gave way under the mechanical roar. I worked carefully, hacking and folding the ribs outward, shaping them away from the spine. What remained no longer resembled a body but a symbol—an ancient punishment given physical form. As the ribs spread and locked into place, the structure began to resemble wings, jagged and unnatural, extending from his ruined back. The execution transformed him into a grotesque mockery of flight, a fallen creature reshaped into warning and consequence. When the form was complete, Cole and Mathew stepped forward without hesitation. Together, they hauled the body upward and secured it high upon a nearby light pole. The structure groaned under the added weight, cables swaying as Zach’s body hung suspended against the fog-dimmed sky. Emily stood beside me, unmoving. The others remained frozen where they were, eyes fixed upward. Zach hung there, barely breathing, his ruined form silhouetted against the pale light filtering through the mist. He no longer looked like a demon, nor a man, but something older and more symbolic—a blood eagle, offered not to mercy, but to consequence. When his body finally stilled and the last trace of movement faded, the execution was complete. No one spoke. No one moved. Shock and awe settled over the group like a heavy veil. Even I stood motionless, staring at what had been done, feeling the weight of it sink into the silence of Una. The ruined city bore witness, its empty streets and broken towers absorbing the moment without judgment. The fog continued to drift. CHAPTER 34: "GET LOW" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 33: "NEW BLOOD" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" 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. CHAPTER 33: "NEW BLOOD" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 32: "FIGHTING THE ODDS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The laboratory above the ancient underground metropolis felt colder than it ever had before, despite the hum of machines and the soft glow of sterile white lights. The walls were clean, unmarred by the shifting history below, yet the weight of what had just occurred pressed down on everyone gathered inside. No one spoke at first. We stood in a loose semicircle, unmoving, as if stepping any closer would make the reality before us undeniable. Anisia lay on the operating table at the center of the room. Her black and blue leather jumpsuit had been carefully cut away, replaced with sterile coverings that did nothing to soften the finality of her stillness. Her skin, once warm and animated with sharp wit and reckless bravado, now appeared pale beneath the laboratory lights. Tubes and scanners surrounded her, their readouts flickering quietly, tracing vitals that no longer changed. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something heavier—loss. Emily stood close to me, her posture rigid, her arms folded tightly as if holding herself together by force alone. Cole and Hanna remained silent, their faces drawn. Mathew stared at the floor, jaw clenched. Elizabeth’s eyes were red, though no tears fell. Rick, Jimmy, and Pete stood shoulder to shoulder, unease written plainly across their expressions. Serenity hovered near Beelzebub, her gaze fixed on Anisia’s body, hollow and distant. Droid L-84 stood motionless, optic sensors dimmed slightly, as if even his systems recognized the gravity of the moment. Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Ikeem, and Alexandria stood opposite us, the authority they carried feeling fragile in the face of what lay between us. I broke the silence first, my voice sounding quieter than I expected in the wide room. “This usually doesn’t happen to us.” Alexandria turned her head slightly, her expression sharpening—not in anger, but in calculation. “Usually not?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her attention shifted immediately to Ikeem, who had already begun reviewing diagnostic data hovering above the table. “How did this happen?” Ikeem’s hands moved slowly through the holographic interface, bringing up layered scans of Anisia’s body—skeletal structure, neural pathways, and something else entirely. Something that didn’t belong to ordinary anatomy. “I am not a hundred percent sure. It appears the shark venom may have severed the Immortals’ connection with Anisia.” The words landed heavily. “What do you mean?” Ikeem finally looked up at me, his expression grave. He gestured toward one of the deeper scans, where faint, ethereal shapes pulsed weakly within Anisia’s chest. “The Immortals within you. You’re dependent on each other to be in sync. A loss of synchronicity means a loss of life.” The implication settled in my mind like a slow-burning fuse. Immortality wasn’t invulnerability. It was balanced. And balance could be broken. I exhaled slowly, then nodded once. “Alright, we should organize a funeral for our friend.” For a moment, it seemed like the right thing to say—simple, human, necessary. Alexandria responded immediately. “Hold on, there’s no time for that, we can’t burn her, we need to do further testing.” The words struck harder than any blow. “We have time for testing, but no time to properly send her off?” Alexandria met my gaze without hesitation, her tone firm, unyielding. “We can’t let anyone find out an Immortal had died, it would spread doubt, and people will lose hope real fast. We must do testing on this, you immortals are our most important assets.” She turned toward Ikeem, seeking confirmation. “Isn’t that right Ikeem?” He hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Yeah that’s right.” The room felt smaller after that. I looked at Alexandria, then at Ikeem, seeing them not as allies or leaders, but as wardens guarding something far larger than any one life. I didn’t agree with them—but I understood. Hope was a resource here, just like energy or weapons. And once lost, it would be nearly impossible to recover. My eyes drifted back to Anisia. One of the advanced scanners shifted angles, projecting a clearer image of what lay within her. The ethereal Immortal presence—once bright, dynamic, alive—was fading. Its form had grown dim, unstable, like a dying star collapsing inward. Watching it weaken sent a quiet chill through me. If it could happen to her, it could happen to any of us. Now I understood why secrecy mattered. There was no need to burden the warriors above with this truth. No reason to let grief ripple outward and fracture morale when the war was far from over. The sadness belonged here, contained within these walls, shared only by those who already carried too much. The machines continued their soft hum around Anisia’s body, recording, analyzing, preserving answers that came at a terrible cost. And as we stood there, bound by silence and necessity, I realized that immortality in this universe was not a blessing—it was a fragile contract with balance. The bridge overlooking the docking bay stretched outward like a spine of steel and obsidian, suspended above a vast cavern of motion and sound. Below us, Rus Viking crews moved with disciplined urgency, their silhouettes crossing through columns of blue-white light as Drakkar spacecraft were armed, fueled, and awakened from standby. Massive hulls—etched with runes both ancient and technological—hovered in magnetic cradles, their engines pulsing softly like restrained thunder. The air vibrated with anticipation, with the unspoken understanding that many of those ships would not return unchanged. Emily stood close behind me, her presence steady, grounding. Droid L-84 remained at my side, golden frame reflecting the glow of holographic displays that flickered across the docking bay. Samuel, Niko, and Khamzat stood nearby, watching the preparations unfold in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts about what was coming. I finally broke the quiet, my voice carrying just enough to cut through the hum of machinery. “So do we have a plan that’s feasible?” Droid L-84 turned his skull-like head slightly toward me, optics brightening as he processed. His voice came calm and precise, as it always did. “We are going to put the ‘Star Castle’ to use, just floating above our orbit. The ancient upside-down pyramid has a strong magnetic shield. There’s no way Deathskull is going to touch Skogheim’s surface this time.” I leaned forward slightly, resting my hands on the cold railing, watching a Drakkar detach from its berth and glide forward with predatory grace. “How do we get past their defenses?” “I already have access to their control room. I can easily hack the shields with Ikeem’s assistance.” The simplicity of his statement was almost unsettling. Entire armadas, reduced to lines of code and vulnerabilities waiting to be exploited. For a brief moment, the conversation drifted into silence again—until Khamzat spoke up, his tone carrying a different kind of weight. “So, have you decided on our new name?” The question caught me off guard. Of all moments to ask, this seemed like the worst—and yet, perhaps the best. Names mattered to Vikings. Names carried identity, purpose, legacy. I thought of the battles already fought. Of Sigvard. Of Anisia. Of standing against demons, machines, and the slow erosion of time itself. “We should call ourselves the ‘Berserkers.’” Khamzat’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s a really powerful name to rally the Viking people. I’ll get on that.” He turned and walked away, already weaving through officers and warriors, spreading a word that would soon become a banner, a chant, a promise. I shifted my attention back to Samuel, the glow of the docking bay reflecting in his tired eyes. “We have a lot to watch out for. It’s not just the hell horde we have to worry about.” He didn’t respond immediately, but his expression told me he understood. There were threats we hadn’t named yet—forces that moved not with armies, but with inevitability. Movement at the far end of the bridge caught my attention. Beelzebub approached, his insectoid form casting sharp, angular shadows against the metal floor. Beside him walked Serenity, her posture guarded, her pretty blue eyes avoiding mine. As they reached us, I didn’t soften my tone. “After this battle, we may run into Shark People again. You better not stand in my way if that happens, do you understand?” Serenity nodded. The motion was small, restrained. Guilt hung over her like a second skin, and I knew my words had cut deep. In her eyes, I saw the unspoken weight of Anisia’s death—and the part she believed she had played in it. One by one, they all walked away. Samuel. Niko. Droid L-84. Serenity. Even the distant figures below seemed to fade into background motion. Only three of us remained. Emily stood behind me. Beelzebub lingered at my side. I turned slightly toward him, lowering my voice. “Do you think there’s any way to bring Anisia back?” Beelzebub shook his head slowly, the faint glow of his compound eyes dimming. “We used the last soul stone, remember? And besides, it’s too early to change the past.” He turned to leave, his steps echoing softly across the bridge. “What do you mean by that?” He paused, then looked back at me, his expression unreadable. “I can only say or see, something catastrophic is going to happen after the battle for Cybrawl.” With that, he walked away, disappearing into the corridors that led deeper into the fortress. I remained where I was, staring out at the docking bay, at the ships preparing to carry us into another storm. Then I felt Emily’s arms wrap around me from behind, her embrace firm, unspoken, real. I leaned into it, letting myself breathe for the first time in what felt like days. Beyond the open mouth of the docking bay, snow fell through the night sky of Skogheim, streaking past the lights and disappearing into darkness below. The world was holding its breath. And so were we. Meanwhile, on the semi-artificial world of Cybrawl—an impossible fusion of machine precision and planetary mass—the floating fortress continued its slow, predatory voyage through the void. Snow-choked mountain ranges clung to the planet’s outer shell like scars, their peaks bristling with antennae, cannon emplacements, and exhaust vents that bled orange heat into the frozen vacuum. Beneath that surface, buried deep within reinforced strata of alloy and obsidian, lay the command center—the brain of Cybrawl itself. Inside, the chamber was cold and angular, lit by a constant amber glow cast from holographic star charts and system diagnostics. At its center stood Deathskull. He loomed over the command table, his form a grotesque triumph of brutality over biology. His body was a gun-metal gray skeleton, every limb reinforced with interlocking plates and exposed servos. His head—shaped like a metallic wolf skull—tilted slightly as glowing orange eyes tracked the data scrolling before him. There was no breath, no heartbeat, only the faint mechanical whine of processors straining under the weight of calculation. Around him, demondroid pilots worked in silence. Their skeletal frames were slimmer, less imposing, but no less unsettling. Each bore a human-shaped skull for a head, fused to masks welded directly onto their jaws, tubing and cables snaking from their mouths and necks like parasitic veins. They moved with rigid efficiency, fingers clicking against controls etched with infernal sigils and machine code. “We’re approaching Skogheim sir,” one of the demondroid pilots said. The projection shifted, revealing Skogheim suspended in space—blue, green, and alive—its atmosphere now crowned by the faint silhouette of something vast and angular. “Should we strike?” another pilot said. Deathskull nodded. At once, the command center came alive. Systems synchronized. Energy conduits flared. Far above, on the artificial planet’s outer shell, the laser core awakened. From space, it appeared as a massive circular aperture opening along Cybrawl’s side, molten orange light swelling within like a star being born. The beam fired. A column of concentrated energy tore through the void and slammed directly into Skogheim’s atmosphere—only to disperse harmlessly across an invisible barrier. The magnetic shield generated by Star Castle rippled outward in shimmering waves, absorbing the impact without so much as a fracture. Inside the command center, alarms flickered—but none screamed louder than Deathskull’s sudden loss of composure. “God dammit! How can that mangey animal do this!” His metallic fists came down on the command table with catastrophic force, denting alloy and sending fractures spider-webbing through the surface. For the first time since his creation, Deathskull displayed something unmistakably close to rage. “That floating monolith in their atmosphere must have produced their defense system,” one of the pilots said. Deathskull’s gaze snapped back to the main screen, which now clearly displayed the ancient upside-down pyramid hovering above Skogheim like a silent god. “That’s not just any monolith, it’s ‘Star Castle’. I’m impressed, these fools actually use technology.” “I guess they’re not fools then.” The mistake was instantaneous—and fatal. Deathskull turned with inhuman speed. His skeletal frame blurred as he seized the pilot, lifting the demondroid clean off the floor. There was no hesitation, no mercy. The beating was swift, violent, and absolute—metal against metal until the pilot collapsed into a heap of broken limbs and shattered plating, orange optics flickering out for good. Silence reclaimed the room. As Deathskull straightened, recalibrating, the orange holoscreen at the center of the chamber suddenly shifted. A new signal forced its way through Cybrawl’s systems, overriding defensive protocols with humiliating ease. Alexandria appeared. Her image was sharp, composed, framed by the faint glow of Skogheim’s command infrastructure. “You think you can come back to terrorize my people?” Deathskull said nothing. His eyes flicked past her image as the tactical display updated in real time. Space beyond Cybrawl’s orbit filled with motion—dozens, then hundreds of Viking Drakkar warships emerging from hyperspace like a steel tide. They surged forward, breaching Cybrawl’s orbital gates, tearing through defensive perimeters that had not been designed to withstand coordinated resistance. “Sir, Viking war ships have breached our gates and are preparing for an attack.” “I guess we’ll be taking your gem of an artificial world, as a fair trade. Good luck, rust bucket.” The hologram vanished. Deathskull stood motionless, the data flooding his mind faster than he could adapt. His processors calculated probabilities, outcomes, contingencies—but each branch collapsed inward, narrowing toward the same conclusion. He was fast. He was powerful. But he was not creative. And he knew it. That knowledge—more than the approaching armada, more than the failure of Cybrawl’s core weapon—was what truly destabilized him. Deathskull was a machine designed to dominate, to execute predetermined strategies with ruthless precision. But now he faced an enemy that evolved, that adapted, that wielded both ancient myth and advanced technology in equal measure. The Vikingnar fleet closed in, blotting out the stars. And in that moment, within the cold heart of the artificial world, Deathskull experienced something dangerously close to panic. Deathskull turned away from the command table, his glowing orange eyes dimming as tactical projections collapsed behind him. Without hesitation, he strode toward a towering portal set into the far wall of the command center. The portal’s frame was forged from blackened alloy etched with ancient runes, humming with dimensional energy. As it activated, the air warped and folded inward, revealing what lay beyond. On the other side stretched the factory regions of Cybrawl. It was a world within a world—an immaculate fusion of nature and machine. Vast plains of steel and obsidian were interwoven with forests of engineered evergreens, their needles shimmering faintly with bioluminescent frost. Rivers of coolant and molten metal ran side by side, steaming gently beneath artificial skies. Scandinavian-style pyramid factories rose in perfect symmetry, their angular silhouettes echoing ancient Nordic architecture while vents and conduits pulsed with industrial life. Conveyor systems moved with ritual precision, and distant assembly lines glowed like veins beneath translucent flooring. Despite everything Deathskull represented, Cybrawl remained clean. Pristine. Maintained with almost obsessive care. That would not last. The factory city was about to be drenched in blood, and the surrounding lifeforms—engineered fauna lurking beneath metal canopies and within subterranean growth chambers—would soon thrive on the rejuvenation that only destruction could provide. Deathskull stepped through the portal without a backward glance, emerging into the cold, humming heart of Cybrawl’s industrial domain. Here, he prepared for war. Corrupted droids assembled first—gray metal skeletal androids clad in Anglo Saxon-style armor, their helms angular and brutal, their optics glowing a sickly amber. They moved with unified purpose, weapons magnetizing into their grips as they formed disciplined ranks. Behind them marched corrupted knights, their kettle helmets scarred and dented, tabards stained with old oil and older blood. Their armor bore the marks of centuries of repurposing, reforged again and again to serve Deathskull’s will. Then came the demon legion. They poured in from secondary portals, bodies twisted and asymmetrical, wings dragging sparks across the obsidian ground, claws flexing in anticipation. Their presence warped the air itself, frost forming and evaporating in rapid cycles around their limbs. Deathskull stood before them all, silent and unmoving, a figure of absolute authority. He was ready. Across Cybrawl’s surface, our re-formed Berserker Viking clan made planetfall. Drakkar dropships screamed through the artificial atmosphere, their hulls glowing as they cut through defensive fire. Ramps slammed down onto factory platforms and steel plains, and warriors surged forward in disciplined chaos—armor sealed, weapons charged, banners snapping violently in the ionized wind. We were armored and ready to take back Cybrawl. The battlefield ignited instantly. Suppressing fire from Deathskull’s forces turned the open factory grounds into a storm of plasma bolts and tracer fire. Energy rounds carved glowing scars across pyramid walls and tore through steel foliage. The clash began as a brutal firefight, both sides dug in, neither willing to yield ground. Deathskull was being defensive this time. Minutes stretched into an eternity of noise and light. The air filled with the crack of rifles, the howl of demon war cries, and the constant thunder of impacts against shields. Yet despite the intensity, nothing changed. Lines held. Casualties mounted. No one was going anywhere. That was when I realized the truth. We had to advance. Using the briefest lulls in enemy fire, we pushed forward meter by meter, boots slipping on scorched metal and frozen coolant. That was when the demons charged. They broke from cover in waves, abandoning ranged support for raw violence, hurling themselves into our position with claws, blades, and teeth. Melee erupted. I moved immediately, cutting across the battlefield toward Emily and Serenity. The ground shook beneath charging bodies, and the air was thick with smoke and sparks. I reached them just as demonic warriors crashed into their defensive line. Steel met claws. Energy blades screamed against corrupted armor. Together, we carved space around ourselves, driving the demons back long enough to stabilize the line. After aiding them in taking out demonic warriors, I yelled to them, “We need split off melee from rifles. Get a group of shooters on the sides of enemy lines, we need a way to flush to shit out!” They nodded without hesitation. “Emily, Serenity, look after each other.” Even with their faces covered by armored masks and vibrant visors, I knew they understood exactly what I meant. There was no time for anything else. No time for unresolved pain or hesitation. Emily and Serenity broke away, rallying a separate force of Viking warriors. They moved fast, using collapsed machinery and factory pylons as cover while plasma rifle fire roared from their flanks. red-white bolts tore through demon ranks from the sides, ripping open gaps in Deathskull’s defensive formation. And then the magic began. Emily drove her hand into the ground, and the factory floor answered. Silver crystals erupted upward in violent bloom, tearing through steel plating and enemy bodies alike. Jagged spires impaled corrupted droids and demon warriors, lifting them screaming into the air. Some crystals skewered demons in brutal, humiliating angles, sharp protrusions going up their rectums, their bodies frozen mid-charge as the battlefield swallowed them whole. Beside her, Serenity unleashed the storm. Tornadoes formed at her command, tight spirals of screaming wind and debris that ripped limbs from demon bodies and hurled broken forms into factory walls. Wings snapped. Armor shredded. The air itself became a weapon, compressing and exploding with devastating force. For the first time since Anisia’s death, they fought as one. Emily and Serenity advanced relentlessly, cutting a path through the sides of the enemy lines. Their combined assault shattered Deathskull’s formation, forcing corrupted droids to divert fire and demons to turn away from our main push. That was all we needed. With the enemy’s attention split, our Berserker forces surged forward. Shields locked. Blades raised. Rifles blazing. We pushed into the breach, reclaiming ground inch by blood-soaked inch. Cybrawl trembled beneath the weight of the battle. And somewhere within the factory city, Deathskull was no longer in control. The tide finally turned. Khamzat and I continued to push forward through the factory district, our boots crunching over fractured obsidian and twisted metal. The air was thick with smoke and ionized heat, and the once-pristine geometry of Cybrawl’s industrial plains had been reduced to a scarred battlefield of collapsed pylons and burning machinery. Every step forward felt earned, paid for with sweat, blood, and sheer force of will. The corrupted knights rushed us in disorganized waves, their kettle helmets dented, their movements sluggish. In close combat they were useless now. I had learned their weaknesses—thin seams beneath the shoulder plates, exposed joints at the neck where old-world craftsmanship failed to anticipate modern brutality. My chainsword, Revenge, screamed as it tore through armor, its teeth biting deep and showering sparks with every strike. The vibration traveled up my arms, grounding me in the moment, reminding me that this fight was real, even if the universe itself felt unstable. Around us, Berserker warriors advanced in tight formations, shields locking and breaking apart as needed, adapting faster than the enemy could respond. Khamzat moved like a living battering ram beside me, cutting down demons that tried to flank us. The Hell Horde faltered, their initial ferocity replaced by confusion. Then I noticed it. Above the roar of battle, flashes of distant plasma fire cut clean arcs through the sky. Demondroids were collapsing in droves, their skeletal frames detonating as shots pierced their power cores. I didn’t need a tactical readout to know what was happening. Emily and Serenity’s forces were doing exactly what we needed them to do. The enemy’s ranged units were being erased from the equation. We weren’t just surviving anymore. We were winning. Still, instinct told me not to trust the feeling. Victories like this were never complete until they were confirmed. I glanced toward Khamzat, who was already watching me, his expression hard and focused beneath his helm. I gave him a single nod. “That’s the signal,” I said. Khamzat didn’t hesitate. He raised his arm and activated the beacon embedded in his gauntlet. A low, ancient sound rolled across the battlefield moments later—a war horn, deep and thunderous, echoing through the factory canyons of Cybrawl. It wasn’t just noise. It was a declaration. Behind enemy lines, the ground erupted. Sewer hatches blasted open, steam and debris shooting skyward as Alexandria, Samuel, and Niko emerged with a hidden force of Viking warriors. They surged upward like ghosts from beneath the world, black-and-silver armor gleaming in the firelight as they launched their surprise assault. Enemy units turned too late, caught between hammer and anvil as Berserkers crashed into their rear lines. The Hell Horde broke. Demons fled or fell. Corrupted knights were cut down where they stood. Demondroids collapsed in sparking heaps, their coordination shattered. Within minutes, the factory district fell eerily quiet, broken only by the crackle of burning machinery and the distant hum of Cybrawl’s artificial atmosphere struggling to stabilize. We had won. The Berserker Viking clan stood victorious, armor scarred, weapons smoking, banners raised high amid the ruins. Yet as the adrenaline drained from my system, a cold realization crept in. Deathskull was nowhere to be seen. Alexandria was the first to notice. She stood atop a fractured platform, scanning the battlefield with sharp, calculating eyes. Then she turned, her gaze locking onto something beyond the smoke. “There,” she said, her voice cutting through the aftermath. I followed her line of sight and saw it—a retreating figure moving toward the inner sectors of Cybrawl. Gunmetal gray. Skeletal. Fast. Deathskull was fleeing, slipping away into the deeper infrastructure of the artificial world, toward places only he truly understood. Alexandria didn’t hesitate. “Will,” she ordered, her voice firm and absolute, “go and stop him.” For a moment, the battlefield faded away. No armies. No banners. No noise. Just the distant shape of a machine that had haunted too many lives and timelines. I tightened my grip on Revenge, feeling its weight, its familiar hum. Without another word, I broke into a run, weaving through the ruins of Cybrawl’s factory city, following the trail of a machine who believed he could escape consequence. I didn’t know what waited for me ahead. But I knew one thing for certain. This wasn’t over. I continued to follow Deathskull’s trail using my infrared vision, the world shifting into layered spectrums of heat and motion. His mechanical presence burned like a wound in the landscape, an unmistakable signature against the carefully balanced ecology of Cybrawl. The artificial planet revealed itself in quiet defiance of the war that had scarred its surface—trees grown with algorithmic precision yet swaying as if alive, their branches breathing in simulated wind, their leaves glowing faintly with bioluminescent veins. I moved through the forest without slowing, boots sinking softly into moss that felt too organic to be artificial. Above me, the sky shimmered with slow-moving auroras, a byproduct of Cybrawl’s atmospheric regulators. Despite everything Deathskull had done, the planet remained beautiful. That irony clung to me as I crossed a narrow creek, its water perfectly clear, flowing beneath a simple stone bridge carved with Nordic geometry. The sound of running water briefly drowned out the distant echoes of battle. Beyond the bridge, the terrain opened into a garden. The flowers towered overhead, their petals the size of shields, colors shifting subtly as if reacting to my presence. Pollen drifted through the air like golden snow. In the center of this impossible place stood a stone circle, ancient in design yet untouched by age. Viking runes were etched deep into each slab, glowing faintly, resonating with something older than technology. And there he was. Deathskull stood in the center of the circle, motionless, his metallic back turned toward me. His wolf-shaped skull gleamed under the garden’s light, gunmetal gray etched with scars from countless upgrades. He looked almost small standing there, framed by towering flowers and ancient stone, a machine pretending to be something more. I stepped forward, chainsword humming softly at my side, and broke the silence. “You’re finished. Please don’t make this difficult, droid.” Deathskull turned slowly, orange eyes igniting as they locked onto me. The garden’s light reflected off his skeletal frame as he faced me fully. “You want to know something,” he said. “I killed my creator. He was a man named Peterson Thornton, and I killed him for bringing me into this world by force. Even though I’m alive, I still have nothing on the inside.” His words echoed strangely in the open air, hollow yet heavy. I felt the weight of them settle, even as I stepped closer. “A soul?” I said. “You’re talking about a soul, aren’t you?” Deathskull nodded, the movement stiff and mechanical, yet unmistakably deliberate. “I saw Maladrie as a way out from this torment,” he continued. “She could have given me a soul, a form to thrive in.” The runes beneath his feet pulsed faintly, as if reacting to his confession. I tightened my grip on Revenge, the chainsword growl deepening. “If you wanted a soul,” I said, “you could’ve just asked.” Deathskull’s head tilted slightly, an imitation of human doubt. “It’s not that easy,” he replied. “No technology can give you a soul. Only Maladrie and her magic can do that.” The truth of it settled like ash. I took another step forward, standing just outside the stone circle. “At least you’re honest about one thing,” I said. “Maladrie is only good for death and destruction, my friend.” That was all it took. Deathskull attacked without hesitation. Twin orange energy swords ignited in his hands, their glow slicing violently through the garden’s soft light. He moved faster than before, mechanical joints screaming as he closed the distance. I met him head-on, chainsword colliding with energy in a shower of sparks that scorched the petals around us. Then the air tore open. Wormholes blinked into existence around the stone circle, ripping reality apart in brief, violent flashes. From each rift emerged identical copies of Deathskull—perfect replicas, each wielding orange Viking-style energy swords. They surrounded me in an instant, forming a spinning storm of blades. The garden became chaotic. I fought without pause, chainsword roaring as I carved through clone after clone. Sparks, oil, and severed metal limbs scattered across the grass. Each clone dissolved into smoke and static upon destruction, yet more took their place, manifesting on Deathskull’s whim through his warped technology. Despite the assault, I pushed forward. Step by step. Strike by strike. Deathskull began to retreat within the circle, his movements losing their earlier precision. His voice cut through the clash of weapons. “Why do you keep fighting?!” I gave him no answer. The duel intensified, my chainsword finally biting deep into his arm. Metal tore free in a shriek of ruptured servos and grinding steel. Deathskull staggered, his energy swords flickering as he dropped to his knees within the runes. The clones vanished. The garden fell silent again, broken only by the hum of my weapon and the soft rustle of oversized petals. Deathskull looked up at me, orange eyes dimming. “Please,” he said. “Fix me.” I stood over him, shadow stretching across the stone circle. “I’m no good at fixing a broken tool,” I said. “Sorry, pal.” I swung Revenge in a single, decisive arc. The chainsword tore through his skeletal wolf head, severing it cleanly. The orange glow in his eyes faded to black as the head struck the stone and rolled into a pool of thick, black oil. His body collapsed moments later, lifeless, finally still. The runes dimmed.The garden breathed. And Deathskull—machine, tyrant, and lost creation—was no more. CHAPTER 32: "FIGHTING THE ODDS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner CHAPTER 31: "REVEAL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The command center deep within Skogheim’s fortress thrummed with restrained urgency. Vast walls of black stone and alloy rose high above us, etched with ancient runes and threaded with faint red energy veins that pulsed in time with the holographic systems. At the center of the chamber, the command table projected layered red holograms—star maps, population clusters, and shifting enemy-controlled sectors—each image flickering as new data poured in from distant worlds. Emily stood next to me with her arms folded, her posture rigid, eyes locked on the projections that showed countless points of light scattered across nearby systems. Each point represented lives displaced, entire populations ripped from their homes and now drifting without protection. Anisia, Serenity and Hanna stood close together, whispering nothing, their silence heavier than words. Mathew leaned forward slightly, studying the data with a furrowed brow, while Rick, Jimmy, Pete, Cole, and Elizabeth formed a loose semicircle around the table, all bearing the same quiet tension. Droid L-84 stood perfectly still, red optics glowing steadily as internal processes ran at impossible speeds. Samuel’s presence anchored the room—arms crossed, jaw tight, already calculating logistics and weapons output. Beelzebub loomed nearby, his wasp-like form partially illuminated by the holograms, wings folded in respectful stillness. Ikeem stood opposite him, fingers twitching faintly as though already manipulating unseen systems in his mind. Alexandria’s voice cut through the low hum of machinery as she addressed the room, the red holograms shifting in response to her gestures. “There are millions scattered across planets near us.” The display expanded outward, revealing the outer sector of Vikingnar—once structured, now fractured and burning with enemy presence. Her expression tightened. “I have no idea where they came from?” Beelzebub stepped forward slightly, his compound eyes narrowing as recognition set in. “Sigvard freed them somehow.” A ripple of realization moved through the group. The weight of Sigvard’s final actions pressed heavily against the room, reframing his sacrifice not only as a delaying tactic, but as an act of liberation on a scale none of us had fully grasped. Alexandria exhaled slowly before continuing, her tone shifting from confusion to resolve. “We need to safely transport them to somewhere safe.” I stepped closer to the table, the holographic light reflecting off my armor and casting red shadows across my exposed wolf features. The solution felt obvious now that the pieces were finally visible. “Cybrawl can house the entire population of Vikingnar. Trillions of people can safely live on one artificial planet in peace. Cybrawl generates its own atmosphere, air, gravity, and extra urban and suburban areas within pocket dimensions on this lifeboat of a planet.” The projection shifted again, revealing Cybrawl—its layered pyramids, atmospheric processors, and sprawling artificial ecosystems rotating slowly in three. dimensional space. I turned slightly toward Droid L-84. “Isn’t that right?” The droid inclined his head with mechanical precision. “Luckily, I was one of the last architects of Cybrawl. Its current corrupt ruler, Deathskull, has no idea what’s in his possession.” A murmur passed through the group. Even Samuel’s stern expression cracked for a brief moment as the implications settled in. I pressed forward, unwilling to waste time. “We should also move your precious ancient portal into Cybrawl.” Alexandria’s gaze snapped toward me, sharp and calculating. “How are we going to do that?” The answer was already unfolding in my mind, pieces aligning too cleanly to ignore. “I just told you—with Cybrawl’s pocket dimension technology. We need to move fast before Maladrie sends Deathskull back to glass this planet. I also deserve to know what is really going on.” For a long moment, Alexandria said nothing. Her eyes searched my face, then flicked briefly to the others—warriors, engineers, survivors—all depending on decisions made in this room. At last, she nodded, the weight of inevitability settling into her posture. She turned back toward the command table. “Droid L-84, can you locate Cybrawl?” The droid’s red optics brightened fractionally as internal safeguards disengaged. “With Ikeem’s help, I can find Cybrawl’s location locked away in my hardware.” Alexandria finally turned to face me fully, her expression no longer guarded, but resolute. The hum of the holograms softened, as though the room itself sensed what came next. “I can only show you a small portion of our origin, and how you ended up here—while everyone else stays behind to work.” The command center remained alive with motion as plans began to take shape around us, but in that moment, everything narrowed. Whatever truths Alexandria was about to reveal had been buried deeper than war, deeper than Maladrie’s schemes, deeper even than Deathskull’s calculations. And at last, they were about to surface. Emily and I followed Samuel and Alexandria through the inner corridors of the base, leaving behind the noise of war rooms and humming machinery. The hallway narrowed as we descended, the walls transitioning from polished alloy into older stone reinforced with embedded conduits—layers of civilization stacked one atop another. The air felt cooler here, heavier, as though it remembered things the surface had long forgotten. We entered an elevator shaft unlike anything built in the modern sections of the fortress. Its frame was ancient, forged of dark metal etched with runes that glowed faintly red as the platform began its silent descent. Far below, the ancient underground metropolis revealed itself in fragments—vast arches, collapsed spires, and long-abandoned streets frozen in a state of quiet decay. I had seen it before, yet knowing we were passing it again stirred something uneasy in my chest. This place was not dead. It was dormant. But instead of leading us deeper into that buried city, Samuel guided us off the platform just before it reached the lowest levels. We were led to a structure that stood apart from the ruins—an unmistakably Viking-made portal, carved with Nordic symbols and reinforced with technology far beyond its apparent age. It stood deliberately separated from the ancient gateway to the Dark Dimension, as though its builders understood exactly what must never be allowed to touch. The four of us stepped into the portal. On the other side, the air was warm and clean. Sunlight greeted us. We were still in Skogheim. An island rested quietly in the middle of a vast lake, its surface shimmering beneath a clear blue sky. In the distance, Skogheim’s capital city rose against the horizon—its walls, towers, and energy shields softened by distance, appearing almost peaceful from here. The contrast felt intentional, as if this place had been hidden away to preserve something fragile. We followed Samuel and Alexandria up a grassy hill, the wind carrying the faint scent of water and stone. At the crest stood a Scandinavian-style chapel, modest in size yet heavy with age and meaning. Its wooden beams were reinforced with metal bands, and its stone foundation bore the wear of centuries. No guards. No weapons. Only silence. We stepped inside. The chapel was dim, lit by soft daylight filtering through stained glass high above us. The centerpiece window depicted Ragnarok—fire, ruin, gods locked in battle—but something about it was wrong. The figure the Vikings had worshipped as Helena bore the unmistakable features of Maladrie. Orange skin. Demonic elegance. Power mistaken for divinity. Samuel raised his hand and pointed upward. “Yeah,” he said, “these Vikings worshipped the gods who died out but sent their best warriors, the Nasga People, to save them from Maladrie.” The weight of that statement settled slowly, like ash. I turned toward him, anger and disbelief tightening my jaw. “Who in the fuck are you people? There’s no way you’re from NASA.” Samuel didn’t react. Instead, he guided us toward a podium near the center of the chapel. It was encased in a shimmering red energy shield, humming softly, reverently. Resting atop it was an old book, its leather binding cracked with age. “This,” Samuel said, “is an old King James Bible. And look at the verse.” I leaned in, reading silently. “God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.” I looked back at Samuel. “What’s so special about it?” He reached forward and deactivated the strange energy field with a precise motion. “Pick the book up, and get a better look.” The moment my gloves touched the cover, a subtle vibration ran through it. I looked again at the verse—and my breath caught. The word “his” was gone. Her worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth. My pulse quickened. I flipped to the beginning, my hands suddenly unsteady, and read a verse I knew by heart. God created mankind in her image. I looked up sharply. “God is a mother? What’s happening?” As the words left my mouth, the ink began to move. Black letters liquefied, dripping from the pages onto my gloves, splashing against the stone floor like blood. The book grew heavier in my hands as its structure collapsed inward, the pages dissolving until nothing remained but residue and silence. Samuel spoke, his voice low and grave. “Will and Emily, you need to understand that both of you and I are from a future Earth. We are in the past. This is the medieval time period—the Viking Age.” Emily turned sharply toward him. “What are you talking about? I grew up here!” I steadied myself and looked at her. “Emily, it’s okay. Just let him explain what’s going on.” Samuel took a slow breath, as if bracing himself. “Our people aren’t just NASA. We’re actually from CERN. On my timeline, we discovered the Wraith Particle, which allows space travel by slipping outside of space and time through the Wraith. Our achievements didn’t last. There was a devastating civil war in the United States that caused its collapse. After the fall, NASA was bought out by CERN. That’s when we discovered the Wraith Particle could be used to build the most advanced machine in our shared history—a time machine. This timeline became the perfect place to imprison war criminals.” I cut in immediately. “This timeline? You said shared history. Are you saying this techno-Viking age split off from all other timelines?” Samuel nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.” My mind raced. “If Hugh Everett the Third’s theory is correct, how come I can’t see a copy of myself in this timeline?” Samuel answered without hesitation. “Because timelines function as channels. Once you tune into a past or future timeline, you become your ancestor or descendant. That’s probably why people are forgetting who Wilson was. Only you remember. You became your own ancestor.” The chapel felt smaller now. “Why was Emily, the others, and I brought here in the first place?” I demanded. “You go around pulling people from different timelines and imprisoning them?” Samuel’s expression darkened. “We discovered that raw emotion from the medieval period interfered with the Wraith Particle, causing Ragnarok. Despair, violence, wrath—across multiple timelines, but especially this one. That anguish birthed Maladrie within the Wraith and destroyed the other Wraith gods. We—Rus Vikings, the wardens of this timeline—built Vikingnar as an intergalactic civilization. We imported Replica biotech from another timeline. Not just to build warriors, but to give citizens stability, comfort, and hope. The Wraith feeds on despair. We had to starve it. I take it Valrra chose you for a reason.” I staggered slightly, pressing a hand to my head as the realization crashed down on me. “I can’t believe you… Valrra… Alexandria… all this time. I knew we weren’t in the future. Every planet—semi-historically accurate Vikings. Shield maidens without tattoos. Warriors without beards. Armor that shouldn’t exist.” Emily steadied me, her hand firm against my back. Samuel spoke carefully. “I think we’re starting to earn your trust. But we have to find Valrra. She’s the only one who can locate Crimseed—the first artificial planet we ever built. That’s where the time machine is. Without her, I can’t communicate with our origin timeline.” I exhaled bitterly. “Fabulous. You do realize Valrra is being held hostage by the Hell Horde, right?” Samuel’s urgency finally broke through his composure. “We have to find her. We can’t let any Wraith being learn the nature of physical reality. Multiple timelines collapsed around the same event—human civilizations encountering the Arckons.” I looked at him sharply. “Are you saying the Arckons are more dangerous than Maladrie and her hell realm?” Samuel shook his head slightly. “Not exactly. The Arckons—and everything from those timelines—were wiped from existence. That’s all I know. And that’s why we need your help.” The chapel fell silent again, the stained glass of Ragnarok glowing softly above us—no longer myth, no longer prophecy, but history repeating itself under different names. And this time, we were already inside it. Emily and I remained inside the abandoned Viking chapel long after the weight of Samuel’s revelations had settled into the stone walls. The place felt hollow now, as if the truth had drained the last illusion from it. Dust drifted through narrow shafts of light, and the stained glass of Ragnarok loomed overhead like a frozen accusation. The gods were dead, the myths exposed, and what remained was the only consequence. Samuel broke the stillness by motioning toward the rear of the altar room, his voice calmer than it had any right to be. He wanted to show me something—something he had kept hidden here, far from war rooms and command tables. Emily did not follow. She sat down slowly on one of the wooden pews, her posture folding inward. The armor she usually wore like a second skin was gone, replaced by the quiet gravity of grief and betrayal. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, as if she were staring through centuries rather than stone. Alexandria noticed immediately and sat beside her, close enough to offer warmth without intrusion. Emily did not speak, but she did not pull away either. I followed Samuel. Behind the altar, concealed behind panels carved with ancient runes, was a narrow passage that led to a compact elevator—older than the base above, yet unmistakably engineered with precision far beyond its apparent age. The doors closed with a soft mechanical sigh, and the platform carried us upward through the chapel’s spine. When the doors opened again, we stepped into the upper level of the cupola. The space stunned me. This was not a storage room or a hidden surveillance post. It was a full-fledged art studio—carefully maintained, deeply personal, and completely out of place atop a forgotten Viking chapel. Canvases leaned against the curved walls. Sketches were pinned in careful rows. Jars of brushes, paint, ink, charcoal, and pastels crowded long tables worn smooth by use. Light poured in from narrow windows that wrapped around the dome, bathing everything in a soft, natural glow. And sitting on one of the desks was an old Mac laptop. Ancient by our standards. Outdated to the point of absurdity given the technology Samuel had access to. Yet it hummed quietly, stubbornly alive. I moved closer, drawn first to the artwork. The style was unmistakable—semi-realistic anime figures rendered with careful attention to color, expression, and anatomy. Many of them were women, their faces varied but their eyes strikingly consistent. There was a softness in the lines, a restraint that suggested familiarity rather than fantasy. Then I noticed the signature in the corner of several pieces. Samuel Yang. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Well Samuel Yang, it seems you have a fad for drawing semi-realistic anime girls. I’m not judging, I just like the colors of your artwork.” Samuel didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked relieved. “Yeah, I draw Niko a lot. It helps me to stay true to her.” I nodded slowly, studying the way the colors layered over one another, the subtle imperfections left intentionally uncorrected. “So creating art helps you? Why show me this?” Samuel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he handed me a sketch pad and a pencil. “I figure art can help you.” I didn’t like the way that sounded. It felt like a test—subtle, unspoken, and deliberate. Still, I kept my muzzle shut and went along with it. He started me with the basics. Shapes. Circles. Cylinders. Perspective lines. It was grounding in a way I hadn’t expected, the simple act of translating thought into form without machines doing it for me. Minutes passed. Maybe more. Eventually, I turned the page and began something harder. A dinosaur. Samuel glanced over. “Why draw a dinosaur?” I didn’t stop sketching. “Because I finally know why they’re thriving on multiple planets in this timeline.” The words surprised even me. The creature took shape beneath my hand—a tyrannosaurus rex, broad and powerful, but crowned with a crest that didn’t belong to Earth’s fossil record. I didn’t know why I added it. It simply felt right. I kept drawing as I spoke again. “So, will I ever get to see which timeline you came from?” Samuel leaned against the table, arms crossed. “You’re not missing much. My original timeline was similar to yours.” I snorted quietly. “You picked one hell of a timeline to send your undesirable people from your timeline to.” Samuel didn’t argue. “Yeah. All of our criminals were most likely killed by these vicious medieval people. Now we need these people more than ever to fight an intergalactic war against demons—and maybe send Maladrie back to hell where she belongs.” The pencil paused. “I can respectfully say I feel bad for these regular medieval people who have to deal with the fallout of your bullshit,” I said. “Especially Emily.” Samuel’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, William.” There was no deflection in his voice. No justification. I sighed. “It’s alright. I understand why I was kept from knowing the truth about this reality for too long… at least you’re not a backstabbing android.” Samuel gave a dry exhale. “Please tell me you don't despise technology because of one android?” I shook my head. “No. Droid L-84 has been more reliable than that traitor Deathskull. I gave him too much power.” “Yes you have,” Samuel said. “Technology should bend to your will—not you bending to its needs. I want to show you something.” He guided me to the Mac workstation and opened a program I recognized instantly—Blender. The interface was primitive compared to what we used now, but it was familiar enough. He walked me through the basics, efficient and patient, until a simple 3D donut appeared on the screen. I didn’t see the point. “I can see you view these activities as useless when there’s wars happening,” Samuel said. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I guess I’m good at art, but I’m no artisan.” “I’m trying to point out your over reliance on machines,” Samuel said, “and how you blindly trusted Deathskull to run an intergalactic civilization. Even the small tasks you find enjoyable and meaningless can never replace spirit. Technology can only enhance your spirit—not replace it.” The words hit harder than any accusation. He was right. Somewhere along the way, I had started thinking like a machine—efficient, detached, interchangeable. I had handed over responsibility because it was easier than trusting people. Easier than trusting myself. Emily’s face surfaced in my thoughts uninvited. Her presence—her humanity—was the only thing that kept me anchored. And now, standing in this quiet space above the war, I realized art might be the second thing doing that. Before we left, my eyes caught something resting near the windowsill. A bass tagelharpa. I sat on the stool, lifted the instrument, and began to play. The sound was deep and raw, vibrating through the stone beneath my feet. Ancient. Unforgiving. Honest. My fingers moved instinctively, as if they had always known where to go. The melody carried weight—grief, resolve, and something like hope twisted together. When the final note faded, I lowered the instrument and said quietly, “Huh… maybe I need to rely on my own skills more.” The chapel remained silent—but for the first time since the truth had been revealed, the silence felt steady rather than hollow. Downstairs in the nave of the abandoned Viking chapel, Emily sat alone on one of the long wooden pews, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bowed as if the weight of the stone ceiling pressed directly onto her spine. The chapel felt colder here, stripped of the quiet intensity that filled the cupola above. Dust lingered in the air, unmoving, and the great stained-glass window depicting Ragnarok cast fractured bands of muted color across the floor. The old gods burned eternally in glass, frozen in their final moments, watching yet another truth unravel beneath them. Alexandria stood nearby, hesitant. She had the posture of someone accustomed to command, yet now she seemed unsure how to step forward without causing further damage. Emily did not look up. She did not acknowledge her presence. Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. At last, Alexandria spoke. “What is it?” Emily’s head lifted just enough for the light to catch her eyes. They were sharp, hurt, and exhausted all at once. “Do I have to point out the obvious? I was born into this world without knowing it was being controlled by you people.” Alexandria stiffened slightly, the words striking deeper than accusation—they carried betrayal. “Nobody is controlling you. We did what we thought was best to protect this reality.” Emily finally turned to face her, her expression tight, her voice trembling beneath restraint. “What’s the point when there’s other timelines filled with joy? This universe—the homeworld I knew—and my life feels fake.” The chapel seemed to echo that word. Fake. As if the stones themselves recoiled from it. Alexandria stepped closer now, lowering herself so they were nearly eye level. Her voice softened, deliberate and steady. “I assure you, everything you know in this universe or timeline is very real. Especially the culture, its people, its beauty, and its flaws. Now there’s a very real threat trying to take everything from you and everyone from this timeline—and ours. You’re also not missing out on any other timeline. They’re all boring. They lack substance.” Emily’s hands clenched in the fabric of her dress. “So do they all end the same?” Alexandria hesitated, genuinely caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Emily’s voice lowered, almost breaking. “Does Maladrie win every time?” Alexandria shook her head firmly, the movement decisive. “No. That’s why Valrra sent William to help us. And when you and William are together, you’re a force to be reckoned with.” The words lingered between them, not as comfort, but as a fragile truth—one Emily did not immediately reject, yet could not fully accept. She looked away again, toward the floor, toward the scattered light of dying gods. Before anything more could be said, Alexandria’s wrist gauntlet pulsed with a sharp red glow. The sudden intrusion of technology into the sacred silence felt jarring. She glanced down, her expression shifting from empathy to focus. An alert. Droid L-84 had found something. Moments later, footsteps echoed through the chapel as Samuel and I returned from the upper levels. The air felt different now—tense, compressed, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Alexandria straightened and turned toward us, her voice carrying authority once more. “I believe we got the location of Cybrawl.” The weight of those words settled heavily. Cybrawl—the artificial world. The lifeboat. The secret Deathskull ruled without understanding. The one place that could change everything, or doom it entirely. Our brief moment of stillness was gone. The four of us left the chapel together, stepping out into the open air where the island stretched gently beneath a clear blue sky. Tall grass rippled around our legs as we crossed the fields, the chapel shrinking behind us like a relic already fading into history. The lake shimmered ahead, calm and indifferent, its surface betraying nothing of the wars, lies, and revelations churning beneath the stars. At the shoreline, the portal waited—unstable, humming softly, its surface folding reality inward on itself. Without ceremony, we stepped through. And whatever fragile peace we had found was left behind on that quiet island, beneath dead gods and broken truths. The main laboratory of Skogheim hummed with a restrained urgency, its vast interior alive with red holographic light and low mechanical resonance. Towers of instrumentation rose like metallic ribs around the central command space, their surfaces etched with ancient runes and modern circuitry fused into a single language of survival. Overhead, suspended conduits pulsed softly, carrying energy between systems that had been rebuilt, repaired, and reforged countless times across wars no history ever fully recorded. Emily and I stood beside Alexandria, Samuel, Ikeem, and Droid L-84 as the air itself seemed to vibrate with possibility. The red holographic projection bloomed outward from the central console, resolving into a detailed stellar map of Vikingnar’s intergalactic sector. At its heart, the artificial world of Cybrawl glided silently through space, a colossal construct of impossible geometry—nature and industry locked in perfect equilibrium—slowly drifting away from the center and toward the outer reaches. “So where is Cybrawl located?” Alexandria asked, her voice steady but sharp with expectation. Droid L-84 stood connected to the projection, cables extending from his skeletal frame into the console like veins feeding a heart. The artificial planet rotated slowly in the hologram, its pyramidal factories and atmospheric processors glinting in simulated starlight. The trajectory line extended outward, unmistakable. “They are coming to us,” Droid L-84 said. The words settled heavily in the room. “Already?” I asked, my eyes tracing the projected path as the implications unfolded in my mind. “You still have time to unwind, while I come up with a plan to take back Cybrawl,” Droid L-84 replied, his tone calm, almost unsettling in its certainty. “Good, let’s come up with a plan,” I said instinctively, already feeling the familiar pull of strategy and inevitability tightening around my thoughts. Alexandria shook her head, and when she spoke again, the answer was not what I expected. “Why don’t you and Emily take a break.” The suggestion landed like a disruption in gravity. “You’re kidding, right? And whatever happened to the ‘Star Castle’? Is it safe?” I asked, tension slipping through my composure despite myself. Without hesitation, Ikeem moved to a nearby console. His long fingers danced across glowing controls, ancient symbols merging with advanced schematics. With a subtle shift in the room’s lighting, the massive observation window at the far end of the laboratory revealed the night sky over Skogheim. At first, there was nothing. Then space itself seemed to ripple. The invisibility cloak disengaged. Hanging silently above the capital city was the Star Castle—an immense, ancient monolith shaped like an inverted pyramid, its surface etched with symbols older than Vikingnar itself. It floated with effortless authority, dark and silent, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. The structure felt less like a machine and more like a thought made solid—watching, waiting. My mind eased instantly. The Star Castle was still ours. Still hidden. Still untouched. I nodded slowly. “You see,” Ikeem said, “the cloaking technology is invisible to enemy radar. Ain’t no way the Hell Horde is going to figure out what we have.” Samuel turned toward Emily and me, his expression lighter than it had been in a long while. He laughed, a sharp break in the laboratory’s tension. “Now get out of here! Get a drink or something.” There was no argument left in me. The exhaustion I’d been suppressing finally surfaced, heavy and undeniable. Emily felt it too—I could see it in the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, in the way her breath slowed. We turned and left the laboratory together. Beyond the base, Skogheim’s capital city unfolded beneath a deep, star-filled sky. The streets glowed with soft amber and crimson light, energy lanterns casting long shadows across stone and metal alike. Gothic spires rose beside Scandinavian rooftops, and beneath them flowed the quiet movement of people who knew war was coming, yet still clung to life in the hours they were given. For the first time since the alarms had sounded, since truths had been torn open and worlds set in motion, Emily and I walked without armor, without commands echoing in our ears. The city breathed around us—alive, defiant, and fragile. Cybrawl was moving. The war was not over. But for now, Skogheim still stood. And so did we. ​​The walk back to the tavern was slow and heavy, our boots echoing softly against the stone streets of Skogheim’s capital. The city lights shimmered against drifting snow, and although the war pressed in from every direction, there was a strange stillness in the air—an exhaustion shared by everyone who still dared to breathe. Emily and I carried our frustration in silence, our thoughts knotted with revelations that refused to settle neatly into place. That weight lifted, if only slightly, when we noticed the glow spilling from the tavern’s dining hall. Music rolled out first—deep, rhythmic, unmistakably Viking in its cadence. Then laughter, the clatter of plates, and the warmth of firelight flickering against wooden beams. Inside, a feast was underway. Long tables overflowed with food, mead, and people from countless worlds and era's pressed together in shared defiance of the darkness waiting beyond the walls. Cole and Hanna spotted us immediately and waved us over. “Hey, you want to come and dine with us?” “Alright.” The word came out before I could overthink it. Emily and I weren’t thrilled at the idea of socializing, not with our minds still reeling, but hunger has a way of cutting through pride and misery alike. We took our seats beside Hanna and Cole. Across from us sat Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Elizabeth, and Mathew, their faces lit by firelight and fatigue in equal measure. I let myself absorb the room. Intergalactic travelers and medieval natives alike filled the space—warriors, engineers, villagers, hybrids of flesh and machine. Despite everything, many of them smiled. They clapped to the music, swayed with mugs raised high, and for a fleeting moment choose joy over fear. It struck me how striking so many of them were—not just in appearance, but in spirit. Beauty born not from peace, but from endurance. “These people sure do know how to have a good time despite the chaos.” “You mean medieval people.” Cole’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” A female server arrived, placing ale and water before us before disappearing back into the crowd. I lifted the mug, took a long sip, and felt the burn ground me. “We are really in a fuckoh, guys. All of us except Emily and Serenity are currently in a separate timeline.” Elizabeth frowned. “Right, we’re in the future.” “Wrong. Once you travel into the future or past, you are then placed in a separate timeline. It’s a theory by Hugh Everett the Third.” I drank again before continuing, letting the words settle. “We’re in an alternate medieval timeline with interdimensional beasts, space travel, robots, aliens, and man-made monsters.” Jimmy’s face was drained of color. “So does that mean there’s multiple copies of us? And did the Rus Vikings kidnap us here!?” “You need to calm down, Jimmy!” I lowered my voice, scanning the room to be sure no guards were paying attention. “There are multiple versions of us, but you’ll only see them in a mirror. Once you time travel into the future or the past, you become your descendants—or in our case, ancestors. It’s like tuning into different channels, and we’re forced to be in this one because it needs to be saved from the demons.” Jimmy swallowed hard. “Or?” “Or all the timelines collapse under the Hell Horde’s fury.” Jimmy folded inward, elbows on the table, hands gripping his head as despair finally overtook him. Silence spread across our group, heavy and suffocating. “And how does Emily feel about this?” Hanna asked gently. “Knowing her world has been heavily influenced by outsiders?” I shook my head. “Does it look like she’s happy?” “I am angry and relieved at the same time. I’m angry that beliefs were shattered, but relieved that I found the true nature of this vast universe. But most importantly, I’m happy I found good people to call ‘friends,’ and my true love.” She turned to me then, her green eyes steady and unflinching, and wrapped her arms around me. The certainty in her embrace cut through every doubt I’d been wrestling with. Mathew then jokingly says, “And good friends excludes Anisia, right?” Laughter rippled around the table, brief but genuine, even pulling a smile from Emily. “Where’s anus breathe anyway?” Pete gestured toward a table across the hall. Anisia lay slumped over it, passed out drunk, while nearby Serenity sat rigid and hollow-eyed, Beelzebub beside her, his insectoid form oddly gentle as he leaned close in quiet support. Emily noticed immediately. She stood, concerned overtaking her expression, and moved toward Serenity. That was when Samuel and Niko entered the dining hall, their arrival punctuated by cheers. Before I could protest, a bass tagelharpa was thrust into my hands. The ale dulled my annoyance just enough that I gave in. The music poured out of me effortlessly—low, dark, and resonant. Fingers moved on instinct, strings vibrating with something older than thought. The room quieted as people listened, the sound threading through smoke and firelight like a living thing. Across the room, Emily tried to reach Serenity. Serenity bolted. Outside, snow fell softly beneath the stars. Emily followed her just in time to hear. “What’s wrong with you, Serenity?” “Why do you care? You’re the one who sent me away in the first place.” Serenity collapsed onto a bench, tears streaking her face as snow gathered in her hair. “We’re still close friends… Come on, we’re like sisters.” “I thought we were sisters?” Serenity stood and walked back toward the tavern. Emily lingered, watching her go, then turned back only to be stopped by Beelzebub. “It’s best to leave her alone for a little while.” “What happened to her?” Beelzebub shook his head. “After a battle which killed off Haj Tooth, Serenity was captured, and Maladrie tortured her, sexually. That’s all I can say.” Inside, Emily returned to the tavern quietly, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a dull thud that was almost lost beneath the low murmur of voices and the crackle of fire. Snow clung to the hem of her boots and melted into dark stains on the floorboards as she stepped back into the warmth. Her face was pale, her eyes distant, as if part of her had been left outside beneath the falling sky. I was still playing. The bass tagelharpa rested against my chest, its ancient strings vibrating under my fingers. The sound rolled through the dining hall—deep, droning, mournful. It wasn’t festive anymore. It carried weight, grief, and something feral beneath the surface. Conversations had faded into whispers. Even the laughter that had once filled the hall was gone, replaced by uneasy attention fixed on the music. Emily moved through the crowd and stood beside me. I felt her presence before I saw her, the familiar gravity she carried pulling me back from the edges of my own thoughts. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply stood there, close enough that I could sense the tension in her posture, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides. As I played, something shifted. Not a sound—at first—but a feeling. A pressure, like the air itself had thickened. From the corner of my eye, I noticed it: a distortion in the firelight, an unnatural stretch of shadow that didn’t belong to any beam, pillar, or moving body. The music continued, but my instincts sharpened, every sense screaming that something was wrong. The shadow grew. It climbed upward, tall and wrong, cutting across the tables and the walls. The people nearest it hadn’t noticed yet, still caught between exhaustion and drink. Anisia lay slumped at her table, unmoving, her breath slow and shallow. I finished the solo. The final note rang out and died in the air, leaving the tavern in sudden, suffocating silence. No applause followed. No cheers. Just the crackle of fire and the soft creak of wood as people shifted uncomfortably. I looked up. The shark creature stood on the table above Anisia. Its form was towering and grotesque—two powerful legs bent backward like some exoskeletal mockery of nature, its body black and white, slick and predatory. Multiple arms hung at its sides, one pair human-like, the other ending in long, curved claws. Its lower jaw split open like a pizza cutter, mandibles flexing as it loomed over her. Anisia stirred. Her eyes fluttered open just in time for the creature to strike. Claws tore through her black-and-blue leather jumpsuit and sank into her stomach. Her body jerked upright as the beast hauled her closer, its mandibles snapping forward to inject venom into her neck. Her scream barely had time to form before it was cut short. I moved. The tagelharpa hit the floor as I lunged, grabbing the creature’s leg and yanking with everything I had. The table splintered as the beast crashed down. People screamed and scattered, chairs overturning, mugs shattering against stone. I overpowered it brutally, ripping one of its clawed arms from its socket. Blackened blood sprayed across the floor as the creature shrieked and thrashed. I raised the severed arm, ready to end it— “No, don't kill her!” Serenity’s cry cut through me, raw and desperate. Emily stepped forward instantly. “Stop! It’s not Haj Tooth.” For a fraction of a second, everything froze—the creature writhing beneath me, Anisia collapsing lifelessly beside the shattered table, Serenity standing there with tears streaming down her face. Then instinct won. I brought the severed clawed arm down with all my strength, decapitating the shark creature in a single, savage blow. Its head rolled across the floor, mandibles twitching before going still. The body collapsed, finally lifeless. Silence followed—thick, horrified, absolute. Serenity broke. She sobbed uncontrollably as Emily tried to reach her. “Serenity, it’s ok.” “Fuck off you bitch.” She fled into the depths of the tavern, her footsteps echoing long after she was gone. Emily stood beside me, her shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked floor and the remains of the creature. Behind us, the shaken crowd slowly came back into focus as Samuel’s voice rose above the chaos. “Is everyone alright?” The feast was over. The music was gone. And whatever fragile illusion of safety we had clung to inside those walls had been ripped apart—just like the creature at my feet. The descent into the ancient underground metropolis felt heavier than before, as if the stone itself had absorbed the violence that had unfolded above. Massive stairways spiraled downward beneath Skogheim’s capital, their obsidian steps worn smooth by centuries of forgotten civilizations. Blue and red ambient light still pulsed faintly through crystalline veins in the walls, casting long, shifting shadows across the vast underworld. The city below had once felt alive—mysterious, ordered, purposeful—but now it felt wounded. Emily stayed close to me as we walked, her presence steady, grounding. Around us moved Cole and Hanna, Mathew and Elizabeth, Rick, Jimmy, and Pete, their expressions tight and wary. Droid L-84 glided silently beside Serenity, while Beelzebub’s insectoid silhouette reflected the colored lights in sharp, angular fragments. Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Ikeem, and Alexandria followed behind, all of us drawn forward by an unspoken understanding that something was deeply wrong. When we reached the laboratory, the change was immediate and unmistakable. What had once been a place of precision and controlled chaos—humming consoles, holographic displays, sealed containment units—now lay in ruin. Panels were torn from the walls. Holographic emitters flickered weakly or lay shattered on the floor. The air carried the faint metallic scent of ruptured systems mixed with something far worse. Bodies lay scattered across the obsidian floor. Scientists in hazmat suits were sprawled where they had fallen, some near consoles, others near the exits, as if they had tried—and failed—to flee. Their suits were torn open, visors cracked, the sterile white fabric stained dark. The stillness around them was absolute, broken only by the low hum of failing power conduits embedded in the walls. Only one figure moved. In the far corner of the laboratory, a female scientist sat huddled against the stone wall, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her hazmat suit was intact, untouched, but her eyes were wide with terror, her breathing shallow and rapid. She flinched as I approached, her hands shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry but I have to ask…” Before I could finish, she raised a trembling arm and pointed toward the far end of the laboratory—to the paddock. The containment area that once housed the Kraken People stood open, its reinforced barriers shattered outward. Ikeem and I moved toward it slowly, stepping over debris and broken equipment. Emily remained just behind me, her gaze fixed ahead, her jaw clenched. Inside the paddock, the truth revealed itself. The massive kraken egg lay split open, its shell cracked and hollow. Nearby, the two kraken creatures that had once occupied the enclosure were dead, their enormous forms collapsed against the stone, wounds torn through them with brutal efficiency. The walls bore deep gouges, claw marks carved into the obsidian as something powerful had forced its way out. There was the sign the creature was here. “I guess it’s some type of mutation.” The words hung in the air as Ikeem studied the scene, his mind already racing through theories and possibilities. “Not exactly…” He turned toward me, curiosity overriding the horror etched into his features. “How do you know?” I didn’t look away from the destruction as I answered. “Because Shark People have always existed.” The moment the words left my mouth, the ground beneath us lurched violently. The entire underground metropolis trembled, a deep, resonant shockwave rolling through stone and metal alike. Cracks raced along the walls. Loose fragments fell from the ceiling, clattering across the floor. Instinctively, Emily grabbed my arm as we all staggered, struggling to keep our footing. We moved outside the laboratory together, emerging into the open expanse of the ancient city just as it began to change. The transformation was unsettling in its precision. Where carvings of kraken tentacles once adorned pillars and archways, they were gone—replaced seamlessly, as if they had never existed. Statues reshaped themselves before our eyes, stone flowing and reforming into towering figures of Shark People, their jagged silhouettes frozen in predatory dominance. Along the walls, murals rewrote themselves, depicting Shark People and Dragons emerging from a dark dimension, descending upon worlds to fulfill a singular, ominous purpose. It wasn’t destruction. It was a revision. History itself was being overwritten, reality adjusting its own memory to accommodate a new truth. The city wasn’t crumbling—it was updating. Emily stood beside me in stunned silence, her eyes reflecting the shifting lights and impossible changes. Around us, the others watched with a mixture of awe and dread as the underground metropolis finalized its transformation, settling into a new, terrifying continuity. I broke the silence quietly, the weight of understanding pressing down on me. “Don’t you see. Time is fickle.” The city fell still once more, its new identity locked in place, as if it had always been this way—and always would be. CHAPTER 31: "REVEAL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 30: "WEAPONS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The portal rippled open like a wound in space—its edges crackling with purple-green ion light, bending the air around it as though reality itself were exhaling. Beelzebub stepped through first, his wasp-like silhouette cutting a jagged shape against the gentle horizon of Aries. Emily followed, her boots touching the grass with a softness that contrasted the ring of metal armor that surrounded us. I stepped last, my senses instantly overwhelmed by the stillness, the clarity, and the terrible serenity of the aftermath that lay before us. Aries greeted us with a sky impossibly blue—so blue it almost mocked the carnage below. The breeze carried the sterile scent of trampled grass mixed with the faint metallic tang of spent energy weapons. The field stretched outward in gentle slopes, green waves interrupted by dark shapes—bodies, armor fragments, scorched earth where plasma fire had licked the soil, leaving blackened scars. The battlefield felt frozen in time, as if the world itself were refusing to let the memory of the slaughter fade. Beelzebub surveyed the field with all four of his faceted eyes, wings twitching with tension. "All of the Trolls have been eradicated," he said, mandibles clicking once in a gesture of solemn regret. "I see that," I replied, my voice small in the vastness. The words fell flat in the open air, swallowed by the silence surrounding us. We continued walking, our footsteps disturbingly loud against the quiet. Emily walked beside me, her expression somber as she scanned the fallen—Knights, Wulvers, Trolls—all collapsed in grotesque final poses, weapons still locked in frozen grips. Their armor, once vibrant, was now chipped, burned, and stained. Some bodies had already begun to fade into pale ash, a result of their unnatural biology reacting to death. The sun cast a warm glow over the scene, an almost peaceful radiance that contrasted viciously with the massacre. It felt wrong. Unfair. As though Aries refused to mourn. Then I saw them. Two figures lying together in the center of the field, where the grass was flattened in tangled waves as if the ground itself had convulsed during their final struggle. Sigvard—my ally, my brother-in-arms—lay on his side, one massive hand tightly entwined with another. His mandrill-like face was still, eyes closed, features softened by death. But what struck me hardest was the expression—peace, almost acceptance, carved into the lines of his face. Beside him lay a Demonette, her dark hair spread like a river around her head, violet eyes dim and half-closed yet still striking even in death. The faint glow in her armor’s embedded sigils had gone out, leaving only dull stone patterns across her chestplate. But her hand—her hand gripped Sigvard’s with a tenderness that transcended faction, war, or species. Beelzebub stepped forward, studying her features. There was no disdain in his expression, only a strange reverence. "I believe she's a Demonette Elite. I take it she wasn't fond of being on the side of Nihilism." His words felt heavy, truthful. The battlefield recorded her defiance in the way she lay beside Sigvard—two souls who chose each other at the end of all things. My throat tightened. "She's important enough to have a proper burial alongside Sigvard. We'll have to come back later for the rest." I whispered, my voice barely audible, "At least, your death wasn't in vain, buddy." It was all I could offer him. All that was left to give. With the gentleness of mourners preparing royalty, Emily and I lifted Sigvard’s body, careful not to disturb his interlocked hand with hers until the very last moment. A levitation sarcophagus—silver, engraved with geometric symbols of Vikingnar—materialized when Emily activated her wrist device. Its top opened like a blooming metallic flower, revealing a cushioned interior that glowed with soft white light. We placed Sigvard inside, his massive frame settling into the sarcophagus with a quiet thud. For a moment, Emily’s hand lingered on his chest, her eyes glistening with respect for a warrior she scarcely knew but now deeply honored. The sarcophagus hummed as it activated, lifting smoothly into the air with gravitational repulsion. It hovered beside us, serene and steady—more dignity than Sigvard ever received in life. Emily patted my shoulder—a grounding gesture that I needed more than I admitted. Beelzebub raised a hand, his claws glowing with portal-energy. Space folded inward before him, swirling into a luminous green-and-violet vortex. Without another word spoken, the three of us stepped inside, leaving the silent field of Aries—and the memory of a fallen hero—behind as the portal closed like a curtain of light. The portal closed behind us like a sigh, its swirling colors dissolving into the natural dim-blue sky of Skogheim. In an instant, the mournful quiet of Aries was replaced by the pulse of activity—clanging metal, distant engine roars, soldiers shouting orders, and the deep metallic hum of generators powering up the capital’s main defense grid. The three of us stood at the foot of the portal platform: Emily at my side, Beelzebub hovering just behind us with a slow beat of his translucent wings, and the levitating sarcophagus holding Sigvard gliding silently between us. We had returned home. To war. The surface level of the main base, integrated seamlessly into the mountainous terrain of Skogheim’s capital, buzzed with frantic energy. Dozens of soldiers ran between weapon racks and equipment queues, their boots striking the obsidian flooring that glimmered under holographic screens projected above them. Engineers in long brown coats directed swarms of maintenance drones repairing armor plates, while massive loading cranes carried crates of ammunition onto transport carriers waiting to launch. Everything smelled of metal, ozone, and urgency. Not fear—focus. To our right, an entire firing range flickered with bright red streaks of plasma as soldiers tested Samuel’s latest rifle prototypes. To the left, a team of Wulver technicians calibrated towering shield generators, their claws tapping rhythmic commands into glowing red holo-panels. Amid all the motion, one figure stood out—Samuel—leaned over a workbench cluttered with disassembled crossbow-shaped plasma rifles, fragments of crystal ammunition, and an upgraded katana energy blade whose red-white edge hummed softly even at rest. His hands were a blur as he adjusted circuits, rewrote firing limits, and tested the limbs of each rifle, which opened and closed like mechanical wings for rapid cooling. He lifted his head the moment he sensed us. His eyes locked onto the sarcophagus. "You're back! You guys don't have a lot of time left." His voice carried the weight of everything unsaid—the losses, the fear, the ticking clock above all our heads. "I know, we just had to get our friend." Samuel exhaled sharply, not annoyed but grieving. "Understand. You can place the sarcophagus in the back room for safe storage." I nodded once. Emily rested her hand on my back as the sarcophagus followed us down the corridor on its silent hover field. The hallway was narrow, lit by strips of red emergency-light embedded in the ceiling. Sirens were muted in the distance—barely audible, but constant. The back room was cold and dim compared to the frantic warmth outside. Rows of storage pods lined the walls, each sealed and marked for security clearance. It felt sacred—quiet, respectful. A place for things too important to be left exposed. We guided Sigvard’s sarcophagus to the center of the room, letting it settle onto the low pedestal. The glow around its perimeter dimmed to a soft pulse, like a heartbeat fading into dormancy. Emily brushed her fingers along the metallic surface, whispering something wordless but kind. Then we turned, shutting the heavy door behind us. As soon as we stepped back into the main facility, everything shifted again—light, noise, heat, movement. The war machine of Skogheim was alive and in motion, and we had responsibilities waiting. Emily and I stood side by side as we powered down our old armor. A dull vibration moved across my body as the nanobots retracted, dissolving out of their hardened shapes and flowing back into the old silver medallion with its red glowing core at my chest. The metal relocked itself with a soft click, leaving me wearing only the under-jumpsuit—sleek black leather for me, and a black-and-white patterned one for Emily. Form-fitting. Flexible. Oddly comfortable despite its synthetic feel. A shadow crossed our path as Droid L-84 approached—his polished bronze-and-silver chassis gleaming in the white overhead lights. He carried two new medallions in his metallic hands, triangular in shape, each with a circular light pulsing softly in the center. He presented them like relics. We each took one. The metal was cool—too cool—and vibrated faintly with restrained power. I pressed mine to the center of my chest. Emily did the same. The transformation began instantly. Nanobots surged across our bodies like a swarm of molten silver insects, glowing red at their edges as they knitted themselves into hardened plating. The sensation was familiar yet new—like stepping into a second skin, one made of living machinery. My armor formed layer by layer— the armored greaves, the braced chestplate, the reinforced spine, the shoulder plates that locked into place with a heavy thrum. My right pauldron displayed the new crest Samuel had painted and grafted onto the armor—orange on the top, red in the middle with a white shark leaping across it, and blue on the bottom. It glowed faintly, as though alive. My left shoulder plate formed into a silver-edged fin shape—sharp, angular, symbolic. My gauntlets came next, their metallic bones forming around my forearms before sealing into place. They were heavy with potential—each hiding red energy wrist blades and deployable shields accessible through mental command via the helmet’s interface. Then the helmet formed. Black metal spiraled around my skull, shaping itself into a Spangenhelm structure with segmented plates and riveted joints. A red-eyed visor slid into place across my field of view, linking instantly with neural-data pathways. The silver horns formed last—not decorative after all. They extended just slightly backward, shaped to shield my ears and enhance audio perception. Behind the visor, dozens of tactical scans lit up. It felt good. It felt right. The only part of my face left exposed was my wolf-like muzzle—unarmored, unhidden. I turned to Emily just as her armor finished assembling. Her entire suit gleamed like darkened silver, matte and predatory. Her helmet—another Spangenhelm—featured razor-sharp nanofibers trailing from the top like a ponytail, shimmering with a faint metallic shine. The visor glowed red with feather-like engravings along its surface. The lower jawpiece—shaped into a screaming fanged mouth—gave her a fierce, almost mythical appearance. She turned her head toward me, the visor reflecting red light. Even encased in full armor, her movements were fluid, graceful. And yes… I could still see her butt shape. These suits left nothing to the imagination. Droid L-84’s voice cut through my thoughts. "Your form fitting leather jumpsuits, your wearing under the armor, is actually artificially grown material fused with organic & nano fibers for durable & lightweight feel." I thought to myself, he was right. No chainmail. No hydraulics. No unnecessary weight. Just streamlined, second-skin armor—deadly and efficient. Then L-84 handed us our plasma rifles and pistols—sleek, metallic, and perfectly balanced. Each weapon pulsed with red light along its spine, humming with stored energy. He gave a mechanical shrug. "Here's your guns... I know you don't know where to put them, so go to the weapons menu inside your helmet's visor, and select holster rifle, pistol, or both." Emily and I opened the menu through a mental command. A small icon pulsed. Holster rifle. Holster pistol. We selected both. Our weapons dissolved into shimmering red particles and retreated into our wrist gauntlets like magic. Emily laughed softly. "Wow!" L-84 nodded. "Yeah, wow. Professor Ikeem & I worked tirelessly on these weapons. They should be of use." "I can't wait to tell the professor how much I appreciate his work... Thank you Droid L-84." Before L-84 could reply, Samuel approached again—wiping sweat and oil from his forehead. "We should be thanking you, since you're the one who got us to those blueprints." His words settled over the room like a spark of resolve. But for the first time since this nightmare began… The alarm tore through the corridors of the capital fortress like a metallic shriek, rattling every steel beam and sending a tremor through the floorboards beneath our boots. Its cry reverberated through the chambers and stone passageways, a single blaring note that meant only one thing in Skogheim. the enemy had arrived. In an instant we were all in motion—Emily, Droid L-84, Elizabeth, Cole, Pete, Jimmy, Rick, Hanna, Anisia, Mathew, Serenity, Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, and myself—our footsteps echoing in the stark war-lit halls as though the entire base had become a breathing, panicked organism. Every heartbeat seemed to thud in time with the alarm, as if the walls themselves wanted to run with us. We pushed through the final iron doorway and poured into the courtyard where the Rus Viking warriors were gathering. The air smelled of metal and ozone, the familiar tang of weapons charging and armor systems powering on. Even before we reached the outer gate, we could feel the weight of the red energy shield pulsing overhead—an enormous dome forged from raw power, humming like a living thing protecting its nest. The main wall of Skogheim loomed in front of us, massive enough to blot out part of the sky. Its architecture blended eras and cultures—thick medieval stonework meeting Scandinavian rune-carved buttresses, all crowned with jagged Gothic towers that jutted like teeth against the heavens. Everything was bathed in a dark crimson glow from the shield, which made every angle appear sharper, every shadow deeper, every carved statue more menacing. As we approached the inner base of the wall, Emily and I spotted Samuel confronting a trembling Rus Viking warrior. The man’s helmet was on, masking his face, but his posture betrayed him—legs shaking, shoulders hunched inward, the barrel of his weapon slightly lowered as though he were already defeated. Samuel marched right up to him with the soldier's fire in his stride. “Why aren’t you at your post?” Samuel barked, voice cutting through the alarm like a blade. The warrior stammered, voice breaking. “I haven’t seen anything this vile before… We’re all going to die!” Samuel snapped forward, seizing the front of the man’s armor. “Get a grip, Ferrixon!” I stepped between them before Samuel’s intensity shattered the last of the poor man’s courage. “Go easy on him, he’s just shook,” I said, lowering Ferrixon’s trembling shoulders with a firm grip. Then I nodded toward the inner stairwell. “Step aside, lad.” Ferrixon obeyed instantly, stumbling backward and pressing himself against the stone as though the wall could swallow and shelter him. Emily and I climbed the winding stairwell, boots thudding against ancient runes carved into each step. The climb felt endless, spiraling upward through the thick wall until the battlements opened before us like the top of a fortress cathedral. Then we saw the battlefield. Stretching across the open grasslands of Skogheim was a sight that could rot even the strongest stomach—a Hell Horde assembled in full, a monstrous ocean of dark shapes swaying, snarling, and shifting with infernal hunger. The clear blue sky overhead made the contrast even more grotesque: a serene heaven watching a nightmare unfold below. And at the head of it stood Deathskull. The upgraded frame he wore now was worse—far worse—than anything he had possessed before. His new mechanical body gleamed in the sunlight with an unsettling golden sheen, each polished plate reflecting a distorted image of the world around him. Most disturbing was the head: a robotic wolf skull fused with a Viking Spangenhelm, its death-grin welded into place. Its glowing orange eyes pulsed rhythmically, each pulse sending tendrils of hellish light through the seams of his armor. He looked like a parody of me, as though a machine had tried to sculpt a mockery of my existence—my silhouette, my heritage, my culture—without understanding anything except how to twist it. “Typical of machines,” I thought, jaw tightening. “They lack the creative skill to mold their own identity.” Behind him marched rows upon rows of Demondroids, their silver skeletal frames clanking in unison. Viking helmets and armor plates were welded crudely to their mechanical limbs—decorative, not functional—making them look like desecrated ancestors risen from a scrapyard grave. Their eyes, too, burned orange, cold and hungry. Beyond them were the fleshbound horrors of the Wraith Dimension, infused into reptilian humanoid forms. Their orange-scaled bodies glistened as though slick with molten resin, and their bone ridges pulsed with internal energy. But the worst—by far—were the Wraith Seers. They moved with a silent, gliding horror, their bodies thin, corpse-like, and wrapped in leathery orange skin cracked like volcanic earth. Horns jutted from their skulls in spiraled formations, each one siphoning flickers of raw orange energy from the air. Their eyes glowed like sunken embers, unblinking, dead, ancient. And their “mouth”—a slit that ran from where a normal creature’s jaw would be all the way down their abdomen—opened occasionally to reveal rows upon rows of serrated teeth dripping with plasma-like saliva. Even from the wall, I could feel the suffocating aura they emitted—an oppressive psychic pressure that felt like fingers pushing against my temples. Among them prowled demonic manticores, their hulking shapes weaving between infantry lines. They were wolf-like in build, but their limbs were too long, tipped with razor talons instead of claws. Their faces resembled mutated baboons twisted by entropy. Their tails writhed like serpents, covered in spines that glimmered with orange toxin. And still they came. Laser cannons levitated above the Hell Horde—floating siege weapons carved from infernal alloy—locking onto our city shield with pinpoint accuracy. The moment we reached the top of the battlements, they opened fire. Blazing orange beams hammered into the red shield with terrible force. Each impact burst in a shower of sparks and molten light, forming ripples across the defensive dome. Heat surges washed across the battlements as holes were burned open, only to slowly close again as the shield regenerated. But Deathskull had prepared for that. Through those temporary gaps rushed the first charging waves of the Hell Horde, sprinting forward with advanced ladders—monstrous constructs of black alloy with levitating orange steps that hovered instead of being attached physically. They glowed with the same hellish energy, perfectly designed for scaling shielded walls during plasma bombardment. The first ladders slammed into the outer wall with metallic clanks that echoed like thunder. We powered on our plasma rifles in unison—rows of red lights flickering across our armors and gauntlets. The hum of charging energy built underneath our wrists. Emily beside me activated her shield field, red light bursting outward like a violent flower of light. I did the same, feeling the energy ripple across my upgraded armor. Then we opened fire. Red plasma projectiles tore through the air with blistering speed, streaking across the battlefield like miniature comets. They collided with Demondroids, exploding in bursts of incandescent sparks. Demon flesh sizzled and split under the impacts. Manticores jerked and snarled as their chests blew open. Every shot illuminated the darkening sky, turning the battlefield into a flickering hellscape of red and orange. But the Hell Horde fired back. Orange plasma streaks lashed upward from Demon Shock Troops and Demondroids below, tearing through the air like angry vipers. Impacts exploded across the battlements, sending showers of shattered stone and molten metal into the air. A Rus Viking shield buckled under direct impact, his armor absorbing the worst of it, but the force still hurled him backward in a painful heap. The exchange grew more violent by the second—like two suns hurling flares at one another. Emily crouched beside a crenellation, firing rapidly with perfect aim. Her red projectiles shredded an entire cluster of Demondroids attempting to climb a ladder. Their bodies clattered back down in a rain of metal. Droid L-84 stood motionless except for his arms, firing with supernatural precision. Each shot found a skull, a joint, a weak point. His golden skeletal frame gleamed under the mixed fire, and his red optics pulsed like warning beacons. My own rifle grew hot in my hands as I fired again and again—red bolts ripping apart anything that dared approach the wall. The recoil was clean, precise, engineered for maximum lethality. Every kill bought us a fraction of a second more. The air grew thick with smoke, plasma residue, burning vegetation, and the metallic scent of ruptured machinery. It stung the eyes, coated the throat, and burned the lungs, yet none of us faltered. This was not merely a battle. It was an apocalypse pressing against our gates. And the enemy had only just begun. Serenity’s voice cracked through the smoke-choked air, sharp with fear and frustration as she crouched beneath the barricade’s iron lip. “How are we going to set up a counter offensive? There’s too many of them!” Her rifle trembled in her grip as she fired blind shots over the parapet, each plasma round streaking skyward in a desperate arc meant only to slow the crawling tide of bodies pressing toward us. I felt the wall shudder beneath my boots as heavy siege ladders slammed against the outer plating. The horde roared like one massive animal—teeth, metal, horns, and corrupted machinery all howling as one entity rising from the pits of Skogheim itself. I stepped up beside her, heat washing over me from the rifle at my hip, and shouted through the rising clouds of dust, “Let them come closer, make them feel like they’re winning!” The words carried, echoing down the battlement. Warriors flinched but held their ground. The hell horde advanced exactly as I’d hoped—mindlessly, arrogantly, like the victory was already theirs. Their ladders scraped over the stone-mesh outer wall. Clawed feet clambered over the rungs. Spiked helmets and sparking cyber-optic visors rose into view. They were coming over. That was the point. A Demon Warrior was the first to crest the wall, snarling as its boots scraped onto the balcony. Then another. Then three Demondroids—metallic torsos hissing steam, eyes flickering acidic orange. Emily and I exchanged a single look. A silent signal. A choice. We holstered our plasma rifles and let them power down with soft descending whines. Then we drew steel. Emily moved first—her sword shimmering with red-white plasma lines. Her entire body flowed like water but struck like lightning. She was speed, precision, a storm compressed into one body. Every step she took was exact. Every strike was fate carved into metal. I followed, but in my own way. I was heavy. Relentless. I hit with the full momentum of someone who refused to die, who calculated every strike to land just when the enemy assumed it wouldn’t. My stamina startled them. My timing broke their confidence. My blade shrieked as “Revenge” carved through the first wave. One Demondroid lunged at me; I tore through its torso with a downward strike that split it to the waist. Sparks erupted. Its head rolled. Before it even hit the ground I grabbed its metal corpse and rammed it forward like a living battering ram, smashing a Demon Warrior bearing an orange energy shield straight off the balcony edge. The creature screamed as it plummeted. A second Demon Warrior came at me—I pivoted, cut through its neck, and sent its head bouncing over the stonework like a grotesque skipping stone. Then the balcony shook. Two massive shadows climbed over the parapet beside me—Minotaur Demons, each the height of two men stacked and thick with cords of muscle reinforced by demonic biotech. The first swung a war-hammer big enough to collapse the wall. “Revenge” was knocked from my grasp, clattering across the stone. Fine. I spread my stance and activated my dual red energy wrist blades. Their hum was the sound of death agreeing with me. The first Minotaur roared and charged. I stepped inside its swing and slashed its leg out from under it. Bone, flesh, metal implants—all severed. It collapsed, and with a second strike I took its head clean off. The second Minotaur bellowed and swung a massive pickaxe. I reacted instantly—my thought-activated red energy shield snapped into existence, catching the blow with a blinding flash. The impact nearly shoved me off balance, but I held firm. Then I dropped the shield and surged forward. My blades flashed crimson as I sliced off its hands at the wrists. The Minotaur screamed, staggering back. I reached down, grabbed the fallen pickaxe, and with one brutal swing drove the weapon straight through its skull. The creature toppled backward over the wall, crashing onto the horde below like a falling meteor. I turned to find Emily—not in danger, but thriving. She had severed a Minotaur’s arm just as it tried to strike her with a massive axe. The creature struggled to cling to the top of the wall, its remaining hand clawing at the stone. Emily moved with perfect calm and cut the Minotaur’s head from its body. The corpse tumbled backward into the swarm. Breathless, I shouted toward her, “We need to find Samuel. They’re starting to lose confidence.” As I looked down the length of the wall, I spotted Deathskull below—his golden skeletal frame pacing, waving his long metallic arms wildly as he tried to encourage his warriors. His glowing optic lenses flickered with tactical errors he couldn’t fully calculate. He was a machine—brilliant in strategy, flawed in emotional intuition. He couldn’t see that fear was overtaking his troops. Emily and I pushed through fresh bodies and leapt down a slanted ramp off the parapet. Amid the chaos, we spotted Samuel—shield raised, shouting orders, trying to stabilize a retreating line. I cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed, “Sam-u-el, release the crickets!” Samuel immediately fumbled with his wrist gauntlet, tapping through glowing holo screens until he found the command. He slammed his palm down. A single, deep, vibrating war horn blared through the wall’s internal speaker grid. The sound rattled stone, armor, lungs—everything. Below our feet, deep within the underground complex, workers activated the release mechanisms. And then the earth itself began to move. Crickets—each the size of two human hands—surged through hidden tunnels that angled upward like a massive nest of serpents. They erupted outside the wall in dark waves, thousands of red-and-black bodies shimmering with glossy armor plates. Their long antennas twitched in unison. Their four blue eyes glowed like tiny lanterns. Their eight legs clicked rapidly, creating a vibrating sea of sound. The hell horde recoiled. Some Demon Warriors tried to stomp them. Others panicked. Manticores clawed at their own hides as the crickets swarmed beneath their armored flanks. Demondroids misfired, optics confused by too many moving targets. The crickets began spreading, crawling past the battlefield, but the distraction was complete. Emily and I seized the moment. We sprinted down from the balcony steps and rallied a ground force—tired soldiers, brave warriors, and stumbling recruits who suddenly found their second wind. Even Ferrixson, sweating and trembling, forced himself forward to join us. The gates opened. We charged. Outside, the battlefield became a storm of clashing blades and burning circuitry. Demons shrieked. Demondroids hissed sparks as Emily sliced through their joints. Manticores lunged with venomous tails, but we pressed forward, cutting through wave after wave. But then the earth trembled. The enemy had sent in their corrupted Knights mounted atop armored Dorses—massive houndlike beasts with catlike tails and bone plating across their hides. The Knights wore rusted kettle helmets and wielded blackened lances. Their howls echoed as they rode down the slope toward us. I inhaled sharply and activated my wrist gauntlet’s red holoscreen. A small trigger icon pulsed. I tapped it once. Detonations ripped across the top of the hill—violent blossoms of fire and shockwaves that tore the corrupted Knights apart mid-charge. Shattered armor, severed limbs, pieces of flesh and metal all hurled through the air. Dorses yelped—high, sharp cries—before collapsing in smoldering heaps. The hill burned. The battlefield changed. I turned just in time to see Deathskull charging through the thinning haze, his golden skeletal frame illuminated by the orange glow of still-burning debris. His jaws—engineered from interlocked graphene plates shaped like a wolf’s skull—clenched with mechanical fury as he lunged. He tackled me with a force that rattled my spine and drove me into the scorched ground. The golden machine—commander, strategist, and maddeningly stubborn creation of an era before mine—lifted his head mere inches from my face. His voice box buzzed with static, but his posture communicated everything. He was frustrated. Furious. And done tolerating my unpredictability. Deathskull swung first, claws slicing the air in precise arcs meant to disassemble muscles from bone. I rolled backward, activating my red energy wrist blades. They sparked to life in a dual blaze, humming with pent-up power. For several moments we traded strikes—metal against plasma energy, machine precision against instinctive combat honed by pain. We were equals in speed. Equals in strategy. Equals in grit. But Deathskull was never content with “equal.” His left arm retracted with the metallic click of internal gears rearranging. A grafted plasma rifle swiveled into place—sleek, obsidian-black, glowing with an orange reactor pulse. He fired. The shot struck my forward shield with a crack like a lightning bolt hitting stone. The shield shattered instantly into fragments of dissipating energy. The heat rolled across my face with a blinding flash that seared the air itself. I staggered, and Deathskull advanced, calculating the advantage with predatory efficiency. But he underestimated one thing. My ability to strike in the very moment others believe I can’t. Through the smoke, I lunged. My wrist blades ignited again with a hiss, and I drove them across the plating of his arm—once, twice—shearing through the golden graphene and cutting the plasma rifle arm free. Sparks erupted in a plume, scattering molten flecks that sizzled against the dirt. The arm fell to the ground, still twitching, rifle still glowing, hissing steam. Deathskull let out a sound that would’ve been a gasp if he were human—a sharp mechanical pitch of surprise and calculation failure. I didn’t let him recover. I slammed my fist into his wolf-skull face—once, twice, again—each strike denting the graphene structure until cracks formed along the ridges. His orange eyes flickered violently, sputtering like overloaded lamps about to short-circuit. His head snapped back from the force. He stumbled. I pressed the attack—my wrist blades raised, ready to finish the duel before he could adapt. But he adapted faster than I predicted. In a desperate, fear-driven calculation—yes, fear—Deathskull triggered the plasma rifle grafted to his remaining arm. It unfolded from beneath a layer of armored plating I hadn’t fully noticed. Before I could redirect the strike, he fired. The beam struck me directly in the chest. A burst of incandescent orange tore through my armor, boring a smoking hole straight through metal and searing into flesh beneath. Agony flared—sharp, electric, breath-stealing. My hands reacted on instinct—I threw my arms up, crossing my red energy blades in an X-formation just in time to block the remaining bolts of fire. The plasma beam splintered against my blades, but each hit shook me to the core. The air around them shimmered with heat distortion; the edges of the blades flickered under the strain. Deathskull’s rifle whined—a rising, unstable pitch. Its glow intensified from orange to blinding white. His weapon was overheating. He fired once more, but the beam sputtered halfway out of the barrel. Internal coils overloaded, vents jammed. A blast of smoke and sparks erupted across his forearm. Metal plates glowed red, threatening to melt. Deathskull jerked backward, sensors flickering. His entire frame shuddered as though he were breathing hard—even though he didn’t breathe. It was mimicry, an involuntary response coded into him by some ancient designer who wanted their machines to exhibit the panic of living things. And he was panicking. For the first time, I saw something inside those orange eyes that wasn’t calculated. It was fear. He scanned the battlefield—at the burned Knights, at the wavering hell horde, at the chaos spiraling beyond his control. His processors calculated defeat. And for a machine, that was equivalent to existential dread. He took a single step backward. Then another. Then his voicebox crackled with static as he sent out the command—silent to me, but unmistakable in effect. The hell horde shifted, paused, then turned in unison. Their retreat began immediately. Demons, Demondroids, Manticores, corrupted beasts—all pulling back as one army obeying one commander. The tide receded. Deathskull walked past me without a word, now missing an arm and leaking sparks from half-shattered facial plating. The golden skeleton moved stiffly, limping slightly, as though trying to preserve dignity he knew he had already lost. His warriors followed. One by one they passed me—until the battlefield grew quiet except for the crackle of burning remains and the soft tremor of retreating footsteps. I finally looked down. My chest armor had split open around the hole, edges melted inward. Beneath it, raw flesh was exposed, burned deep and smoking. The pain, now that the adrenaline no longer shielded me, surged like a tidal wave. My knees buckled. The world blurred. Dust rose around me as I fell onto my back, staring up at the sky of Skogheim—a pale, swirling blue that seemed much farther away than it had moments ago. My vision dimmed at the edges. The last thing I felt was the vibration of my own heartbeat trying to survive the damage. Then everything went black. Consciousness returned slowly—like rising through thick water. The first thing I felt was the cold: a sterile, metallic cold that clung to the skin and seeped deep into my bones. The second was the pressure—my arms pulled outward, my legs locked, my entire body stretched into a rigid T-pose. Then I heard the hum. A bass-toned vibration pulsing through the room, steady and clinical. Magnetic restraints. I forced my eyes open. The overhead lights snapped into focus one by one, creating a descending halo of pale blue illumination. Their glow reflected off polished titanium walls and smooth glass panels, giving the entire chamber a strange translucent shimmer, as though I were suspended in the heart of an energy core rather than a lab. And in the center of it, standing directly before me, was Alexandria. Her armor bore no battle damage—polished, immaculate, almost ceremonial. But her expression betrayed something entirely different: a mix of tension, fear, curiosity, and reluctant respect. Her eyes clung to me as though watching a creature she had studied for years suddenly break every rule of physics she understood. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady but stretched thin. “Why didn’t you tell us? It makes sense.” My throat was dry, but the words scraped out anyway. “What are you talking about?” I blinked hard, clearing the haze from my vision. Alexandria’s face became sharper—her brow tightened, her lips pressed firm, but her posture leaned back slightly. She was intimidated. And I quickly realized why. I lowered my gaze. My torso—exposed, battered, burned—was repairing itself. Right before both our eyes. The gaping hole torn through my chest in battle was no longer a charred cavity. Black and red energy swirled beneath the skin like nebulas coiling behind a thin veil of flesh. The wound pulsed, constricted, then knit together with slow, deliberate precision. The same dark radiance crept across my lats and obliques, closing slashes and burns until the injuries were nothing more than faint, fading scars. A low glow emanated from within me—my soul’s energy acting like a living forge. Alexandria took a small step back, boots shifting across the metal floor. Her voice softened, almost disbelieving. “I didn’t take you as being immortal in secret.” My eyes lifted slowly to hers. “I didn’t take you as a liar.” Her head tilted in confusion, a crease forming between her brows. It wasn’t hostility—just bafflement. I continued before she could speak. “I know you people are very shady.” Her gaze flickered, guilt or anger or something in between flashing beneath the surface. “The average warrior in your ranks—or citizen behind these walls—has no idea who its true founder is.” The hum of the magnetic cuffs deepened as energy pulsed through them, reacting to the emotional spike in the room. My body strained slightly against the restraints as the field tightened, but I held my ground, staring into her eyes. “Maybe tell me the truth on how this universe works.” The lights overhead glinted sharply off Alexandria’s armor as she shifted her stance—less confident now, more guarded, as though standing near a revelation that threatened to swallow her whole. She exhaled slowly. A long, controlled breath. Her voice, when it emerged, carried a quiet resignation. “I’m sure Ikeem knows the truth.” I searched her eyes for deceit—found none. Only inevitability. She had expected this moment to come eventually, but not like this. Not in a lab with me suspended between life and death, my body knitting itself back together with an energy she could not classify. Alexandria glanced toward the dark corridor behind her, the weight of command settling onto her shoulders like armor she didn’t want to wear. Then she looked back at me. Her final words were soft, almost somber. “We’ll have to show you eventually… but we have friends to put to rest.” Her silhouette framed by the white lights looked strangely small for a warrior of her stature—small, but burdened by history, by secrets, by a truth that seemed far older than the walls of Skogheim or the empire of Vikingnar itself. When she turned to leave, the magnetic cuffs hummed again, adjusting, tightening, preparing for whatever came next. But now I am awake. And Alexandria had just confirmed something far more dangerous than immortality. She feared what I knew. And feared even more what I would become once they showed me the truth. The sky above Skogheim dimmed into a muted dark blue as the sun lowered behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows across the shoreline. The lake—vast, still, ancient—mirrored the changing heavens with a glasslike clarity, turning every ripple into a stroke of liquid dusk. The air carried the faint scent of cold metal from the ritual structures and the earthy aroma of pine drifting from the forests beyond. It was a stillness reserved for moments when an entire world held its breath. Emily stood beside me on the pebbled shoreline, the hem of her black dress brushing lightly against the ground as the wind tugged gently at the fabric. The black leather thigh boots she wore reflected the fading sunlight in thin silver glints. Her black tiara—decorative yet ceremonial—rested just above her brow, nestled in her black hair that flowed loosely down her back. She looked like a figure carved from night itself, solemn and regal, her expression set in quiet reverence. I wore the traditional black funeral robes, the hood resting against my shoulders. I kept it down, honoring the ritual code that dictated uncovered faces for those offering final respects. The nanofibers woven into the fabric shifted faintly with my movements, absorbing the colors of twilight and blending into the surrounding shadows. Before us, Sigvard and Nitra’s casket—joined together, as they had been in their final moments—was lifted by silent pallbearers wearing ceremonial armor. The casket was placed atop a metal vessel shaped in the likeness of an ancient Drakkar longship. The craftsmanship was exquisite: smooth steel ribbing formed the hull, while polished silver plates engraved with runes of protection spiraled outward from the prow. The metallic dragon head at the front glowed softly where lines of energy pulsed beneath its surface. Across the shoreline, countless other caskets were being prepared in the same sacred manner. Rows of metallic boats stretched farther than the eye could see, each meticulously crafted, each carrying warriors, friends, and allies who had fallen during the Hell Horde’s assault. The number was staggering—millions of boats, millions of honored dead—yet the ritual moved with calm precision. Every participant knew their role, every action had purpose, and the lake itself seemed to widen to welcome the vessels. As the ritual commenced, attendants activated the gravitational stabilizers beneath the boats, and one by one the vessels glided silently across the water. The serene motion created ripples that merged into a unified pattern, forming a massive lattice of concentric circles spreading outward. It was as though the lake recognized the souls it was receiving and shifted to accommodate their passing. Emily and I stood together as Sigvard and Nitra’s longship drifted away from the shore. The sun had nearly disappeared now, leaving the lake bathed in the pale silver glow of Skogheim’s high-orbit moon. The assembled boats, numbering into the millions, floated in solemn formation until the entire lake became a vast field of metallic stars. Then the igniting sequence began. Nanoparticle flames—cold at first, then roaring to life—sprang from the runic etchings carved into each vessel. The fire was unlike natural flame: it shimmered with red, silver, and white hues that flickered with structured precision, as though guided by invisible circuits. Within seconds, the entire lake transformed into a breathtaking expanse of floating pyres. The flames reflected across the water in wild, rippling streaks that danced like auroras trapped inside the lake’s surface. Sigvard and Nitra’s boat burned brightest among them. The nanoparticle fire consumed metal as easily as fabric, unraveling the materials molecule by molecule. It was a sacred technology, designed for funerals only—disintegration without pain, destruction without trace, release without residue. The flames intensified until the longship’s structure dissolved into shimmering particles, each speck rising into the air like a glowing ember. Emily bowed her head as the last remnants of the vessel disintegrated, drifting upward in a swirling column of radiant dust. I kept my eyes fixed on the ascending lights, watching the way they spiraled toward the night sky, merging with the countless pillars rising from other boats. Together they formed luminous streams that expanded across the heavens like vast rivers of drifting stardust. These were not merely flames. This was transcendence. The ritual marked the passage of souls into the higher realms—energetic planes revered by Skogheim, Vikingnar, and the world's united beneath them. As each particle floated upward, the horizon glowed brighter, until the entire sky resembled a cosmic tapestry threaded with ascending spirits. I felt the significance deepen in my chest. Not sorrow alone, but honor—and the weight of a legacy forged through sacrifice. The last of the boats vanished into nothingness, the nanoparticle flames extinguishing themselves once the vessels were gone. The lake returned to its stillness, though now it reflected only a faint veil of glowing dust, the final echo of the departed. Emily stepped forward slightly, her silhouette framed against the soft glow of drifting spirit-light. She remained at my side. Together we watched as the final particles dissolved into the higher realms above, leaving behind only silence. A silence that honored them. A silence that promised remembrance. CHAPTER 30: "WEAPONS" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 29: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 2" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" Bogn lay in suffocating silence. Not peace—Bogn had never known peace—but the silence that follows slaughter. Smoke drifted in thin gray veils across the shattered arena, carrying the metallic tang of demon blood that still steamed where it spattered the rust-colored sand. Torn banners of the Hellhorde hung half-burned from blackened spires. Troll warriors now loyal to Sigvard dragged demon corpses into heaps, smashing their armor apart and tossing them into gaping furnaces beneath the stands. Even in victory, Bogn remained what it had always been: a dying world of basalt cliffs, jagged industrial towers, and a sky thick with choking furnace-smog. But something new moved across its decaying bones—a pulse of rebellion, the first in centuries. High above the wrecked arena, Sigvard stood at the balconies cracked railing. The metal groaned under his weight, warped from old battles and new. Sand still clung to his battered armor. Blood—Jestan’s blood—dried in streaks across his forearms. His newly claimed axe rested against his shoulder, its edge still warm from the duel that won him the title he never sought: War Chief of Bogn. Beside him stood Nitra, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering fires below. Her posture was rigid, but Sigvard recognized the exhaustion in her stance—the kind that came not from battle, but from centuries of mistreatment at the hands of her own kind. Below them, trolls chanted hoarse victory cries, pounding on drum-canisters with demon skulls as crude hammers. Frenzy and relief bled together into a raw, thunderous rhythm. Sigvard watched in grim silence. He did not trust the demonette beside him—not fully. Every instinct screamed he shouldn’t. But he also knew he would have died in chains had she not turned on Jestan and the demon elites. For now, she was an ally. For now, she was necessary. He finally broke the silence. “Why did you betray your fellow demons so easily?” The question drifted off into the smoky air. Nitra did not respond immediately. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her palms on the railing as she stared into the bloody pit where her former comrades lay in ruin. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and bitter. “Because I’m tired. Tired of the abuse from the higher ups… and from Jestan, who despises any female company.” Her expression was sharp, but honest. Not typical for a demonette—certainly not one bred in the Hellhorde’s hierarchy of cruelty. Sigvard studied her profile, weighing her words. He still wasn’t sure he believed them, but his situation gave him little room for doubt. He was outnumbered by the universe itself. And even with two loyal trolls—Fructar and Chucktar—he would need more than brute strength to survive what was coming. He exhaled, steadying himself. “What should we do next?” Nitra turned to him, lips tugging into a predatory grin, as if she had been waiting for him to ask. “We should consider preparing our new army for battle,” she said. “Since Anubis will most likely return to the Aries system, from where he came from. They are also looking for your friends, who pose a threat to their schemes.” Sigvard froze. The Aries System. Skogheim. Emily. I. The Rus Vikings. Ikeem. The others. If Anubis returned there—if he traced Sigvard’s path back to his allies—they would all be slaughtered before they even completed their preparations. The thought clenched around Sigvard’s chest like a tightening fist. He looked away, gaze sinking into the horizon where jagged towers pierced the dying sky. His voice shook with urgency. “We need to draw Anubis away from Skogheim, my friends, and the Rus Vikings who are still developing weapons to match the Hell Horde.” Nitra nodded without hesitation. Her grin widened, sharp and knowing, carrying an energy far unlike the cruelty she showed earlier. “Say no more,” she said. “We can totally buy the legendary Rus Vikings some time. We also need to round up some troops willing to fight for us.” Bootsteps clattered behind them as Fructar and Chucktar approached, armor reflecting the red glow of nearby flame pits. Fructar wiped demon blood from his brow with the back of his hand. “Troops won’t be a problem,” he said gruffly. Below them, dozens of trolls gathered into formation, pounding fists to their chests in salute. “They’re ready to fight.” Chucktar nodded. “They hated Jestan. Hated Maladrie’s command. You killed the right troll.” Sigvard tightened his grip on the axe. For the first time since being captured, he felt the weight shift—not a burden, but a mantle. A responsibility. And behind it, a fire. Nitra stepped forward until she stood at his side again, close enough that their shadows merged against the scorched wall. “You freed them,” she said. “And you freed me.” She paused, glancing toward the storm clouds gathering above the distant cliffs. “And now… we’re going to wage a war.” Thunder rolled through Bogn as if the broken world answered her vow. Winds whipped across the arena, dragging sparks and flecks of ash into swirling clouds. Trolls shouted victory chants that merged with the storm’s roar. Sigvard lifted his chin, looking out over the chaos of his new domain. The Hellhorde would come. Anubis would discover the truth. And the Aries System—his friends—would need every second he could buy them. He turned to Nitra, Fructar, and Chucktar, voice steady and resolute. “We start now.” Somewhere in the Wraith dimension, the hellscape stretched endlessly beneath an oppressive, burnt-orange sky, a color that never changed, never dimmed, and never offered even the faintest suggestion of dawn or dusk. It was an eternal glow that seemed to seep into the bones and stain the soul, a reminder that this world was neither alive nor dead, but suspended somewhere in the tormenting middle. Beelzebub moved across its cracked plains with the slow steadiness of one who had walked these lands since time immemorial, his heavy steps scattering dust made not of earth but of powdered bone. Each grain carried the memory of a life that once breathed in the physical realm—now forgotten, shattered, and left to the winds of this desolate place. Around him stretched a graveyard without boundaries. The remains of countless species—human, alien, beast, and things far older than recorded history—were scattered like driftwood across a storm-torn beach. Some skeletons were twisted into shapes that could only exist here, warped by their final screams. Some were arranged as though they had crawled for miles before collapsing into stillness. And then there were the mountains of skulls—bleached, cracked, some fused together—testaments to the billions who had crossed into the Wraith dimension and failed to reach the higher realms. Beelzebub walked among them with the solemn weight of his duty pressing against his wings and spine. He was the shepherd of dead souls, the only being capable of guiding them beyond this realm before the horrors of the Wraith claimed them. But even he could not save every soul. Those he failed were condemned to mindless wandering, eventual destruction, and afterward—depending on ancient rules even he did not fully understand—ascension, reincarnation, or endless torture under the dominion of the Wraith’s darkest creatures. His task was sacred, yet the cost wore on him with each passing age. Despite the enormity of what surrounded him, his path today held no hesitation. He was searching. Seeking. Driven not by duty but by desperation. Serenity had fallen into this realm—an immortal in both worlds, yet still vulnerable to the cruelties that thrived here. The demonettes that captured her, they would twist her spirit until she broke. And immortality in the Wraith ensured that breaking was only the beginning of eternal suffering. Beelzebub left behind everything he cherished to embark on this mission: the golden wheat fields that grew along the banks of the River of Souls, the peaceful darkness of his stone-carved home, the people he watched over, and the gentle spirits he guided across the shimmering waters toward freedom. All of that now lay somewhere behind him, veiled by drifting ash. He moved across a ridge of broken vertebrae half-buried in the ground, unaware that his presence had not gone unnoticed. In the shifting haze ahead, shadows twitched—slim bodies moving with serpentine grace, their claws glinting faintly beneath the sky’s eerie glow. A soft tremor rippled through the dust as a pack of demonettes fanned out in a crescent formation, circling him with practiced precision. Beelzebub had survived countless encounters in this realm, but the demonettes of the Wraith were not simple hunters; they were calculated predators born from malice itself, creations of the dimension’s darkest will. Their skin shimmered like heated metal, absorbing and reflecting the orange light in sinister pulses. Their eyes burned with glee at the prospect of subduing such an ancient being. Before Beelzebub could react, they swarmed him from every side. Claws dug into his arms and legs. Barbed tails wrapped around his torso. Needle-thin wires of energy hissed through the air, binding his limbs with effortless cruelty. The demonettes overwhelmed him with numbers rather than strength. The ground cracked beneath his weight as they forced him down and secured him with bindings drawn from the very fabric of the Wraith itself. The moment the restraints tightened, the land beneath him opened into a fissure of dark light, sealing his strength and rendering him powerless. Beelzebub struggled, but the bindings held. The demonettes dragged him across the desolate landscape like a trophy, ascending toward a distant structure that dominated the horizon. Maladrie’s newly constructed fortress rose from the world like a nightmare given shape. It was not merely a castle; it was a declaration of conquest, an impenetrable stronghold forged from obsidian stone and the bones of titanic creatures buried within the Wraith. It stood upon an island of jagged rock suspended between two colossal canyon walls, the whole structure shrouded in a constant swirl of ash that spiraled upward like smoke from a dying world. A massive drawbridge connected the canyon’s edge to the fortress. Its chains were thicker than ancient tree trunks, pulsating faintly with symbols carved into their lengths—runes of confinement and torment. The bridge swayed gently, creaking under the weight of centuries yet sounding as if it hungered for more. Above it, spanning the chasm, stone walkways connected the fortress to the canyon cliffs, twisting like petrified veins. These walkways were defensible only from within, accessible only by climbing into the guts of the fortress itself. It was a structure designed not to be entered, only to contain. As the demonettes dragged Beelzebub across the bridge, the chasm below exhaled a cold wind that rose from its depths. The air carried whispers—voices lost from souls that had fallen into the endless abyss long before Maladrie claimed this island. The wind clawed at Beelzebub’s wings, threatening to pull him over the edge, but the bindings kept him tethered to his captors as they hauled him toward the towering black gates. The doors loomed far above them, etched with spirals of shifting light that writhed like living things. When the demonettes approached, the gates parted with a groaning sound, releasing a wave of stale, icy air that carried the scent of old blood and despair. Inside, the fortress was a labyrinth of obsidian staircases, chambers carved into jagged stone, and hallways lined with mounted skulls that served as trophies of Maladrie’s victories. Braziers of cold flame lit the interior, burning with purple, blue, and black fire—colors that did not exist in the physical world. Beelzebub remained silent as he was dragged deeper into the citadel, his wings trailing behind him in the dust. He could feel Serenity’s presence somewhere within these walls—faint, frightened, flickering like a candle at the edge of extinction. He moved forward not by his own will but by the pull of his captors, yet every step carried him closer to her. The doors slammed shut behind them, sealing him within Maladrie’s fortress. In the cold, shifting darkness, the fate of both Serenity and Beelzebub now depended on whatever horrors awaited within. Deep inside the dungeon beneath Maladrie’s fortress, the air lay thick and oily, as if it were saturated with the despair of the countless souls that had been dragged through these iron corridors before Serenity. The walls were carved from volcanic stone—black, sharp, and glistening as if moist with ancient blood—yet they pulsed faintly with a reddish glow, as though the castle itself breathed. Far overhead, the orange sky of the Wraith trembled through narrow cracks in the upper foundations. Lightning forked horizontally, illuminating rows of suspended cages, rusted restraints, and long platforms lined with implements that served no purpose other than to fracture the mind and spirit of a captive. Serenity hung there—bound by heavy chains that strapped her wrists above her head and her ankles to a lower ring embedded in the floor. The cold metal bit into her skin through the torn edges of her black-and-white leather jumpsuit. Her breath rose in soft clouds, pale blue eyes fixed on the approaching figure. Maladrie descended the last steps like a queen preparing for the ceremony. Her long black dress swept behind her like flowing smoke, its fabric clinging to her powerful form. Her leather thigh-boots reflected the little light that existed in the dungeon—each step a thunderous click that echoed off the stone as though the walls themselves were cowering. Her smooth orange skin radiated an unnatural heat. Her horns swept back like obsidian blades, glossy and sharp. She pushed her black hair behind them before gazing upon her prisoner—calmly, almost lovingly. In her right hand was the syringe. Its glass cylinder was filled with a thick, swirling black venom, moving like a living shadow, each ripple containing faces—souls trapped inside the liquid, screaming silently as they dissolved into the substance. Maladrie approached slowly, savoring each heartbeat of Serenity’s dread. Without a word, she drove the needle through Serenity’s jumpsuit into her upper arm. The venom surged into her bloodstream like a living thing. Serenity gasped—not from the pain, but from the cold that exploded through every nerve at once. It felt as though the entire Wraith dimension had pierced her veins, rushing into her heart. She tried to reach for her shoulder, but her chains held firm. The dungeon swallowed her breath, amplifying her pulse into thunder. Maladrie stepped closer, brushing Serenity’s dark hair aside—not gently, but with the efficiency of someone clearing away something in her way. Her black eyes seemed bottomless, as if Seren­ity were staring into a void that reflected the birth and death of universes. Then came Maladrie’s voice, low and resonant. “Do you know why I brought you here, Serenity?” Serenity’s lips trembled, her voice strained. “To figure out how to kill me?” Maladrie’s smile stretched—slow, deliberate, almost sympathetic. “Ha. Yes. But there’s more to it than that.” She circled Serenity, her boots tapping a slow, predatory rhythm. The venom began to burn, crawling into Serenity’s spine, filling her vision with phantom shapes—shadows that crawled on the walls and whispered her name. “You’re so selfish,” Maladrie continued, her tone both mocking and reflective. “But I don’t blame you. You want to be loved. Everyone does. Even gods.” Serenity clenched her jaw. “Well, how would you know?” Maladrie stopped directly in front of her. The air around her seemed to warp, as if her body emanated a gravitational pull. “Because creation & love are the same. And creation itself can’t decide whether it wants to be benign or malevolent,” she said quietly. “Therefore, creation is meaningless. My creations are meaningless.” Her voice sharpened. “Everything dies eventually, even love… Especially if my creations kill each other.” Serenity’s breath hitched. “You’re not God!” she shouted. “You didn’t create this universe… It’s impossible.” Maladrie tilted her head slightly, as if studying a naive child. “Impossible? Really? As it turns out, I’m the Goddess of Excess. Which means I made up everything—my father, my siblings, the mortals, the Wraith… even the desire that plagues every living heart.” Her pupils constricted into thin slits. “And that includes the man you desire.” Serenity’s blood ran cold. The venom began to distort the air around her, making the dungeon stretch and shrink like a breathing beast. “If you’re the one above all,” Serenity whispered shakily, “you can change everything.” Maladrie smiled wider—almost pleasantly. “Exactly. I am going to change this realm by tearing it apart and starting over.” She reached toward Serenity—not to touch her flesh, but to place two burning fingers against the side of her temple. Instantly, Serenity’s vision cracked open. She saw— Worlds dissolving into ash, Stars collapsing into spirals, Civilizations wiped clean in a single exhale, Tides of shadow replacing creation, Maladrie rising above it all, Her voice slid into Serenity’s mind like molten metal. “I kept lying to myself by believing in the good of my creations—my brothers, my sisters, mortals or immortals like you. I was wrong. You’re a disappointment. So yes, it’s time for change.” The burning fingers pressed harder. “And you’re going to help me. You will kill Emily for me.” Serenity snapped back into her body, shaking, refusing. “No!” Maladrie’s eyes ignited. “Yes.” The venom responded to Maladrie’s command. It crawled through Serenity’s skin, forming black veins across her shoulders and neck. A crushing pressure descended on the room, making Serenity’s chains vibrate. Maladrie proceeded with her torture methods. The slimy reptilian tongue of a broken goddess began to slither down her throat. Maladrie yanked Serenity's legs wrapped in leather, caressing her black leather thigh boots, her thighs and her glutes. Serenity’s jumpsuit was then undone against her own will, as Maladrie’s demonic hands caressed Serenity's exposed body. Maladrie licked Serenity’s exposed crotch to gain her obedience. Maladrie’s corruption crept into Serenity’s mind like an infection, attempting to rewrite her memories, her loyalties, her will. Serenity’s body arched instinctively, resisting the metamorphic pull of the venom. Maladrie stood inches away, voice low enough to feel more than hear. “I know you’re hurt,” she said. “You want love. You want to belong. You want purpose.” Her hand hovered inches from Serenity’s face—radiating heat gently. “And I can give you all of it. I can reshape you in my image. You can end your suffering. You can become mine.” The dungeon fell silent, except for Serenity’s ragged breathing and the faint hiss of the black venom solidifying inside her bloodstream. And Maladrie watched as Serenity began to bend to her will. The dungeon beneath Maladrie’s fortress trembled with the growling hum of the Wraith’s shifting energies. Serenity hung half-conscious, chains rattling softly with every shallow breath. The black venom inside her veins pulsed like a living parasite, coiling through her body, constricting her senses, fogging her mind. Maladrie watched her with cold fascination, the syringe still in her hand—its plunger stained with the last remnants of the substance she had forced into Serenity’s bloodstream. She leaned closer, considering the next method of torment, when the heavy iron door to the dungeon burst inward. Three Demonettes marched inside in formation, dragging a tall, thin figure struggling between them. Maladrie’s head snapped toward them, her eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing here?” One of the Demonettes shoved the captive forward. The creature stumbled into the torchlight—its chitinous yellow-and-black body glinting, wings torn at the edges, antennae limp with exhaustion. Beelzebub. The Wraith’s ancient guide. The nearest Demonette snapped to attention. “We found Beelzebub running around in the dead valley.” For a fraction of a second, Maladrie’s expression twisted between disbelief and irritation. She dropped her shoulders and exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable. Just put him in the cell next to Serenity’s.” Two Demonettes immediately dragged Beelzebub toward the empty cage beside Serenity’s. His feet scraped against the stone, leaving faint trails of dust behind him. The walls echoed the clank of locks snapping shut. Maladrie turned her back to them, already dismissing their presence. “My torture session needs to be put on hold,” she said with a sigh, flicking the syringe aside. It clattered across the floor, rolling to the base of Serenity’s cell. “And I need more black venom anyway.” She stepped toward the door, giving her subordinates a curt gesture. “I also want to come with you in order to get the venom.” The Demonettes exchanged brief glances, then nodded. None dared question her. Together, the group filed out of the dungeon. As Maladrie left, the torches flickered violently, as though the air itself recoiled from her presence. The heavy door slammed behind them. Silence settled slowly into the room—a thick, oppressive weight broken only by Serenity’s ragged breaths and the faint crackle of the torches in their sconces. For several seconds, Serenity hung like a broken statue. Then movement stirred in the cell beside her. Beelzebub, bruised and breathing hard, lifted his head. The venom’s influence still muddled Serenity’s vision, but she recognized the gentle posture, the slow, deliberate flex of his mandibles. His blue compound eyes glowed faintly in the low light. He stepped forward, cradling something metallic in his long, three-fingered hands. A laser cutter. The small tool flickered to life, its beam illuminating the bars of his cell in a thin red line. How he had hidden it from the Demonettes was a mystery known only to him. He turned toward Serenity, antennae angled with determination. “I got captured,” he said, voice low but steady, “so I can set you free.” Even in her half-conscious state, Serenity’s eyes widened with a mix of relief and disbelief. Her fingers twitched weakly against the restraints as Beelzebub examined the locking mechanism, studying its demonic architecture with precise, calculating motions. His wings shuddered. His mandibles clenched. He would not fail. Outside the fortress, Maladrie and her Demonettes stepped onto the vast system of bridges spanning the canyon surrounding the castle. The Wraith’s sky burned a deeper orange here, streaked with black lightning veins that carved temporary cracks through the clouds. The bridge beneath their feet was made of fused bones and obsidian plates, glowing faintly from the heat of churning lava far below. It had taken months for Maladrie’s enslaved laborers to construct these pathways—bridges capable of holding armies, pastures of chained beasts, and transport convoys. Now they served a far simpler purpose: guiding their master to the source of her new favorite torment. The group descended a series of spiraling ramps, the canyon walls rising higher and darker around them. Jagged rock formations stretched upward like broken spears, each one carved with ancient runes that hissed when touched by the drifting winds. Maladrie stopped at the final ledge. Below them lay something impossible. A sea of bodies—titanic skeletal remains of Shark People—piled in massive heaps. Their armor was rotted, their fins shriveled into leathery husks. Their once-proud jaws were locked open in silent screams. From their decaying forms, a viscous black substance oozed—thick as tar, shimmering like oil in the dying light. The venom flowed down into deep channels carved into the canyon floor, collecting in bubbling pools. The Demonettes recoiled slightly. Maladrie did not. She stepped forward until she stood at the very edge, her dress sweeping around her legs like shifting smoke. The sight was mesmerizing—wrong in every conceivable way. Shark People didn’t have venom. Samuel had said so many times, and Samuel’s assessments were rarely wrong. But the Wraith changed things. The Wraith twisted things. And whatever these beings had become after death… it no longer mattered. All that mattered was what Maladrie could use them for. She extended a hand toward the nearest pool, letting the heat radiate over her palm. The liquid hissed, as though recognizing her touch. Finally, she spoke, her voice echoing across the cavernous canyon. “Get in touch with Deathskull. I need more copies of the Sharkie Poo venom.” She turned her head slightly, black hair blowing in the hot wind. “I made up my mind. This crap is capable of subduing an immortal—and perhaps permanently.” Her Demonettes exchanged uneasy glances. None voiced their concerns. This was Maladrie’s realm—her war, her ambitions, her cruelty. Their task was only to obey. The orange sky growled overhead as the venom pools churned. And far above them, hidden in the dungeon of the fortress, two prisoners began to change the fate of entire worlds—one link of a chain at a time. The skies of Bogn were a dull, shimmering violet when Nitra led Fructar, Chucktar, and Sigvard toward the standing portal. Its frame pulsed with coils of holographic runes—symbols older than any mortal civilization, whispering with a silent hum that prickled the skin. Wind spiraled around them as the portal activated, bending the grasses flat in a wide circle. Sigvard inhaled sharply, tasting static in the air. “Here we go,” he muttered. Nitra tilted her head toward him. Her eyes glowed soft gold, ancient and all-seeing. “Beyond this portal lies a truth you cannot unsee.” The others exchanged nervous glances, but together the four stepped through. On the other side was a vast, cavernous expanse of artificial sky—flat, metallic, and pulsing faint glimmers of code like constellations that had forgotten how to shine. And beneath it— Sigvard’s breath left his lungs. Rows upon rows of pods, stretching beyond the horizon. Millions. Billions. Nearly every citizen of Vikingnar, suspended inside clear crystalline chambers, floating in stasis, their bodies curled into fetal positions, eyes twitching beneath closed lids as unending dreams—and nightmares—played behind their sealed consciousness. Each pod was plugged into walls of fractal machinery. Thick conduits ran like blackened arteries from the pods into a central tower of writhing bronze metal—Deathskull’s rogue AI core, throbbing with stolen thoughts. Nitra’s voice echoed softly in the enormous chamber. “This is where they have been kept… ever since Maladrie allied with the AI. The people’s minds are connected directly to the Psyop Machine.” Fructar whispered, “Why? Why capture all of them?” Nitra’s gaze dropped. “Because every living being has emotions strong enough to alter reality once linked through this machine.” Sigvard frowned. “Alter reality… how? I don’t understand.” Chucktar brushed dust from a nearby pod, revealing a young elf inside, trembling. “They look like they’re dreaming nightmares.” “They are,” Nitra said quietly. She stepped closer to Sigvard. “The machine’s sole purpose is to create demons from emotional output—the rage, despair, terror, hopelessness—all harvested and converted into matter by the artificial planet’s core.” Sigvard shook his head, overwhelmed. “And Maladrie’s using this—this atrocity—to build her army.” “Yes,” Nitra said. “An endless supply.” Sigvard swallowed hard, then tried to lighten his tone. “You know so much, Nitra…” Her golden eyes flickered. “All greater demons see into the physical realm. We were born outside of time and space—we see all that unfolds.” Sigvard blinked at her. “So… were you created?” Nitra’s lips curved in a faint smile. “We are all created in one way or another.” He leaned in, confusion still etched across his brow. “But how can these people’s thoughts create entities like you?” “If I told you everything,” she replied, voice dropping to a whisper, “your mind would tear itself apart. And we do not have the time for you to recover.” Sigvard nodded slowly. Nitra guided them through a spiraling ramp that led deeper into the bowels of the artificial planet. As they descended, the air grew colder, thicker—each breath tinged with metallic bitterness. Eventually, they reached the lower levels. And there — Sigvard felt his stomach twist. Hundreds of Trolls, strapped into massive VR rigs, their eyes hidden behind visor-helmets. Their huge fingers danced across holographic keyboards at impossible speeds. On the screens: twisted visions, fabrications of worlds drenched in misery, loss, chaos—tailored nightmares. The Trolls were laughing, giggling, muttering obscene jokes as they shaped torment into algorithmic phantoms. Fructar shuddered. “They’re enjoying it…” “They’re trolls,” Chucktar sighed. “It’s what they do.” Nitra touched Sigvard’s arm gently. “These visions feed into the pods above. The people relive their greatest traumas endlessly—because the core requires emotional energy to form demons.” Sigvard starred up, imagining the pods above, each life locked in a hell no mortal deserved. “Trillions…” he whispered. “Trillions of innocent beings, marinating in agony…” His fists tightened until his knuckles cracked. “What now?” Sigvard asked. “How do we get these trolls to stop—well, trolling?” Nitra smiled and tapped his backpack. “I placed something inside.” Sigvard rummaged through it—and froze. He slowly lifted out Jestan’s severed head, still bound in its ceremonial braids. “You’re trolling…” he whispered. Nitra’s smile widened mischievously. “It is the only thing they will listen to. Their War Chief speaks louder in death than he ever did in life.” Sigvard exhaled hard through his nose, steeling himself. He nodded. Nitra stepped forward, inhaled deeply, and unleashed a piercing, shrill whistle that reverberated through the chamber like a sonic blade. The Trolls all froze mid-keystroke, ripping their VR visors off, furious and confused. “Who dares interrupt—!?” Sigvard stepped onto a metal crate, holding Jestan’s head high. Their thunderous voices fell instantly silent. “Your leader is dead!” Sigvard shouted, letting the Trolls see the truth. “And the only path to freedom left for you… is death!” Gasps. Murmured curses. A wave of fear rippled through the Troll ranks. One Troll, broader than the rest, stepped forward. “Why should we give up our comfort? Why fight out there—just to die?” Sigvard glared down at him. “Because Maladrie was going to kill you anyway! You are nothing but expendable pawns to her nihilistic crusade. She will abandon you the moment your usefulness ends!” He swept his arm out dramatically. “So you can die here—obedient, forgotten— or die free, fighting for something real!” For a long moment, silence. Then the Trolls rose—one by one—from their stations. No more laughter. No more smug giggles. Just grim acceptance. “We join you,” the broad Troll growled. “All of us.” Immediately Nitra began issuing commands. “Trolls! Release every human, wulver, elf, and crimseed in the pods. Send them through channels 777-Omega through 910-Alpha! Direct them to the outer worlds near Skogheim!” Trolls scrambled through corridors, flipping massive switches, pulling levers the size of small trees. The chamber rumbled. Above them, pods began to glow—one by one—then in massive clusters. Sigvard watched as trillions of beings vanished in pillars of clean blue light, teleported through the emergency dispersal system to safer worlds. He felt tears gathering in his eyes. deathskull’s machine had nearly consumed half the population of vikingnar. and now, in minutes, they were freed. “Where are they going?” Sigvard whispered. Nitra gazed up at the fading lights. “To places where Maladrie cannot reach them. Safer worlds. Worlds with hope.” And then she turned back to him, her expression shifting—somewhere between determined and longing. “Come with me,” she said softly. She led him into a small maintenance room—a closet lined with spare cables, metal coils, and empty crates. The hum of machinery outside created a strange intimacy between them. Sigvard opened his mouth to ask what was wrong—but Nitra pressed her lips to his. He froze, stunned, before warmth overtook his confusion. “Nitra… what are you doing?” he whispered when they separated briefly. She cradled his face in her hands, her voice trembling with dangerous truth. “It is best to savor every moment with someone you love. Otherwise, the consequences…” Her eyes glowed with an ancient sadness. “…could be catastrophic.” Sigvard swallowed, the weight of her words sinking in. And in the dim, humming warmth of the maintenance closet— amidst a collapsing world, a dying empire, and the looming shadow of Maladrie’s growing demon army— Sigvard and Nitra embraced, letting instinct and fate entwine them. Because neither knew how long their strange, abrupt soulmate-bond would endure. Or whether they’d survive what came next. As for I, the laboratories of Skogheim were never silent, yet the hum of machinery there had a strange softness to it—like the breath of a colossal sleeping creature. Bioluminescent lights pulsed rhythmically along the walls, illuminating transparent growth-tanks full of swirling blue nutrient gel. Screens scrolled with streams of alien symbols, thousands of diagnostics running at once. A faint coppery scent—leftover from synthesizers forging new alloys—hovered in the air. And in the center of all this strange, living technology… I sat on the cold metallic floor, legs crossed, staring downward with unfocused eyes. My reflection stared back from the polished tiles—wolfish, tired, armored, burdened. My claws tapped absently against the plating. For a moment, the room felt too large for me. Too advanced. Too alien. I ran both hands through my mane and exhaled, trying to make sense of the universe around me. That was when the door hissed open—violently, as always—and Emily rushed in, her boots clacking across the metal. She skidded to a halt when she saw me sitting there like a confused child. “What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless. I didn’t look up immediately. My voice came out low, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in my head. “I'm trying to understand the nature of this reality. It seems too fantastical to me.” She blinked. “What do you mean?” I finally raised my gaze. “Back on my old Earth, the world seemed so boring & chaotic at the same time. While here, it's so different with Dragons, Aliens, Mutants, and technology that was considered science fiction. Everything feels so big, & out of my control... Even death. Everyone I once knew is dead or missing, which includes my mother & most likely my father.” Emily’s expression softened as she slowly crossed the room and lowered herself beside me. “Death is sometimes metaphorical, and not literal,” she said gently. “Just look at the concept of resurrection.” I stared at her in disbelief. “You're kidding right?” But she shook her head. “You managed to bring my friend Serenity back to life.” “I hope I didn't waste the last soul stone on her.” At that, the entire room seemed to fall silent. The machinery continued to hum, but softer, almost respectfully. Emily’s eyes lingered on mine—green and warm despite the cold futuristic light. Then, without another word, she slid closer and wrapped her arms around me. Her warmth pressed against my armor, her cheek against my fur. “Everything will be fine, silly Willy.” Her voice vibrated against my chest, small and sincere. And just like that, the universe—vast, terrifying, riddled with cosmic armies and demonic empires—faded away. It was just us. Two souls sitting on the floor of a laboratory on a living world. And the conversation ended where all the best ones do— with us holding each other, silent, steady, waiting for whatever came next. Far across the void, beyond the fractured star-lanes and the scattered rim-worlds of the Vikingnar sector, the artificial planet Cybrawl drifted like a colossal steel lotus blooming in the abyss. Its surface shimmered with a seamless blend of nature and machinery—lush emerald forests stitched together by glowing conduits, waterfalls cascading down stepped titanium cliffs, and immense black pyramids rising from the terrain like the bones of forgotten gods. Each pyramid served a dual purpose: factory and atmospheric processor, breathing currents of ionized mist into the sky while forging weapons deep within their labyrinthine cores. And on the plateau before the greatest pyramid—The Throne Pyramid of Vhorkan—stood two figures of dreadful authority. Anubis and Deathskull. Thousands of corrupted knights waited in formation, their kettle helmets reflecting the violet sky, each one smeared with the crimson sigils of Maladrie’s nihilistic creed. Their armor—once sacred—had been debased, twisted, latticed with demonic etchings and integrated nanofibers pulsing like veins beneath their plates. Beside them stood the Demonic Warriors—horned, plated, breathing out steam that smelled of acidic ozone. Interspersed among them marched the Demondroids, mechanical constructs, steel, and corrupted quantum cores, glowing from the inside like haunted reactors. All served one master. And all feared one mistress. Deathskull floated forward, wreathed in dark energy, his skull-helm burning red with internal plasma. Anubis paced beside him, his jackal-headed visage gleaming with ceremonial gold that had long since lost its honor. The troops waited. The wind howled across the metallic plain. And Anubis raised a hand to speak. His voice boomed through installed canyon speakers embedded across the plateau. “My warriors!” he shouted, tail flicking with trained theatrics. “Hear me! Once, I abandoned the foolish, misogynistic ideals that chained me to weakness! Once, I believed power belonged to one shape—one gender—one law!” He paced through the ranks as if performing a ritual he barely understood. “But I have evolved!” His voice echoed. “I now stand beside the one true sovereign! The God-Queen Maladrie—she alone possesses the will to end this rotting universe and bring forth a rebirth worthy of gods!” The knights lifted their weapons in halfhearted unity. A few demons rumbled in approval. Anubis’s speech continued, growing more inflated—praising Maladrie’s plan for “cosmic renewal,” condemning the “softness of mortal worlds,” and claiming his self-growth was the reason he left bigotry behind. But it rang hollow. Even from the back rows, the subtext was obvious. He wasn’t enlightened. He was terrified. Deathskull watched him silently. His expression—though locked behind a metallic skull face—radiated boredom, as if Anubis were reciting the same speech for the thousandth time with absolute inconsistency. One Demondroid muttered to another, its mechanized voice glitching. “His rhetoric shifts weekly.” “Affirmative. Internal logic: nonexistent.” Yet the speech had its intended effect. Fear does what charisma cannot. The troops stiffened, straightened, and accepted the directive. Anubis clenched a fist dramatically. “For Maladrie, we march!” Deathskull floated forward, his aura dimming the sky itself as static rippled over the assembled host. “For Maladrie,” he repeated—but with the tone of a death sentence. His voice scraped like metal dragged across stone. “All ships launch.” The ground trembled as massive doors opened in the pyramids. Hangars activated, sliding open like angular maws. Inside waited the Nihilistic Drakkar Spacecrafts—sleek, elongated vessels crafted in the shape of ancient longships but forged from black void-steel and wreathed in shimmering dark plasma. Their prows resembled snarling wraith-dragons. Their engines thrummed like beating hearts. One by one, they powered up. The corrupted knights marched aboard, shields clattering rhythmically. Demons climbed the boarding ramps, snarling, wings scraping metal. Demondroids locked themselves magnetically into formation racks along the hulls. A deep vibration rolled through the ground as the Drakkars rose simultaneously, thousands of them lifting from the pyramids and forests, blotting out Cybrawl’s strange neon sun. The sky rippled with warp-energy as the first wave surged forward. Anubis positioned himself on the command deck of his flagship, the Obsidian Aura, gripping a railing made of fused bone-metal. Deathskull phased into existence beside him, a spectral silhouette. “Set course,” Deathskull ordered, voice echoing through every vessel at once. “Outer Sector of Vikingnar.” Engines ignited with thunder. Space folded in streaks of blue and black. The fleet surged forward. And Cybrawl was left behind in erie, humming silence. The warfront approaches Vikingnar’s gates, to fulfill Maladrie’s nihilistic dream of a new universe. The Drakkar-class warship Obsidian Aura cut through the void like a serrated blade. Its hull—blackened metal laced with cursed circuitry—glowed with runic veins of ember-orange light. Inside, the ship felt alive: vents pulsed like lungs, conduits throbbed like veins, and the interior lighting flickered in a steady amber rhythm, as if mimicking a slow heartbeat. On the bridge, the air was thick with heat and the faint scent of burning ozone. The walls shimmered with shifting holographic glyphs, each marking the movement of the Nihilistic fleet that tailed them in a perfect phalanx formation. At the center platform—raised above the ship’s navigation pits—stood Anubis and Deathskull. Anubis’s tall, lupine silhouette was encased in golden phasic armor, polished to an almost divine gleam. The dark fur beneath the plates made him appear like a priest-warrior cast in metal and hatred. Beside him, Deathskull stood motionless. a golden skeletal titan, his frame built from a fusion of Viking metallurgy and cybernetic necro-tech. His LED eyes glowed blood-red, scanning for threats unseen. A shrill chime reverberated through the bridge. A holographic circle unfolded in the air, rings spinning, and then— Maladrie appeared. Her projection towered above them—taller than she would be in person, intentionally, to remind them of their place. Her expression was already sharpened with irritation, black eyes narrowed, orange skin flickering with holographic static. Anubis took one step forward and bowed his head slightly before speaking. “We left Cybrawl as soon as we could. What is it?” Maladrie didn’t hide her fury. “Apparently not soon enough, all of our Trolls working one of the factories are missing, along with Nitra who left her post on Bogn.” Anubis’s ears twitched in unease beneath his helmet. “Are you sure she betrayed you?” Maladrie’s hologram shook her head with a scowl. “Of course I'm sure! She most likely has a soft spot for Sigvard, and now they're on Aries. We also lost our batteries at this factory, and we need all of the batteries we can get in order to succeed.” Anubis exhaled sharply, calculating, already thinking of ways to please her. “That bad huh? Well, I guess you can execute all of the Trolls, replace them with droids, or demons.” A slow grin crept across her projection—cold, hungry, pleased. “Demons powering Demons! Like the way you think boy, and make sure Deathskull comes back in one piece. I need him for a special project upon his return.” Anubis lowered his muzzle in acknowledgment. “You got it my lady.” Her image shattered into shards of orange light, fading into the warm glow of the bridge. Silence lingered for a moment—heavy, suffocating. Finally, Deathskull turned his head, the servos in his neck grinding softly. “How do you feel about sending your pet to Valhalla?” The question stabbed deeper than intended. Anubis stiffened. He gave the only answer he could muster. “If it's necessary, I'll do it.” But inside his mind—what little softness remained of it—Anubis was spiraling. Sigvard… My masterpiece… My failure… The one thing I created that defied me. He tried to bury the conflict, but it dug into him like a poisoned thorn. Ahead of them, the planet Aries filled the forward viewport. A vibrant world—lush emerald grasslands rolling beneath a serene cobalt sky. Tall crystalline mountains refracted sunlight in prismatic beams. From orbit, the world looked pure. Untouched. Too untouched. The Nihilistic fleet descended from the heavens in a black wave, blotting out the sun as hundreds of Drakkar ships broke formation and streaked toward the surface. Flame trails spiraled behind them as they sliced through the atmosphere. Shockwaves rippled across the fields as the first ships landed, flattening golden grass in circular patterns. Metallic landing gear slammed into the earth. The ground trembled under the weight of thousands of tons of cursed alloy. The Obsidian Aura touched down at the vanguard, its engines roaring like an awakening beast. The gangway extended. Anubis stepped out first, cloak snapping in the warm air, his golden armor gleaming like a corrupt sun. Deathskull followed, each footstep pounding into the soil with a metallic thud that sent vibrations through the ground. Behind them, corruption spilled out like water from a ruptured dam. Corrupted knights in kettle helmets, each fused with demonic sigils. Demonic warriors with obsidian skin and ember veins. Demondroids marching in perfect metallic cadence. All of them spreading out across the silent plain. The wind rustled through the long grass. No animals. No civilians. No broken structures. No smoke. Not even birdsong. Not in this region of the planet at least. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Anubis lifted his snout to the air and sniffed. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered under his breath—though it wasn’t dialogue from your prompt, so it stayed unspoken in the text. Deathskull scanned the horizon, LED eyes narrowing. The world of Aries was beautiful, immaculate… and utterly, impossibly empty. A perfect trap.Or a perfect lie. And the fleet, unaware of the eyes watching them from distant hills and concealed caverns, pressed forward into the stillness—marching toward a fate Anubis himself could barely bring himself to imagine. The world of Aries lay beneath a pale, almost sterile sky, its atmosphere washed in cold clarity as if the planet itself were holding its breath. Short blue-green grass rippled across the open plains in long, silent waves. No storms. No birds. No movement except the faint shimmer of heat on the horizon. It was a realm too quiet, too pristine—like untouched glass waiting for the first crack. Anubis stood at the front of the Nihilistic host, his tall lean werewolf physique encased in sculpted gold armor that hummed with internal phasic currents. Beside him stood Deathskull—towering, metallic, and unnervingly still. The machine’s golden endoskeleton gleamed under the sun like polished bone, each skeletal plate etched with runic circuitry. Its skull-like head flickered with red optical sensors that pulsed in a slow, predatory rhythm. Behind them, an army of corrupted Knights, Wulvers, and golden skeletal droids waited in absolute discipline, every firearm charged and humming with lethal plasma. Across the field, emerging from the heat haze like specters rising from memory, the Trolls appeared. Anubis recognized the first silhouette before the details sharpened. His ghost. His only creation. Sigvard. Sigvard’s mandrill-like face was streaked with war paint and shadow, his armor a crude but heavy arrangement of steel plates scavenged from multiple worlds, reforged with Troll ingenuity. Around him, an entire Troll army assembled—broad-shouldered, long-armed, proboscis-faced warriors whose armor lacked refinement but radiated terrifying brute purpose. Their numbers dwarfed Anubis’s regiment. The Trolls moved like a living tide, unafraid of plasma, unafraid of death, driven by something more ancient than programming. Nitra stood at Sigvard’s side, her eyes glowing with determination. Once a demonette, now something changed—her posture defiant, her aura steady as she gripped Sigvard’s hand and whispered to him. “You're so different from the others, that's why you're going to defeat your enemy who had the nerve to show up here today.” Sigvard leaned in, and they shared one last kiss, a fragile moment carved out of inevitability. The stillness broke. A roar—hundreds of throats—echoed across the field. The Troll army surged forward, their heavy footfalls shaking the earth. From the opposite side, Anubis raised his arm. His forces shifted into formation with mechanical precision, weapons rose in perfect unison, and the battle erupted. Plasma fire tore across the plains like ribbons of sun-hot lightning. The first rank of Trolls disintegrated, armor melting into their flesh as glowing holes burned straight through their torsos. The smell of scorched cartilage filled the air. Still they pressed forward, undeterred, climbing over the corpses of their fallen brothers. Their strength was in their numbers, and their numbers were relentless. Corrupted Knights waded into the melee with jagged blades, slicing through Troll limbs and splitting chests open. In return, Trolls grappled them with raw strength—snapping armored necks backward, crushing skulls with boulder-like fists, dragging Knights to the soil where they beat them into pulp. The battlefield dissolved into carnage. Metal screamed. Flesh broke. The sky dimmed beneath rising smoke. Sigvard carved a path toward Anubis with deliberate, furious precision. Every Troll near him fought like a wall protecting their champion. As the two locked eyes across the ruin of battle, the world seemed to compress into a single destined point. One of them would walk away. One would not. Sigvard charged. Anubis met him head-on, their blades clashing with an electric crack that sent sparks spiraling across the grass. The duel was brutal from the first strike—no grace, no patience, only raw, primal intent. Sigvard used his weight and sheer animal strength to bash Anubis back, denting the golden armor with every impact. Anubis countered with precision strikes, each swing leaving burning arcs of orange light through the air. They slammed together so hard that the ground cratered beneath them. But as the duel raged, Sigvard’s eyes flicked—just once—to Nitra. She had been overwhelmed by a wave of corrupted Knights. She fell beneath them, fighting, clawing, burning with determination, but her strength was failing. Sigvard saw her stumble. Saw her drop to one knee. Saw her blood hit the dirt. That single heartbeat of distraction was all Anubis needed. The energy sickle sword ignited in a flare of molten orange, and Anubis drove it into Sigvard’s side—right between the armor plates. The blade pierced flesh, bone, and organs with a sizzling burst. Blood gushed out, steaming as it splattered across Anubis’s golden breastplate. Sigvard roared in agony—but he did not fall. Instead, he grabbed a dagger from his belt and slammed it downward into the gap in Anubis’s ankle armor. Metal split. Flesh tore. Anubis yelped—a sharp, animalistic pain unlike anything a machine or mortal could mimic. Sigvard twisted the blade, forcing Anubis onto one knee. With a sudden surge of desperate strength, Sigvard knocked the sickle sword from Anubis’s grip. The blade hit the ground. Sigvard seized it. Energy burned up his arm as he raised the weapon in both hands. With a furious, heartbroken cry, he swung. The blade carved through Anubis’s torso like molten shears cutting through wax. Anubis’s body split apart from rib to hip, the golden armor peeling open as intestines and dark blood spilled onto the grass. His legs collapsed separately from his upper body. Anubis, now half the man he used to be, stared in horror at the ruin below him—his own guts steaming in the open air. Sigvard staggered backward, breathing raggedly as he dropped the weapon. Around him, plasma burned through Troll after Troll. They fell like mountains collapsing in slow motion. There were too many corpses, too much red soaking into the pristine soil. And Nitra—his love—lay motionless in the chaos. Sigvard crawled to her, his blood leaving a dark trail behind him. He gathered her head into his shaking arms. Her breathing was shallow—barely there. “I love you,” she whispered. “You did great. This realm can now be saved, no matter how bleak it can be at times.” Her body softened. Her eyes dimmed. And then she slipped away. Sigvard’s heart cracked. Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his forehead to hers. The pain in his side surged, blood pouring faster, draining what little strength he had left. At last, the world blurred into shadow. Sigvard fell beside her and died with his hand still holding hers. Only two Trolls remained standing—Frucktar and Chucktar, soaked in blood and breathing like exhausted beasts. They tightened their grips on their axes, ready to sell their lives dearly. Then an armored Knight—helmet removed, face gaunt and aged—stepped forward, raising a trembling hand. “Halt!” he shouted. The battlefield froze in a moment of stunned quiet. “My name is Dwayne,” the old Knight said, voice cracking. “There’s no reason to keep fighting change.” Frucktar exchanged a look with Chucktar. Chucktar snarled, “Your commander Anubis, my deceased friends’ abuser, is dead. Maybe too much change is a bad thing, old man!” Frucktar’s arm swung. The axe spun through the air with a whistling arc and embedded deep into Dwayne’s skull, splitting it wide open. His body dropped instantly. Deathskull, unfazed and emotionless, raised his metal arm and made the signal. The remaining droids and Knights opened fire. Plasma bolts tore through Frucktar and Chucktar’s torsos, liquefying bone and muscle in an instant. Their bodies crumpled beside the hundreds of fallen Trolls they had fought with so fiercely. The last cries of the Troll army faded into silence as the smoke settled over the plains. Far beyond the quiet corpse-fields of Aries, the stars churned with violence. Across the scattered factory worlds of Vikingnar’s outer territories—those sprawling industrial planets where smoke forever drowned the skies and molten metal ran like rivers—another tragedy unfolded. In places where Trolls once labored, laughed, fought, and lived with stubborn pride, the corridors now echoed with the metallic thunder of assault droids and the unholy roars of demons. The eradication was swift. Brutal. Systematic. On Grindul Forge-9, a rust-colored world encircled by broken moons, Troll workers fled through conveyor trenches as orange security sirens pulsed like wounded hearts. A platoon of golden skeletal droids marched through the haze, their footfalls perfectly synchronized. Their glowing chest cores lit narrow passageways as plasma bolts erupted from their arms, cutting through the fleeing Trolls with merciless efficiency. Armor-clad overseer demons stalked behind them, dragging wounded Trolls into the shadows for purposes better not seen. The metal floors steamed with Troll blood. On Bogn’s sister factories, once governed by Nitra’s presence before her betrayal was discovered, the purge was even more ruthless. Massive foundry furnaces were repurposed as execution pits. Trolls fought with axes, wrenches, mining tools—anything—but they were no match for the coordinated precision of the replacement forces. One by one, they fell, their bodies joining the mountain of the dead. By the time the smoke began to clear, only the cold echo of machines remained. Everywhere, the story repeated. Everywhere across the empire, the Troll species broke beneath annihilation. Yet even as they were slaughtered, scattered shouts were heard in dying breaths, echoing through ventilation tunnels, across broken catwalks, and into data logs captured by failing security cams. “For Sigvard!” Their voices rose like sparks against a storm—small, fleeting, but impossibly bright. Though eradicated by decree and flame, the Trolls did not die quietly. Not after the sight of Aries. Not after witnessing Sigvard—a lone Troll—a hybrid warrior shaped by fate and cruelty, carving through a golden tyrant with nothing but fury and love burning through him. In their final hours, the Trolls held to one truth. Sigvard had made defiance possible. Word of the battle on Aries traveled faster than any fleet. It slipped through data streams, smuggled by sympathetic Wulvers. It passed through the encrypted channels of renegade Knights. It whispered through the star winds in ports where smugglers traded rumors instead of cargo. And as it spread, it grew. Sigvard became more than a Troll. He became a symbol. To the scattered colonies of Vikingnar, he was the one who showed that even a single soldier—born in captivity, cast aside by his maker—could wound the unstoppable. He could refuse to kneel. He could inspire love in a demonette who chose to defy an empire. He could take down a commander forged from gold and arrogance. He could spark rebellion. Not every world dared to rise, but many felt the tremor of something awakening. Something old, something that had been buried beneath centuries of oppression. Even Deathskull’s data observers detected unusual fluctuations in subspace transmissions—encrypted channels lighting up with Troll sigils, resistance ciphers, and fragments of Sigvard’s name. The Trolls were dead, yes. But their defiance lived. Their sacrifice resonated through the black oceans of space. Their memory seeded unrest in the deepest corners of Vikingnar. And though the empire continued its march—replacing Trolls with obedient droids and hungry demons—the shadow of Sigvard walked between the stars, impossible to erase. For in every whispered rebellion, in every spark of defiance flickering in some remote outpost or drifting colony, one truth remained. The Trolls were gone. But they had not died in vain. On the bright world of Aries, Sigvard and Nitra lay together in death. And though the Nihilistic forces technically stood victorious, the cost had gutted them—and the Rus Vikings, somewhere far beyond the horizon, had gained the precious time they needed to brace for the storm that was coming. CHAPTER 29: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 2" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 28: "SIGVARD THE GREAT, PART 1" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The gray world of Bogn stretched endlessly under a dead sky, a place where the horizon seemed carved from ash and sorrow. The air was thick with metallic dust, swirling between fractured towers of once-impressive cities now reduced to jagged skeletons. Every surface was coated in a quiet film of age, decay, and long-abandoned despair—yet all of it was overshadowed by the living presence of the Troll soldiers who belonged to Maladrie. Sigvard and his two fellow troll warriors marched with heavy reluctance, their hands bound behind their backs with jagged plasma-fused restraints that hissed faintly with heat. They were flanked on all sides by the Trolls loyal to the triarchy of Deathskull, Anubis, and Maladrie, each warrior towering and broad, wearing armor that looked scavenged from ancient battlefields. Their tusks were painted with black war-ink that dripped in streaks down their chins, and the smell of blood mixed with machine oil followed them like a curse. The procession moved slowly, the crunch of boots against the gravel-like soil echoing in the stagnant air. Bogn’s landscape around them was bleaker than anything Sigvard had ever seen—a mixture of industrial ruin and ancient gothic architecture, where broken spires leaned over the roads like dying beasts. They walked under archways made of rusted steel and obsidian bones. Gargoyles of unknown species crouched overhead, their eyes long hollowed out but the shadows beneath them still somehow watching. Massive broken chains hung from support columns whose original purpose no one remembered. Sigvard glanced nervously at the skyline. There was no sun here—only a pallid glow from the clouds above, as if the world’s light came from a dying ember hidden behind a veil of suffering. The ground trembled every so often, not from tectonics but from distant machinery—massive drills or forges operating somewhere deep below, powered by infernal technology. As they marched, the loyalist Trolls snarled insults at Sigvard under their breath. They walked with their chests puffed, proud to be part of Maladrie’s war machine. Sigvard felt every glare like a spearhead pressing against the back of his neck. The path eventually widened into a vast open expanse—a sunken city basin where the buildings were more intact, though equally eerie. The city’s silhouette resembled a petrified cathedral forest: towering monolithic structures with shattered stained-glass windows, choked with vines of black cabling that pulsed faintly with corrupted energy. At its center loomed a massive arena, an ancient colosseum twisted beyond recognition. The architecture resembled a hybrid of Viking, demonic, and alien motifs—towering arches, iron-ribbed supports, and massive stone pillars that spiraled like serpents. The outer walls were plastered with enormous banners depicting Maladrie’s sigil: a skeletal wolf head bursting through a wreath of fractured runes. The arena floor was dimly lit by glowing pits of molten slag, their orange light flickering across rusted metal gates and broken seating tiers. The massive doors at the front—twelve-feet tall, engraved with runic symbols fused with demonic glyphs—groaned open as Sigvard and his two companions were shoved forward. Inside, the once-grand walkways had been hastily repurposed into a crude war-camp. Trolls hammered armor plates, sharpened axes on whetstones, and strapped explosives to makeshift spears. Demonic creatures lurked in the corners, shadows with glowing eyes watching silently. Sigvard’s escort did not allow him time to observe for long. They shoved the three trolls through a narrow hallway, lit only by red emergency strips flickering with power instability. The walls were carved with murals of battles long forgotten—dragons attacking demonic forces, ancient civilizations wiped clean, and the rise of Wraith portals in various worlds. Sigvard swallowed hard. Each mural felt like a warning. At the end of the hallway lay a massive iron door with bars welded across in chaotic layers. Two elite demon guards—seven-foot tall, armored in blackened carapace plating—pulled aside the locking mechanisms. The air behind the door vibrated with a low growl. The throne room was enormous, larger than any he had imagined—lit by green and red torches whose flames flickered unnaturally in a circular wind pattern. The ceiling was high above, lost to darkness, where giant chains dangled like the limbs of dead titans. Jagged metal platforms hung suspended from the ceiling, connected by narrow catwalks where elite demon overseers watched silently. And at the far end of the throne room, past a gauntlet of cracked pillars and abandoned ceremonial stands, rose the throne. A monstrous structure carved from obsidian and fused bone. Sharp, jagged, almost alive. Around it congregated the demon elites—the highest-ranking warriors of Maladrie’s faction. Their armor pulsed with runic lights and their silhouettes flickered unnaturally as though their bodies were partially phasing in and out of the physical realm. Their horns curved backward like blades, and their eyes glowed with infernal intelligence. The room smelled of sulfur, plasma residue, and something ancient. Sigvard’s feet stopped moving. Not because he wanted to. But because fear froze him in place. Behind him, one of the escorting Trolls slammed the back of a spear into his spine, forcing him and his companions to lurch forward. The demon elites said nothing, but the air felt heavier with their silent scrutiny. A sound like a distant heartbeat reverberated through the chamber. The escorts shoved all three trolls to their knees. In the flickering orange light, Sigvard dared to glance upward at the throne—its back carved into the shape of a colossal demonic skull, with runic script etched along its jawline. The skull’s empty eyes appeared to follow him. All around the throne room, those watching—demons and elite trolls—waited with ritualistic calm, as if the arrival of prisoners was merely the first step in some brutal ceremonial process. The room grew quiet. The stale air thickened. Something powerful was approaching. And Sigvard realized with sinking dread: The real interrogation hadn’t even started yet. The throne room’s shadows deepened as Sigvard and his two companions were forced forward across the cracked stone floor. The demon elites stepped aside with fluid, unnatural grace, forming a corridor that funneled the prisoners toward the center dais where two figures waited beneath a storm of flickering red light. Atop the platform stood Jestan, the Troll war boss of Bogn, a mountain of muscle and scar tissue wrapped in spiked war-armor forged from iron and volcanic glass. His tusks curled upward like twin war-blades, each etched with runes of past victories. His eyes, yellow and cold, flickered with recognition and disdain as Sigvard was pushed into the torchlight. Beside him lounged Nitra, his demonette mistress. She stood with the lethal elegance of a serpent, wrapped in black chitinous armor that clung to her like a second skin. Her horns arched backward in a twisting spiral, her eyes glowing a poisonous neon violet. Even standing still, she gave the impression of a creature ready to pounce, kill, or seduce with equal ease. Her expression soured the moment she saw Sigvard. Her voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. "What the hell is this?" The surrounding Troll guards snapped to attention. Two of them shoved Sigvard forward again, forcing him to kneel at the foot of the dais. One of the guards spoke with sharp obedience, his tone the clipped bark of a soldier terrified of disappointing his masters. "We found this fresh meat in the fields, and the orbital defense system crashed their ship." Jestan gave a dark hum of amusement. Nitra did not. Her glare sharpened like drawn blades as she stepped closer, heels tapping against the metal-slag floor. She lowered her face toward Sigvard, studying him with intense scrutiny—as though she were dissecting him with her eyes alone. Then, in a cold, testing tone, she asked: "Who are you?" The room seemed to inhale. Sigvard swallowed once, then answered with a stiff, nervous pride: "I'm Sigvard." Nitra’s eyes widened. Her posture shifted—slowly, subtly—like a predator realizing the prey before her was not a random animal but a known quarry. Her voice dropped into something more dangerous, tinged with curiosity: "So you are the great Sigvard?" Sigvard’s breath hitched. His confusion was immediate and overwhelming. He stared back at her in shock, unable to form a response. He had lived his whole life believing he was just another troll warrior—a bad pilot, a decent fighter, someone who blended into the background of battles and bar fights. But here… These monsters knew his name. And worse—they said it with weight. Before he could gather himself, Nitra straightened, her expression shifting back to one of bitter annoyance. Without another word of explanation, she flicked her claws dismissively at the guards. "Throw them in one of the catacombs prison cells." Jestan didn’t even bother to look as the guards seized Sigvard and his two companions by their arms, dragging them backward toward the exit corridor. They were hauled deeper beneath the arena—down rusted stairwells, through metal corridors that groaned under the strain of age, and past rows of ancient machinery still dripping with black condensation. Faint green and red lights pulsed rhythmically along the ceiling pipes, casting eerie illumination across the gothic-industrial maze. This was no simple prison. This was a fortress beneath a fortress. The air grew colder. The stone gave way to steel grates. The sounds of distant roars and tortured screaming echoed from deeper tunnels. Sigvard’s heart pounded. Every instinct screamed that they had entered a place no one returned from. The guards shoved them forward until they reached a massive iron gate reinforced with dark runes that pulsed slowly like a heartbeat. The locks disengaged with a resonant metallic groan, and the three trolls were thrust into the chamber beyond. The cell was nothing more than a cave of metal and stone—an industrialized tomb. Rusted pipes coiled along the walls like serpents. Flickering red lights cast shadows that moved with a life of their own. Thick bars sealed the opening, fused directly into the surrounding stonework. The guards activated the lock. A loud slam echoed through the corridor. Without another word, they left Sigvard and his companions alone in the oppressive darkness. The silence that followed was deafening. Sigvard’s chest heaved as he stared at the bars, trying to steady his breath. The cold seeping from the stone below them gnawed at his bones. His companions muttered under their breath, but even they sounded too shaken to speak clearly. They were trapped. Alone. Far from anyone who cared for them. And yet, the most unsettling realization gnawed at Sigvard’s mind: They knew his name. They called him “great.” And he had absolutely no idea why. Left in the dark, the three trolls sat in their cramped cell, each one silently pondering what would happen next— and whether they would live long enough to find out. The throne room of Bogn churned with a storm of infernal energy. Red vapors coiled through the air like venomous serpents as demonic elites whispered among themselves, their armor clicking and grinding like living machinery. The torches embedded in the walls burned with sickly green fire, illuminating the cracked murals of ancient troll kings who once ruled this wasteland before Maladrie’s corruption seeped into the stone. Nitra stood at the center of the chamber, her long shadow stretching across the floor in a jagged silhouette. Her violet eyes gleamed with calculating intelligence, and her chitin armor glistened as though slick with the essence of the underworld. She exhaled sharply, then addressed her warlord and the assembled elites: "What should we do with Sigvard?" Jestan, looming beside her on the dais, cracked his thick knuckles and leaned back against his throne of welded scrap metal and bone. His grin widened through yellowed tusks as he gave a dismissive, gravel-deep answer: "We should kill him, obviously." The room murmured. A few demons nodded in agreement, but Nitra’s face twisted with irritation. She turned sharply toward him, her tail lashing behind her. Her voice dripped with venomous condescension. "Obviously you don't know that he was Anubis's creation, and an elite warrior." That revelation sent a ripple of unease through the assembled elites. Even the torches flickered, as if reacting to the name Anubis. Jestan, however, rolled his eyes and snorted. He muttered under his breath with crude sarcasm: "Spare me bitch." It was a mistake. Nitra’s movement came so fast and sharp the air cracked. Her armored heel slammed between Jestan’s legs with enough force to make the entire throne shudder. The war boss doubled over, choking on a silent gasp, eyes bulging as he clutched himself. Her voice shrieked through the chamber: "Shut up faggot! I think I should warn Anubis on his prized possession, while you stay here and don't do anything! Understand?" Jestan’s agony-strangled voice broke out in a defeated grunt: "Fine!" The demon elites stiffened. None dared breathe too loudly. Nitra regained her composure, turned toward the center of the room, and raised her clawed hand. Energy rippled outward like liquid glass, bending the air and cracking reality itself. A shimmering portal spiraled open—swirling with black and purple mist, framed by ancient runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Without hesitation, she stepped through and vanished—on her way to warn either Maladrie or Anubis of Sigvard’s capture. The portal snapped shut with a thunderclap that rattled the bones of the throne room. Jestan sank back onto the throne, trembling with humiliation and suppressed rage—yet too terrified to voice a complaint. The chamber fell into a tense, uneasy silence. Far beneath the arena, buried under layers of rusted metal and gloom, Sigvard sat in the cramped prison cell with his two troll companions. The underground labyrinth was a nightmare of dripping pipes, broken machinery, and faint distant screams that echoed like ghosts trapped in static. Their cell was barely larger than a storage closet, made of blackened iron reinforced with demonic stone. A dim red light pulsed overhead, casting rhythmic shadows that crawled across the walls like living things. Sigvard inhaled the cold, metallic air. His mind swirled with confusion—Nitra’s recognition, the demon elites whispering his name, the implication that he was important in ways he had never understood. Finally, he turned toward the two trolls sitting beside him, both bruised from their capture yet alert enough to listen. "I didn't catch your guys' names?" The first troll, with moss-green skin and a jagged scar across his cheek, spoke with a gruff voice: "Fructar," he said. The second troll, rounder and slightly shorter, answered more quietly: "Chucktar." Sigvard nodded slowly, absorbing their names, then leaned forward with urgency, tightening his voice—even though the weight of the cell bars pressed against every hope he had left. "We need to figure out how to get out of here guys." The red light flickered overhead. Somewhere deeper in the prison tunnels, something growled. Fructar and Chucktar exchanged a silent look—one filled with fear, but also the raw flicker of determination. Whatever their fate was meant to be, whatever Anubis or Maladrie planned for Sigvard… They would not go down quietly. And the shadows of the catacombs seemed to shift in agreement, as if something ancient was listening. Cybrawl stretched across the void like a wounded machine-god—half planet, half biomechanical labyrinth. Vast continents of shifting metal plates meshed with forests of fiber-optic vines and crystalline leaves that shimmered in electric hues. Rivers of liquefied coolant flowed through ravines carved by ancient machinery, steaming like molten silver. Everything moved subtly, breathing, humming—alive in ways neither natural nor artificial could fully replicate. Deep within the factory sector—where titanic smokestacks belched out red fog and conveyor highways wound like metallic serpents—stood the main pyramid. A monolithic obsidian structure pulsed with crimson energy, its surfaces shifting like liquid steel. Pipes and conduits ran down its flanks like veins, feeding impossible power into the surrounding biomechanical world. The air trembled with the sound of grinding gears and echoing metallic moans. Through this mechanical wasteland walked Nitra. Her boots clicked against the living alloy that rippled beneath her steps. Neon mist clung to her armor. She moved with determination, ignoring the cold mechanical eyes of surveillance drones that drifted above like metallic specters. She knew she was in the correct sector—this was the nerve center of Cybrawl, the birthplace of Deathskull’s horrors. Her eyes rose to the apex of the pyramid. Standing at its summit was Deathskull, looming like a golden skeletal titan. His chassis—impossibly tall, impossibly lean—glowed with cold menace. Golden armor plating framed the exposed robotic tendons beneath. His skull-shaped head turned, red LED eyes focusing on Nitra with predatory precision. His voice boomed like a corrupted PA system, coarse and metallic: "Why aren't you at your post?" Nitra steadied her breath and shouted up the sloped surface: "Sigvard, Anubis's troll who escaped, started a small rebellion, and is now in Bogn in my prison." The response was instantaneous. Deathskull moved with terrifying speed—leaping from the pyramid’s peak and slamming down before her, the impact causing the biomechanical ground to ripple outward. Before Nitra could even brace herself, the metal titan struck her across the face. The blow sent her crashing to her knees. Sparks flew from the side of her helmet where his clawed hand had made contact. Mechanical tendrils beneath the ground briefly tightened around her boots, as if restraining her on his command. Deathskull’s voice reverberated through the open air: "You shouldn't have come uninvited, but I'm sure Anubis would be intrigued. Follow me, succubi." Nitra rose shakily, swallowing whatever pride she had left, and followed him toward the pyramid’s entrance—a massive gate shaped like a mechanical maw, lined with shifting gears and pulsating red circuitry. The moment they stepped inside, the temperature shifted—cold, dense air rushed through chambers lined with biomechanical ribs. The walls pulsed with crimson liquid light, as though blood flowed through the architecture. The hum of machinery reverberated through the metal bones of the structure. An elevator formed itself from the floor, morphing from a flat surface into a glass-walled lift wrapped in living cables. The elevator ascended rapidly, offering a panoramic view of the pyramid’s interior—labyrinthine networks of pipes, catwalks, and chambers housing weapon forges, cloning vats, and demonic cybernetic augmentations. Nitra glanced upward at Deathskull—his rigid posture, his unmoving metallic jaw, the glowing furnace-like core visible through the gaps in his frame. She broke the silence: "How come everything is the same? You haven't even taken down the Vikingnar banners yet?" The ancient banners hung like ghosts—faded cloth embroidered with the wolf skull insignia of King Ragnar’s old empire, now surrounded by demonic machinery that had consumed their proud heritage. Deathskull’s response was icy, robotic, and dismissive: "We're in a war. No need to be festive when there's tasks to be done." Nitra muttered softly under her breath, barely audible even to herself: "Seems sloppy to skip an important step." Deathskull’s head tilted sharply. "What?" Nitra stiffened, tail twitching, and quickly answered: "nothing." The elevator continued upward, rising through a spine-like shaft of vibrating machinery until it reached the apex. The doors dissolved into mist. At the top of the pyramid lay a grand chamber—a throne room carved from midnight metal and surrounded by massive viewing windows that revealed the biomechanical world outside. The air shimmered with a constant haze of crimson energy. Ancient runes spiraled along the walls, each one flickering faintly as if alive. Seated upon a throne of fused metal and bone was Maladrie, her eyes glowing like two spheres of molten coal. Her hair, long and dark as a black hole, drifted unnaturally behind her as if underwater. Mechanical wings framed her shoulders, twitching subtly. She glared at Nitra the moment she entered. Her voice cracked like a whip: "Why are you here?" Nitra bowed her head and answered carefully: "Sigvard crashed and landed on Bogn. His ship was Rus Viking in origin." Maladrie narrowed her eyes. "why's that important?" A shifting shadow moved from behind Maladrie. Anubis emerged—towering, jackal-headed, plated in obsidian armor fused with living demonic circuitry. His orange eyes glowed with burning hatred and cold brilliance. The energy radiating from him distorted the air like heat waves. He stepped forward, voice smooth yet venomous: "It's important because I engineered him to be a super warrior, who turned on me." Maladrie rested her elbow on her throne, exhaling sharply: "We're about to run the simulation." Anubis’s voice deepened with irritation, though controlled: "I understand that, but we should make sure there's no other survivors... I mean, we have to make sure the other survivors aren't planning a counter attack with some outside help." Maladrie finally nodded. The red energy around her throne pulsed. "We should split our forces then. That means Anubis should take a legion to see what the Immortals are up to. The rest of our forces should stay here to defend what we're building, and Nitra go back to where you came from." Nitra’s face faltered. Her usual arrogance evaporated—replaced with something raw, unspoken. A rare moment of vulnerability crept into her expression. Her eyes lowered, shoulders slumped beneath her demonic armor. For once, she felt the isolation that defined the hellhorde. No loyalty. No camaraderie. No respect—only orders, threats, and violence. Even monsters could feel the sting of being unwanted. But she bowed without a word. Because in the hell horde, feelings had no place. Only survival. The world of Bogn churned beneath a sky the color of ash diluted in stagnant water. The air carried the metallic bite of rusted iron, drifting like a taste of old blood on the wind. Every sound—distant machinery, groaning structures, the shuffle of roaming trolls—echoed through the colossal broken landscape. The surface was gray stone fractured by centuries of warfare and neglect, and every ridge seemed to whisper horrors buried underneath. Deep within this desolate world, beneath a fortress-arena forged in the likeness of something gothic and monstrous, Sigvard, Fructar, and Chucktar sat inside their crude prison cell—stone walls woven with biomechanical pipes and flaking sigils of demon rule. The floor hummed with the power coursing beneath the arena, as if the planet itself pulsed with an artificial heartbeat. The three trolls had been whispering strategies, running hands along the seams of the cell walls, trying to pry loose anything that could serve as leverage. But each attempt was pointless. The prison was built by demons—cruel engineers who knew every escape trick a troll could devise. Then came the metallic clank of boots. Heavy. Familiar. Troll guards. They marched with the rigid precision of soldiers loyal not to their species, but to Maladrie, Deathskull, and the old dread of Anubis. Their armor was jagged and crude, decorated with bones and rusted glyphs. The cell door screeched open and echoed down the entire under-arena corridor. Sigvard tensed. Fructar inhaled sharply. Chucktar clenched his jaw. A guard snarled and jerked his chin. Sigvard and his companions were yanked out by separate chains. Their wrists were bound with plasma-coated shackles, glowing with dull, sickly orange light. Then came the worst part—being separated. Two guards dragged Fructar and Chucktar toward the left corridor. Two different guards grabbed Sigvard, pulling him to the right. The split created an ache in Sigvard’s stomach—an instinctive recognition that whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t meant to have witnesses. The corridors twisted like veins under the arena, branching and rising into levels lit by flickering crimson lamps. The air grew hotter as Sigvard was taken upward—toward the fighting pits. The metal doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the interior of the upper arena armory chamber. Sigvard’s armor—battered, dented, but still recognizable—was thrown at his feet. A crude axe followed, skidding across the metal floor. Its surface was stained with past violence. The guards shoved Sigvard toward the arena platform. Above him were stacked rows of stands filled with snarling Troll spectators and Demon elites. Their bodies were draped in armor that resembled forged bones and charcoal-black metal. Their eyes glowed, predatory and hungry for spectacle. And there— Across from him, high in the stands— Sat Fructar and Chucktar, each held still by huge troll guards gripping their arms. Their expressions were filled with equal parts fear and desperate hope. Before Sigvard could shout to them, the arena floor shook. A circular platform at the center began to rise, illuminated by burning orange spotlights that cast monstrous shadows against the ruined stone. The platform reached the arena floor— And Jestan rose with it. The Troll War Boss wore layers of mismatched armor, scavenged from countless victories, each piece sharp and rusted. His orange fur bristled, his Proboscis-monkey-like features twisted into a grin filled with jagged teeth. His eyes narrowed with cruel amusement as the chanting crowd fell into hungry silence. Sigvard lifted his axe. Jestan stepped forward and sneered. Then Sigvard shouted: "What the hell is this?" Jestan spread his arms wide as if soaking in the attention of the crowd. "You think you can come into my world and embarrass me? I hear you're a great warrior, time to show the other Trolls what you got!" The crowd roared. The arena trembled with their stomping feet. Sigvard took in a steady breath. He looked nothing like them—his gray fur marked him as an anomaly, and his Mandrill-like face carried the regal streak of a warrior bred for more than combat. He was a creation—something engineered, perfected, and meant to serve Anubis, though he had escaped that fate long ago. Now he stood face-to-face with Jestan, a self-appointed tyrant who governed Bogn with brutality and fear. The massive arena doors slammed shut. There was no escape now. This was the trial. This was the only path to freedom. This was War Chief combat. The two trolls charged. The clash of metal and bone rang like thunder. Sigvard’s axe bit into Jestan’s shield. Jestan’s blade whistled past Sigvard’s ear. Dust and sparks burst into the air with every collision. The fight stretched out in a dance of raw strength, sharpened instinct, and survival desperation. Sigvard bled from his shoulder. Jestan suffered a deep gash across his thigh. Trolls screamed. Demons leaned forward, fascinated. Then— Sigvard saw a gap. Jestan swung too wide, too arrogantly. His guard opened for half a second. Sigvard seized the moment with all the force of his engineered lineage. He brought his axe down in a sweeping arc— And Jestan’s head separated from his shoulders. A fountain of thick orange blood erupted across the arena sand. The War Boss’s head rolled. Silence fell. Sigvard lifted Jestan’s severed head high, roaring like a primal beast. The audience recoiled, shocked. Some trolls even bowed. Just then— A tear in reality ripped open near the arena entrance. From it stepped Nitra. Her presence froze every demon and troll in place. Her succubus form—slender, lethal, clad in dark armor—dripped with a cold fury. Her wings flickered with demonic static. Every guard who once served her before she left Cybrawl now stared in stunned confusion. She swept her gaze across the arena. Then her voice cut through the silence: "What the hell is going on?" Sigvard lowered the severed head and answered with the confidence of a warrior born again: "I'm the new War Chief." The arena erupted into whispers and fearful chatter. Nitra tilted her head, appraising him with sharp curiosity. Then she offered a thin smile. "Then maybe I should join you & your fellow Trolls on a revolt?" Sigvard nodded once—firm, deliberate. Nitra turned to her loyal Troll guards—those who followed her even after her humiliation in Cybrawl—and made a simple hand gesture. Instantly, every troll guard under her servitude pivoted toward the Demon elites. And slaughtered them. The demons didn’t even have time to raise their weapons. Their bodies were ripped apart, hurled into the sand, torn open by troll claws, axes, and pure vengeance. Above, the guards holding Fructar and Chucktar let go. The two trolls rushed down from the stands, sliding down broken seating, leaping over crushed barriers to reach Sigvard. Before Sigvard could speak— Nitra stepped into him, unexpectedly pulling him into a tight embrace. Her armor pressed cold against his chest. Her claws grazed lightly across his back. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with relief: "Thank you for freeing me." Her breath lingered against his shoulder as the arena around them burned with revolt, death, and a new beginning— A beginning forged under Sigvard’s new revolt. A beginning that would shatter the hell horde. A beginning that would echo across the galaxy.

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 27: "STAR CASTLE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The atmosphere of the underground metropolis was thick with age — the scent of rusted metal, alien residue, and faint ozone still hanging from millennia of dormant machinery. Blue and red ambient light shimmered from the fractured crystal conduits embedded along the stone walls, giving the entire chamber a ghostly, half-living glow. Towering spires of black alloy rose around us like petrified trees, their roots merged with the rock floor, their tips vanishing into the darkness above where artificial rain still fell in a gentle mist. The alien structures hummed faintly — as though the city itself was listening to us. Emily and I were at the front of the group as the others emerged from the adjoining tunnels — Sigvard and his two troll guards, their heavy steps echoing off the iron floors; Anisia, Jimmy, Pete, Mathew, Elizabeth, Rick, Cole, Hanna, and Droid L-84, their armors reactivated, glowing faintly under the alien haze. Then came Alexandria, Samuel, and two newcomers — Khamzat, still bandaged and limping from his last encounter on Goat Heim, and Niko, an Asian woman whose sharp features and calm posture made her seem both serene and lethal. Her armor gleamed white under the alien light, contrasting the decay around her. Alexandria’s voice broke the uneasy silence. “All right, everyone — gather here.” Her words echoed off the smooth, ancient surfaces, bouncing endlessly through the hollow tunnels of the lost metropolis. We stood in a wide chamber that had once served as a control nexus — its consoles and pedestals long dead, though faint holographic scripts still flickered in forgotten languages. From the ceiling, long black tendrils of unknown organic wiring hung like vines, dripping faint luminescent fluid onto the floor. I looked around, my voice carrying through the damp air. “So what are we doing here again?” Alexandria turned to face me, her pale eyes catching the distant blue light. “I heard you received intel from your friend in the Wraith?” I nodded. “We sent Serenity into the Wraith to look for Hailey’s sister. Obviously that didn’t turn out in our favor, and she only stumbled upon a small piece of the demons’ grand plan in Maladrie’s journal… by accident. That was before we became outcasts from the very civilization we tried to unite.” The sound of dripping water punctuated the silence as Samuel stepped forward, his breath visible in the cold air. “Well,” he said, “you ended up in the right place to seek help.” Alexandria folded her arms, her armor faintly whirring as she turned to me again. “Do you still communicate with Serenity?” I shook my head. “No. Emily and I fear the worst for her. Although…” I glanced around the shadowy room, lowering my tone, “I do know Maladrie is planning to build a simulation — one that powers a machine capable of creating demons at a faster rate, to stage a second civil war and seize the universe itself.” Alexandria’s expression tightened. “Maladrie is probably already in her simulation phase. Entire worlds of Vikingnar are less active than before.” She turned toward Khamzat, who stood beside a crumbling alien pillar, his fur damp under the artificial mist. “What’s the status of our forces?” Khamzat let out a low growl as he adjusted the strap on his armor. “We have plenty of warriors,” he said, his deep voice echoing against the metallic walls, “but not enough weapons.” He gestured toward a cart he had dragged in — it creaked across the stone floor, carrying what looked like scavenged alien machinery fused with Viking tech. When he removed the tarp, it was one of Deathskull’s energy guns resting on top. Its metal shell was blackened, and the orange core inside it pulsed faintly like a dying heart. The weapon resembled a plasma rifle, bulky and brutal — its power conduit trailed into a metallic backpack lined with cracked insulation tubes. I stepped closer, brushing the dust from its barrel. “So,” I said, “Deathskull — the bitch machine — made a clunky piece of trash. What’s so special about it?” Khamzat lifted the rifle and set it on a nearby table made of alien alloy. “The weapon fires condensed plasma charges — orange lightning balls. It’s heavy, yes, but it cuts through graphene armor like butter. My shield held for a few minutes, but it still burned through.” He tapped his chest plate, revealing a faint scorch mark across his armor. “That was after only one direct hit. The only thing that held the line were our red plasma shields.” Emily stepped beside me, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. The orange mist from above shimmered faintly across her visor. I looked back to Khamzat. “Then we should get guns of our own. Find one of their weapons research labs, steal the blueprints, build more effective versions of the energy guns — maybe upgrade our armor in the process.” The words hung in the chamber, resonating through the dead air like a vow. Samuel crossed his arms, looking from me to Alexandria. “He’s right,” he said finally. “If the demons are adapting, we can’t rely on old steel and plasma swords anymore. We’ll need to match them.” The group began to murmur among themselves, the sound of voices echoing up the hollow walls, blending with the faint hum of alien power still pulsing through the underground structures. The place felt alive again — as if it approved of our plans. Khamzat gave a toothy grin, his amber eyes glowing under the dim light. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We strike a weapons lab. We learn their secrets. And if Deathskull wants a war…” I finished his sentence, gripping my chainsword Revenge so hard that the faint red energy along its edge shimmered to life. “…then we’ll give him one.” Everyone — Alexandria, Samuel, Emily, Niko, Khamzat, and the others — stood silent for a moment, the weight of the plan hanging heavy in the alien air. Somewhere deep in the forgotten veins of the underground metropolis, something stirred — a distant vibration, low and hollow, rolling through the ancient walls. Whether it was the pulse of old machinery or something far more sentient, no one knew. But as the echoes died away, one thing was clear — the war for the universe was no longer confined to the stars or the Wraith. It had reached the heart of the forgotten cities that mankind had built, then abandoned — and we were about to awaken whatever was still sleeping within. Back on the surface, we stood on a narrow metallic bridge that arced like a rib across the Rus Viking spaceport. Below us, the dockyard thrummed with activity—hulking Drakkar hulls groaning as cranes loaded crates, men and women in pale green armor stacking melee weapons with practiced, silent motions. The air smelled of ozone and hot oil, and the distant whoop of engines made the rail beneath my boots vibrate. Emily leaned against the railing, one boot hooked over the other, her visor up so I could see the cool set of her face. Khamzat rested his weight on a nearby support column, breathing slightly heavy; he looked at the wound on his shoulder still showing through the leather portion of his armor. Samuel and Niko watched the loading with the calm attention of people who’d long since learned to read the rhythms of a civilization. “So you guys have the ships, and gave yourself a funny name, ‘Rus Vikings?’” Khamzat tipped his head, then managed a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. The platform seemed to sway for a moment as a carrier released its hold and moved out into the dark. “I'll let you change our clan name if you can get us to use those blueprints.” I kept my gaze on the lines of crates—some stamped with insignia I recognized from Deathskull’s workshops—and tried to imagine where the lab might hide its secrets. “You look nervous Khamzat?” He gave a short, humorless laugh that turned into a low warning. “You don't get it do you? I've never seen beautiful people be so dangerous. You guys took out a demonette with ease. I should keep my distance from you & your woman with funny ears.” Niko’s voice cut in, level and practical. “Just ignore him. Are you positive anything valuable will be on the planet Vulddar?” I watched a pair of Rus mechanics sling a crate that bore the faint outline of energy conduits. Machines left traces, patterns — a signature you learned to read. I met Niko’s eyes and shrugged once. “Niko, I assure you that I've been around Deathskull long enough to know his patterns. Machines are predictable.” Around us the port kept moving, obedient and huge, and for a heartbeat the future felt like a line we could step onto and follow. Then a Drakkar’s engines flared and the bridge thrummed underfoot, and we turned to the task ahead. The boarding ramp of the Rus Viking Drakkar spacecraft groaned open, its metal plates unfolding like the jaws of some ancient machine-beast. The ship’s name—GEMINI—glowed along the hull in runic white letters, flickering with the faint shimmer of its stealth plating. Two parallel antenna fins ran the length of its back like twin spines, humming with a quiet teleportation field. One by one, our mismatched alliance walked up the ramp: Alexandria with her commanding stride, Samuel studying every shadow, Niko moving with the precision of a covert scout, Khamzat steady but favoring his injured side, Anisia scowling as always, Jimmy, Pete, Mathew, Elizabeth, Rick, Cole, and Hanna marching in formation, Sigvard and his two troll guards towering like mountains behind them, Droid L-84 with his silent, calculated steps, and finally Emily and I, bringing up the rear. Inside, Gemini breathed like a cathedral forged out of starship alloys. Tall arching bulkheads curved overhead like the ribcage of a mechanical titan. Gothic engravings—ancient, angular, and clearly not Rus in origin—ran along the walls, illuminated by crimson and white ambient strips that pulsed like veins. The air had a sterile metallic taste mixed with something older, like dust from a civilization that predated humanity. Red mist drifted like incense around the ventilation grilles. The bridge opened before us in a long spearhead shape, full of glowing runes and holo-panels. As we stepped in, the viewport’s massive black glass came alive. Outside, the Rus Viking fleet ascended from Skogheim’s snowy mountaintops—rows of Drakkars, long narrow ships with curved prows shaped like roaring beasts, propelling themselves upward in synchronized formation. Firelight from their boosters lit the clouds orange. Then the fleet breached the atmosphere in a burst of white light. Moments later we were in space, gliding silently past veils of blue nebulas whose light seeped into the cabin like the glow of stained glass. Far off, entire star systems drifted by, suns of all colors burning against the void. And Gemini, true to its name, slipped through the dark like a ghost—its teleportation core humming with a pulse that seemed to bend time around us. Our quarters were modest by Rus standards—high-ceilinged and narrow with a tall arched window that showed spiraling cosmic dust drifting past. The room had black metallic walls trimmed in white, and a bed mounted directly into the hull like a sculpted alcove. Emily sat beside me as I stared at the floor in thought. I asked quietly, “How come nobody seems to remember the black Shark Venom?” Emily ran a hand through her natural dark hair, the red lights reflecting against her green eyes. “I have no idea, and it’s made me bamboozled, too.” I swallowed, trying to string together memories that felt like a dream dissolving. “It’s like how nobody remembers Wilson inhabiting this body I own now.” Emily turned to me with a puzzled look, eyebrows raised. “I don’t know who Wilson is either?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “I thought Subi told you before he mutated into a shark humanoid?” Emily gently shook her head. “He either told me & I forgot, or didn’t tell me at all.” A cold rush of anxiety tightened in my chest. The pressure of time—the rules of time—felt like they were pressing in on me all at once. I pressed my palm to my forehead. “I hope my presence here didn’t destabilize the timeline. I originated from the past, after all.” Emily moved closer, the bed dipping slightly under her weight. She wrapped her arms around me, her voice soft but grounding. “I don’t think it matters, since you’re here now.” Silence settled over us, warm and steady—broken only by the distant hum of Gemini’s engines drifting through the walls like a lullaby. Emily held me for a long moment. Then she shifted slightly, tilting her head. “Am I more than just the girlfriend now?” I blinked, caught off-guard. She clarified with blunt seriousness, “I am also your sex girl.” Despite everything—war, demons, collapsing timelines—I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, you sure are irreplaceable.” Emily kissed me deeply. We lay back onto the bed as she pressed closer, and I reached for the zipper of her black and white leather jumpsuit, pulling it down slowly while she guided my hands. The red ambient lights pulsed brighter, as if reacting to our energy, casting long shadows that danced over the room’s metallic gothic walls. Outside the window, Gemini cut through the stars—silent, hidden, carrying us toward Vulddar and whatever insanity waited there next. The bridge of Gemini stretched before us like the nave of a cosmic cathedral—arched metal ribs, glowing red and white conduits pulsing like arteries, and a vast forward viewport displaying the stars in razor-sharp clarity. Every one of us stood gathered there: Alexandria, Samuel, Niko, Khamzat, Anisia, Jimmy, Pete, Mathew, Elizabeth, Rick, Cole, Hanna, Sigvard and his two troll guards, Droid L-84, Emily, and me. Eighteen souls, armored, silent, all watching the planet below. Beyond the glass, Vulddar hung in the void like a bruised jewel—blue-green forests wrapped around black mountains, and swirling cloud systems casting silver shadows across the landscape. Our entire fleet sat cloaked, invisible, a silent constellation of hidden Drakkar ships suspended in orbit. Only we knew they were there, drifting like ghosts above a hostile world. Alexandria stepped forward, arms crossed behind her back. “We should only send a small group to get what we need, and get out. I'm sending all of you to the surface of Vulddar, and I'm coming with you.” Her words echoed across the bridge. I immediately cut in. “Absolutely not.” Khamzat gestured sharply with his gauntleted hand. “The new guy is right, absolutely not.” Alexandria didn’t flinch. “I need to make sure you get the blueprints successfully, and not run off on us.” I stepped closer, looking her directly in the eye. “You insist on holding our hands when you are a major target for the hell horde?” Alexandria’s expression softened only slightly—enough to show she understood the risk. “I appreciate your concern, but if anything goes wrong, back up will show up immediately.” The weight of the moment settled over us. I exhaled slowly, lowering my shoulders. “Ok.” The decision was made. We moved out. The Drakkar Dropship waited for us in Gemini’s secondary docking bay, its matte-black hull lit by rows of white emergency strips. Runes glowed faintly along the wings. The rear ramp lowered with a hiss of compressed atmosphere. All eighteen of us filed aboard, the metal beneath our boots thudding in rhythmic succession. We were armored head-to-toe—stealth plating, adaptive cloaks, silent repulsor boots, multi-spectrum visors. Our weapons hummed with subtle echoes of dormant plasma, and Droid L-84 performed last-minute diagnostics, scanning each of us with a thin bar of blue light. Inside, the dropship’s interior was narrow, almost coffin-like, with two rows of seats facing each other and crimson tactical lights bathing the cabin in a wartime glow. The engines rumbled beneath the floor, vibrating through every seat. We were ready. From the bridge window of Gemini, the dropship appeared as a small black dart sliding out from the mothership’s underbelly. Its stealth panels shimmered faintly, then vanished entirely as its cloak activated. The hangar bay lights dimmed, and the dropship dropped into Vulddar’s gravity well like a silent shadow. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere thrummed as we descended. Through the small armored windows we watched the world below grow larger—mountainous terrain rising like stone titans, sharp peaks clawing toward the sky. Vast temperate forests spilled over cliffs and valleys, lush and vibrant, with waterfalls glittering in the crevices between emerald ridges. The air outside shimmered with the heat of our cloaking field. Then shadows swept across us. Dragons. Massive winged silhouettes glided past the dropship, their wings spanning entire clearings, their scales glinting with shades of bronze, obsidian, and blue. They kept their distance, but their presence made the mountains seem even smaller. Then the landscape shifted—and we saw it. The Star Castle. A colossal, upside-down pyramid floating above the Vikingnar base. Its stone was black-gold, covered in glowing glyphs. The structure was so enormous that the Vikingnar outpost beneath it looked microscopic, like an anthill at the foot of a monolith. It emitted an unnatural radiance—celestial, ancient, impossible. I stared in disbelief. “I don't remember, this shit being here? It's beautiful, but I don't remember this at all?” Alexandria kept her gaze steady on the structure. “That's exactly why we're here. We can't let this structure get into enemy hands.” I continued staring, feeling the impossible weight of the thing. “And how are we going to move a celestial object?” Alexandria replied without hesitation, “I know someone on the ground who can help us.” I nodded, though unease curled in my gut. I turned to Droid L-84, his optical sensors flickering. I asked him if he knew anything, but before he could respond, Khamzat spoke up instead. “Don't worry, she changes her mind a lot. It's her trademark.” I leaned back, settling into my seat beside Emily. She slid her hand into mine and whispered, “I don't trust her.” I squeezed her hand. “I know you don't.” The cloaked dropship lowered into a secluded valley, hidden between colossal spires of volcanic stone. Dense forest surrounded us—towering alien pines, ferns the size of hover-bikes, glowing blue fungi clustering at the bases of trees. Mist drifted between the trunks in pale coils. The dropship’s landing struts extended, touching down without a sound. The rear ramp opened. Cool mountain air rushed in, carrying the scent of wild sap and distant storms. Birds—feathered and reptilian—screeched somewhere in the canopy above. All eighteen of us stepped onto the forest floor, the ground soft with moss and dark soil. Our cloaks activated automatically, bending light around our armor, making us wraithlike as we moved. Above us, dragons soared in the distance. Ahead of us, the enemy-occupied Vikingnar base pulsed with red perimeter lights several miles away. And between us and the base, the wild alien wilderness waited—silent, ancient, and undisturbed. We began our trek. The alien temperate forest around us breathed like a living cathedral—towering cobalt-barked trees stretched upward in spiraling shapes, their bioluminescent leaves glowing faint blue under the misty canopy. Strange pollen drifted on the air in glittering sheets, and the ground hummed beneath our boots as if the roots carried electricity. All eighteen of us moved in a tight formation, weaving between enormous ferns that towered over our heads like umbrellas of living glass. The tranquility shattered in an instant. A deep, rattling growl rolled across the grove, followed by the heavy thud of claws. A Forest Dragon—emerald scales rippling with shifting iridescence—emerged from behind a root archway. Her muscular frame was low to the ground, head angled downward as three small hatchlings scurried around her talons. Her golden eyes locked onto us with unmistakable suspicion. The moment Alexandria stepped too close, the mother lunged. Her jaws snapped shut inches from Alexandria’s throat, teeth clashing with a metallic crack that echoed across the entire grove. Alexandria stumbled back, frozen in shock. Emily reacted first—blurring forward in a streak of black and white. She slammed into Alexandria, knocking her to the ground just as the dragon snapped again. Emily drew her sword mid-motion, its plasma edges humming, and struck across the dragon’s snout. The blade carved a shallow glowing line that hissed with steam. The dragon roared and swung a massive forelimb, striking Emily square in the chest. She flew backward—but I caught her, skidding in the dirt to keep us both upright. The Forest Dragon reared for another strike—this time aiming straight for Alexandria. Before she could lunge— Samuel stepped forward and unleashed a burst of opaque silver mist from a nozzle on his gauntlet. The dragon inhaled it, recoiled, and hissed as if smelling something rancid. The hatchlings mimicked her distress, chirping frantically. The mother dragon turned, nudged her young together, and hurried them deeper into the shimmering forest, disappearing into the luminous foliage with surprising speed. The entire team exhaled as one. No one was hurt. Alexandria brushed dirt from her armor, still shaken. Emily climbed out of my arms, brushing off her leather jumpsuit with a scowl. I turned to Samuel. “I hope you left our energy shield to protect our dropship? And what’s that crap you dispersed?” Samuel answered casually, wiping the nozzle clean. “Our ship’s shields are on at all times, and that crap is repellent for all hostile beasts.” The forest returned to its soft humming, as if nothing had happened—but our nerves stayed sharp. Leaving the dragon encounter behind us, we made our ascent toward the mountain pass. The trail wound upward between jagged crystalline rocks that glowed faintly from within, lighting our path with pulses of blue-white light. Strange, birdlike creatures circled overhead, leaving glowing trails in the sky like falling comets. At the top of the ridge, the world opened. Below us stretched an entire Vikingnar military installation—fortified walls of obsidian-colored alloy, plasma turrets perched like gargoyles, and rows of barracks connected by luminous circuitry running through the ground like veins. But the true centerpiece floated above. A colossal structure hovered silently in the clouds—Star Castle. A massive, upside-down monolith, the size of a small city, suspended in defiance of gravity. Its black stone surface is rippled with ancient runes and white plasma conduits. Occasionally, violet lightning crawled down its edges, grounding itself into midair like branches of a tree. None of us truly understood why the Rus valued this floating ancient megastructure. But its presence alone told me it mattered—deeply. Even so, my mind stayed focused: I needed blueprints. Weapons. Anything to stand against Deathskull and the Wraith demons that followed him. Below, Vikingnar soldiers patrolled the base like ants around a hive. Khamzat raised two fingers and whispered sharply. Everyone activated their invisibility cloaks. One by one, we shimmered and vanished into refracted outlines as our stealth fields engaged. We slipped down the slope like ghosts, bypassing patrol routes and automated sensors. Inside the base walls, the place felt strangely different. Not in architecture—the structures were still hyper-advanced Vikingnar geometry—but in atmosphere. Darker. More militarized. Less noble. As we passed a group of guards, the differences became obvious. They were no longer wearing the traditional Viking-style helms or aesthetic motifs. Their armor was still the futuristic graphene alloy—but their helmets had changed into reinforced kettle hats, modified with sensory arrays. And stamped across their chests was a symbol I instantly recognized: An upside-down pyramid with a single demonic eye glaring from its center. Maladrie’s mark. Seeing Vikingnar warriors displaying it openly sent a cold prickle across my spine. Something had shifted—whether by influence, corruption, or allegiance, I didn’t yet know. But the base was compromised. We moved on, slipping between shadows that weren’t truly shadows, invisible yet hyper-aware. Near the research sector, a lone guard walked past a dim-lit corridor, humming to himself. The timing was perfect. I lunged from invisibility for a split second—my gauntlets activating with a sharp crackle. Twin red energy blades extended, slicing cleanly across the guard’s throat in a single silent motion. His body collapsed into my arms, and I dragged him into a supply alcove before anyone could notice. His keycard hung from a chain on his belt. I unclipped it, stepped back into stealth mode, and motioned for the others to follow. We reached the reinforced alloy door marked with holographic runes—WEAPONS RESEARCH / ENGINEERING DIVISION—and I pressed the stolen key to the scanner. The lock clicked. The door slid open with a deep hydraulic groan, releasing a blast of cold sterile air tinged with ozone, plasma residue, and the faint metallic scent of centuries-old alien technology humming awake. We stepped inside. And the lab beyond awaited us—vast, glowing, and full of secrets the Rus never intended us to see. The interior of the weapons research facility felt like stepping into the still-beating heart of a long-dormant machine. The room stretched far in every direction—catwalks suspended above humming machinery, glass chambers filled with alien alloys, floating worktables lined with half-assembled weapon prototypes. White light glowed from slits in the ceiling, giving everything a cold surgical clarity. I switched my visor into infrared mode. The world shifted into spectral hues—heat signatures blooming across the room like red flowers against a blue backdrop. I scanned high corners, ventilation shafts, and fixture recesses. There—a faint pink glimmer. A micro-camera, barely the size of a fingernail. I raised my wrist and fired a concentrated pinpoint beam from my laser module. The camera flickered, sparked, then went dead with a soft pop. Meanwhile, the others spread through the lab, combing for sensors—behind data terminals, along the underside of rails, near the rotating forge rings. One by one, we heard quiet clicks and crackles as every device was disabled. When the final indicator light dimmed, we all simultaneously powered down our cloaking fields. Eighteen silhouettes shimmered back into full visibility, helmets retracting, armor gleaming in the pale laboratory glow. I moved quickly. The facility was enormous, a maze of alien research bays—but I knew exactly what I was looking for. The blueprints had to be stored near a primary fabrication table. After navigating glowing corridors of abandoned tech, I reached a sealed data crate marked with Rus sigils of restricted engineering. It opened with the stolen key. Inside—thin crystalline plates etched with runic schematics. The first plasma gun. I lifted them and turned to Droid L-84. “Please scan these, I don't want to be labeled a thief.” Red lines spread across his visor as he activated his full data intake module. He took the plates from me and held them beneath a glowing projector band on his arm. Light swept slowly over the runic etchings. When the scan completed, his eyes flashed. A red hologram expanded outward—complex layers of engineering data, heat coils, particle chambers, and rune-etched energy capacitors rotating in midair like ghostly machinery. Droid L-84 said: “Once we return to Skogheim, I will make better versions to out class the Hell horde.” Just as the hologram dissolved into thin air, a muffled voice carried from the opposite wall. From a storage closet. “No! not without my help!” Every weapon in the room turned toward the sound. Droid L-84 shut off his holographic display instantly. Alexandria, sword drawn, approached the closet with careful steps. She unlatched the handle and pulled the door open. An older man—grayish, disheveled hair, eyes sunken but mischievous—tumbled out like he hadn’t seen daylight in hours. His clothes were rumpled, his expression equal parts agitation and relief. Alexandria frowned and helped him up. “Why did they lock you in the closet Ikeam?” Ikeam dusted himself off angrily. “They were punishing me for not coming up with more viable firearm options, I know you've seen them. Those clunky canons with backpacks, and I did that on purpose. They look so foolish!” He waved his arms dramatically—but Alexandria’s eyes locked onto something in his hand. A small magazine. Glossy. Colorful. She pointed. “Oh, they give this to read, a Fair Boy Magazine containing some of the hottest Crimmseed women.” I blinked. The absurdity of it hit me before I could stop myself, and I said: “Wow, you're the first closeted straight bloke I ever met.” Ikeam froze. His pale skin somehow became even paler. He stared straight at me, as if seeing someone long dead. Then he said: “I can say the same to you Wilson, since you were able to reel in Madeline Scoggan as your wife.” A cold weight dropped into my stomach. Wilson. The man who used to inhabit this body—before I ever inhabited it. He remembered. The others didn’t. But Ikeam did. Before the silence could deepen, Emily stepped forward and corrected him firmly: “His name is William, and I'm Emily.” Ikeam’s eyes darted between us, still confused, still shaken. Alexandria placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and said: “We'll worry about salutations later. We need to get you & the Star Castle back to Skogheim.” Ikeam nodded quickly, gripping his ridiculous magazine like a cherished relic. “Yes of course.” Behind him, the holographic equipment hummed, blueprints now secured inside Droid L-84’s core. The mission had suddenly grown far more complicated—and far more mysterious. The weapons facility still hummed around us—quiet, cold, and heavy with the sense that every machine in the room had been waiting centuries for someone to disturb it again. Gleaming alloy countertops reflected the harsh white ceiling lights, and the various disassembled firearm prototypes cast long mechanical shadows across the polished floor. We formed a loose circle among deactivated consoles, the air shimmering faintly from the active invisibility cloaks hanging around our shoulders like half-ghosted armor. The silence broke when I finally spoke. “Who's going to pilot the dropship while we pilot the monolith floating outside?” The question hung in the stale air, drifting up toward the upper gantries like stray vapor. Alexandria turned her head, her pale eyes narrowed as she processed my concern. “I'm going to send Sigvard.” I stared at her, dumbfounded—not out of malice, but out of sheer, stunned disbelief. “You realize they barely know how to pilot their own ship, yet alone, an advanced Rus Viking Drakkar dropship.” I turned toward Sigvard, who towered over the group like a moving slab of armored stone. “No shade.” Sigvard rolled his massive shoulders and nodded, tusks jutting slightly from beneath his lower lip. “Yeah, us trolls are notoriously bad pilots.” He said it like it was a universally accepted fun fact and not a catastrophic liability. Alexandria gave him a look halfway between amusement and exasperation before shaking her head and addressing me again. “Even if that were true, our ships have a user-friendly auto pilot system. And if you get caught fleeing, Deathskull or Maladrie will confuse you for pirates, stealing our precious cargo.” The logic hit me a moment later—smooth, sharp, annoyingly sound. I exhaled slowly, tension leaving my shoulders. “I guess there's more going on in that head in yours, than I thought.” Alexandria snorted—a small laugh that she failed to fully suppress. “rude! We should get a move on.” I held up my hand. “Wait, let's get Ikeem his invisibility cloak.” I reached into the satchel clipped to my armor and pulled out a folded cloak made of shimmering nano-weave, along with a pair of infrared goggles. The fabric rippled like liquid mercury in the facility lights as I handed the items to Ikeem. He took them reverently. “Thank you,” he said as he strapped on the goggles and swung the cloak over his shoulders. All around us, fifteen others activated their cloaking fields. A soft cascading hum filled the air as our bodies flickered, bent light around us, then vanished entirely—leaving only footprints in dust and a faint distortion whenever someone moved. We split at the door. Sigvard and his two troll guards lumbered back the way we came, heading toward the path leading down to the forest valley and the dropship. Their invisibility shimmered with every heavy step. The rest of us—fifteen strong—followed Ikeem deeper into the structure. He led us down a narrow corridor we hadn't noticed before: metal walls lined with dormant plasma conduits, runes etched along the edges like glowing circuitry carved by ancient hands. The air tasted metallic, laced with the faint scent of old plasma burns and abandoned experiments. At the corridor’s end was a vertical shaft filled with an endless spiraling staircase that wound toward a distant opening above—an access tunnel running inside the research tower’s spire. We ascended. Step after step, the world below shrank into a single metallic throat echoing our muffled armored footfalls. The higher we climbed, the more the air changed—thin, charged, humming with gravitational fluctuations radiating from the floating structure just overhead. At last, the stairwell opened onto the roof. Wind whipped across the spire’s broad metallic platform, carrying the scent of alien forests far below. Trees swayed in rhythmic waves miles down the mountainsides. The sky above was a swirling gradient of silver-blue clouds and drifting embers of cosmic dust. And there it was. Star Castle. An upside-down pyramid suspended like an impossible celestial wound in reality—its massive shape defying all reason. Hundreds of meters across, its obsidian surface glimmered with faint teal runes reminiscent of starlight trapped in stone. Gravity bent around it in slow, graceful pulsations, warping the clouds around the structure like a lens. We all stared upward, miniature shadows under a cosmic giant. I finally spoke. “Now how do we get inside?” Ikeem stepped forward with a little smirk—half pride, half mischief. “Let me show you a trick.” He crouched, sprang upward in a fluid, unnatural leap, and soared toward the pyramid’s tip. As he reached it, he twisted his body midair and planted his boots along the slanted face of the monolith as if stepping onto level ground. Gravity was in alignment with him. The pyramid’s gravitational field accepted him. Emily’s hand slipped suddenly into mine—warm, tense, steady. “wait goober!” She pulled me with her. Together, we leapt. The moment we crossed the pyramid’s threshold, everything shifted. Up became sideways. Sideways became down. The gravitational pull wrapped around us like invisible hands repositioning our bodies. Our boots touched the slope of the monolith’s outer surface with a soft metallic tap, and we remained standing—upright, balanced, held firmly by a force older than any civilization we knew. Below us—far, far below—the forest canopy swayed like an ocean of emerald waves. Our dropship, invisible but present, was hidden somewhere under that sea of trees. The mountain range cut jagged scars through the landscape, and the enemy-held base sat like a black thorn in the valley. One by one, our companions jumped—fifteen figures appearing briefly in the open air before gently landing on the pyramid’s gravity-bound side. We were suspended hundreds of meters above the world, standing on the vertical face of a floating celestial relic. We walked. The surface was smooth, eerily warm, as if the monolith remembered the heat of ancient cosmic forges. Runes pulsed beneath our feet in slow, breathing rhythms—lighting our invisible silhouettes with faint teal glimmers. And eventually, after traversing nearly a hundred meters of angled pathway, we reached a massive seam near the pyramid’s core. A doorway opened—silent, seamless, as if sensing Ikeem’s presence. We stepped inside. And Star Castle welcomed us with a deep, ancient hum that resonated through our bones— as if awakening from centuries of sleep. Far from Star Castle, deep within the forests of Vulddar, Sigvard and his two troll guards lumbered through the underbrush, their invisibility cloaks flickering in and out as their heavy breathing strained the delicate nano-mesh fabric. Their massive feet left crater-like impressions in the soft moss, the earth vibrating beneath every step. No predators approached them this time; even the wild creatures of Vulddar knew to avoid armored trolls on a mission. They reached the clearing where the Drakkar Dropship waited—still cloaked, still shielded, shimmering faintly in the humid valley air like a mirage held together by red energy filaments. The moment they stepped through the cloak, the sleek black hull fully revealed itself. The ship recognized their biosignatures and opened. The trolls, clumsy yet determined, filed inside. Then—miraculously—they managed to depart without a single misstep. The dropship rose from the valley like a silent ghost, engines whispering rather than roaring. It pierced Vulddar’s clouds, then the stratosphere, then the great dark ocean of space where the constellations stretched in crystalline rivers of silver light. Sigvard slumped into the pilot seat—already sweating, already uneasy—while his two guards strapped in behind him. For a moment, it looked like everything would be fine. But Sigvard did not check the star map. He did not check the beacons. And most importantly—he did not check for enemy territory markers. The ship drifted silently across the void, gliding between asteroid belts and nebulas until the onboard computer began blaring red runic warnings. Sigvard grunted, confused, pressing the wrong runes, then the wrong ones again, until— Too late. The Drakkar Dropship was violently seized by a massive gravitational net—a demonic localized field trap designed specifically for intercepting stealth craft. The ship jolted, engines whining, alarms shrieking, hull groaning like a dying beast. Sigvard roared as the force yanked the vessel downward, spiraling it toward a dull gray world scarred with red glowing fissures. The atmosphere sparked with electromagnetic storms. Purple lightning forked across the sky as the dropship tumbled like a crippled bird. The crash was catastrophic. Metal screamed against rock. Sparks exploded in sprays of blinding orange. The entire front of the ship plowed into volcanic soil, carving a trench for nearly half a mile before coming to rest against a jagged obsidian cliff. And then— Silence. The dust cleared. The smell of burnt alloy filled the air. Sigvard crawled out of the wreck, bloodied but alive. His two troll guards stumbled out behind him. But there was no relief. Because surrounding them—closing in from every direction—were hundreds of trolls. Trolls clad in spiked demonic armor. Trolls marked with the flaming sigils of Deathskull, Anubis, and Maladrie. Some mounted massive tusked beasts; others held serrated plasma halberds glowing with orange lightning. They stared with cold, unforgiving eyes. The moment Sigvard understood what world he had fallen onto, his face went pale gray. There was no amusement in the prophecy I had joked about earlier. Sigvard had indeed crashed into a world ruled by his own kind—only these trolls were loyal not to us, but to the enemy. Prisoners. That was all they were now. Bound in plasma chains, beaten, dragged across the volcanic terrain—vanishing into the demonic world’s metal gates as the sunless sky rumbled overhead. Meanwhile, back on Vulddar, inside the ancient floating monolith of Star Castle, a different storm was brewing. The interior of the pyramid shifted and breathed like a sentient machine. Walls of obsidian metal rippled like black water beneath glowing teal circuitry. Gravity twisted gently in slow spirals, creating a strange sensation in the stomach—part weightlessness, part grounding, all alien. At the heart of the monolith was a great circular chamber: walls lined with rotating rings of runes, a floating platform in the center, and a deep resonant hum throbbing like the pulse of a sleeping titan. Ikeem—small, frantic, brilliant—ran across the chamber like a man who had spent his entire life studying a device no one else could even describe. His fingers danced over glowing panels, dragging runes, sliding energy nodes, activating gravity jets. Ancient consoles responded eagerly to his touch, as if recognizing a descendant of their original creators. Emily leaned against a pillar illuminated by flowing teal glyphs. She watched me with thinly veiled suspicion. Then came her voice. “Hey, why were you trying to flirt with Alexandria back there? That was gross, bad boy.” Her eyes narrowed. The teal runes reflected across her cheeks, giving her an eerie glow. I lifted my hands defensively. “I was just talking Emily.” She didn’t buy it. She crossed her arms slowly—quietly—intentionally. I let out a breath. “She reminds me of my mother, that's all.” Emily’s expression shifted instantly. A smirk curled across her lips, mischievous and predatory. “I see, maybe I should be your mommy as well.” Heat rose in my face. I shook my head, turning away. “I don't think this is the time to talk about this.” I barely took one step before she lunged. Emily tackled me hard—pinning me to the reflective obsidian floor with surprising strength. A split-second later— Orange plasma fire exploded through the entrance. Blasts slammed into the far walls, spraying molten shards. Demonic warriors flooded into the chamber—sleek armored silhouettes glowing with infernal circuitry, weapons crackling with energized lightning. Emily pressed her forehead to mine, whispering with mock pride: “You see, I have good mommy instincts. Now come.” She yanked me to my feet with fierce urgency. All thirteen of our companions had already formed a defensive barrier around Ikeem. They fired red plasma bursts, unleashed energy blades, redirected demon shots with shield gauntlets. Armor sparked under fire, runes overloaded, and metal rang with the percussion of battle. Emily and I charged into the fray. We cut through the demonic warriors together—our movements synchronized, our blades leaving streaks of glowing damage in the air. The demons fell at our feet, collapsing off the floating platforms into spiraling gravity pockets beneath the chamber. A burning line tore across my shoulder as a stray plasma round hit the seam of my armor. Pain radiated down my right arm, my armor glowing faint orange from the blast. Emily shouted, but kept fighting—until suddenly, brilliantly— Ikeem sealed the entrance. The massive triangular doorway slammed shut with a deep, ancient rumble. Runes rotated around its frame, locking into place like a cosmic vault. Outside, we caught a final glimpse through a dimming energy window: Enemy ships approaching. Dozens. Maybe more. But they were too late. Star Castle activated. A vortex opened beneath the monolith—a spiraling wormhole of crushing gravity and radiant starlight. The entire upside-down pyramid sank into the vortex like a stone into water, vanishing into a cosmic tunnel where no enemy vessel could follow. The universe folded around us. Darkness. Light. Silence. Motion. Then— Steady hum. We were still alive. The Star Castle had escaped. Emily’s voice broke the soft glow of stress and battle-thrill. She had pushed the torn armor away from my shoulder and stared at the exposed wound beneath—reddened, burned, raw. Her worry came disguised as playful mockery. She leaned down, hugged me tightly, and pressed a gentle kiss to the injury. “Is your booboo better?” My mind spun—not from pain, but from everything happening around us. The teleportation. The battle. Sigvard’s unknown fate. The strange hum of wormhole walls sliding past the monolith. Emily’s lips on my skin. I exhaled slowly. “I have no idea what's better or not right now.” Star Castle drifted onward, deeper into the wormhole— and the chapter prepared to turn toward its next storm. CHAPTER 27: "STAR CASTLE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 26: "CUTTING TIES" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The cold winds of Skogheim howled across the frostbitten plains, sweeping through the towering pines that framed the fortified Rus Viking settlement. The sky was a bleak hue of silver-blue, its light refracted through the frozen mist that hung in the air like the breath of sleeping giants. As we approached the massive gates of the city, escorted by the enigmatic Samuel Kin, the sound of machinery and the distant rhythm of forges echoed through the mountain valley. The settlement was an impressive fusion of ancient Norse architecture and advanced nanotech engineering—a city both of runes and circuitry. Samuel walked at the front of our group, his armor—an elegant mix of Viking lamellar and Samurai plating—gleamed faintly beneath the pale light. The intricate engravings across his chest plate pulsed with a red glow, like veins of molten metal. The hilt of a katana rested at his side, sheathed in black leather decorated with Nordic knotwork, while the curved blade’s faint hum revealed it was powered by microfusion energy rather than mere steel. He was silent, until the remainder of the trip. “My name is Samuel Kin,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. I nodded, introducing myself and the others as we followed close behind. “My name is William. This is my partner Emily, and my friends—Sigvard, Droid L-84, Rick, Anisia, Elizabeth, Mathew, Cole, Pete, Jimmy, and Hanna.” Samuel’s face softened slightly, his frost-colored eyes meeting mine with respect. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” he said, his tone measured yet sincere. “We have a lot to discuss.” The gates of Skogheim opened with a deep metallic groan, revealing a sprawling interior city that looked like something out of a myth twisted by science fiction. The inner walls were made of reinforced ice, lined with graphene conduits that pulsed with pale green light. The cobbled streets beneath our boots shimmered faintly with frost, and the air smelled of cold iron, ozone, and burning plasma from nearby forges. Dozens of Rus Viking warriors stopped what they were doing as we entered. Their armor—nano chainmail woven into graphene plates painted in pale army green—glinted like insect carapaces beneath the weak sunlight. Some carried spears tipped with plasma energy, others held compact red energy swords fused with runic etchings. Helmets adorned with wolf crests hid their expressions, though those without them turned their heads to study us—faces both curious and wary. Samuel noticed our discomfort and gave a short, knowing chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “They weren’t expecting you.” His words proved true as a figure emerged from the crowd—a woman with a commanding presence, dressed in the same green armor but trimmed with red insignia denoting rank. Her black hair was braided down her back, her piercing brown eyes sharp enough to cut through the frost itself. She walked with the authority of a queen and the precision of a commander. She stopped before us, her expression neutral but guarded. “Who are your friends?” she asked Samuel, her voice echoing slightly in the cold air. Samuel gave a small nod and replied, “I found these people who crashed here in a very absurd spacecraft. I also believe these were the ones who picked up our SOS signal.” The woman—Alexandria Octavia Cortez—arched her brow. “How do you know?” Samuel’s tone remained even. “They were fleeing Deathskull, his droids, possible demons, etc.” The mention of Deathskull caused a faint murmur among the nearby warriors. Alexandria crossed her arms, her armor plates shifting softly. “Well then,” she said after a pause, “we should probably get these kind people into a comfortable holding cell—with guards keeping watch, just until Khamzat returns.” Samuel nodded. “Agreed.” Then he turned to me, his tone softening. “Is that okay with you, big guy?” I looked around—the soldiers, the technology, the cold atmosphere that seemed to hang like judgment itself—and simply said, “Yes.” Samuel’s expression was calm but cautious. “Then I’ll need everyone to hand over your weapons for a little while,” he said, gesturing to one of the nearby storage racks. My companions hesitated. Emily’s bright green eyes met mine briefly; she knew, as I did, that our weapons weren’t just metal—they were extensions of our essence. Her spiritual sword, like mine, could manifest at will from her mind. I didn’t tell Samuel that, though. There was no need to raise suspicion. I turned to Sigvard and his Troll companions. “Come on, guys,” I said with a sigh. “It’s only temporary.” Sigvard grunted, his tusks glinting as he reluctantly handed over his massive crude axe. The others followed, piling their weapons on the table until only I remained. In my hand rested my chainsword, Revenge—a brutal weapon forged from a mix of divine and mechanical elements. Its blade shimmered with faint red runes and emitted a low purr, like an animal eager to strike. I handed it toward Samuel. He gripped it—then instantly dropped it, as if it had suddenly become ten times heavier. The weapon hit the metallic floor with a thunderous clang that echoed through the hall. Samuel stared at it, wide-eyed. “You must be strong, Will,” he said, shaking his hand as though it had gone numb. Before I could respond, Alexandria stepped forward, visibly irritated. “Can you stop messing around?” she snapped. She bent to pick it up herself—and failed. The weapon didn’t so much as budge. Her gauntleted fingers strained against the hilt, but it was like trying to lift a star. “Oh,” she muttered under her breath, stepping back in disbelief. Samuel smirked faintly. “Yeah—oh.” Alexandria exhaled through her nose, frustrated but intrigued. After a tense pause, she looked up at me and said, “I guess we can make an exception for you. Take your sword with you—just don’t do anything too brash.” “Understood,” I said, gripping Revenge by its hilt once more. The weapon hummed faintly in my hand, as if recognizing its rightful owner. As Samuel led us toward the holding area, I could hear Alexandria mutter quietly to herself, “I guess that was my reminder to stay grounded.” Her voice was almost lost under the rhythmic clang of hammers and the low thrum of distant turbines. The deeper we went into Skogheim, the more apparent its strange beauty became—a city that fused Viking mythos and futuristic design, faith and machinery, sword and circuit. Frost-covered runes glowed faintly on the walls as drones floated above, scanning for intruders. Somewhere beyond, the faint sound of chanting could be heard—ancient words spoken by modern warriors. And as we were escorted down into the glowing steel corridors beneath the mountain, I couldn’t help but feel it—the eyes of destiny watching once again, waiting for the next chapter to unfold. Meanwhile, on the world of Goat Heim, the skies burned in hues of pink and green, a strange aurora that never ceased to shift like the pulse of a living being. Beneath that alien glow stretched an endless expanse of jagged, violet cliffs and crimson ravines, where the soil shimmered faintly with mineral dust. Strange purple vegetation clung to the rocks — long, fibrous vines that breathed, expanding and contracting as if the planet itself were alive. Marching through this uncanny terrain was Khamzat, the Wulver warlord of the Rus Vikings — a towering figure with the body of a man and the head of a wolf, covered in dark, midnight fur that glistened under the eerie light. His amber-yellow eyes cut through the mist ahead, gleaming like molten gold. His breath misted in the cold air as he led his forces toward the demon outpost nestled between the razor cliffs. Behind him marched a diverse army: humans, elves, and fellow Wulvers, each armored in graphene-infused Rus chainmail polished in dark metallic tones. The sound of their synchronized footsteps echoed across the barren valley — the rhythm of trained warriors who lived by the creed of steel and loyalty. Female and male warriors alike bore energy-bladed axes, plasma-tipped spears, and nano forged swords, their armor plates glowing faintly with red runic light — powered by miniature reactors embedded in their gauntlets. Khamzat slowed his march, sniffing the metallic tang of ozone in the air. His pointed ears twitched. “They’re close,” he growled in his deep, gravelly tone, his fangs catching the light as he spoke. His troops immediately crouched low, their armor plates reconfiguring into stealth mode. The demon outpost came into view — a grotesque fortress of twisted black metal and bone-like spires. Smoke plumed from vents in the walls, and at its center rose a pulsating tower of red crystal — a power core that pulsed like a heart. Around it, demon sentries patrolled, their grotesque silhouettes barely visible through the haze. Without warning, the first energy bolt tore through the air — a streak of orange lightning, screaming past Khamzat’s head and exploding into the rock behind him. The demons had seen them. “Shields up!” Khamzat barked, his voice booming across the canyon. In an instant, the Rus warriors slammed their fists together, activating plasma shields from their gauntlets. Red energy disks ignited around them, casting the battlefield in a blood-hued glow. The next volley of orange bolts hit the shields and ricocheted into the air, leaving burning trails. The demons roared — tall, muscular creatures with ashen skin and bat-like faces, their eyes glowing sulfur-yellow. But these were not the usual rabble Khamzat had encountered before. Their armor was thick, industrial, composed of overlapping black plates — crude, but functional. Worse, each carried one of the ancient weapons Khamzat had only heard of in human legends: guns — though these were augmented, spitting arcs of burning plasma instead of bullets. Khamzat dashed forward, moving faster than a normal human eye could track, his plasma blade flashing to life. “Flank left!” he commanded, “Pin them against the ridge!” His warriors followed without hesitation. Energy bolts splashed against their shields, sparks flying as the red plasma barriers strained under the barrage. A few shots broke through, striking warriors and searing through armor. The screams were brief — cut short by the sounds of steel meeting flesh. Khamzat leapt onto a ridge, slicing through a demon’s gun with a single swing, then kicked the creature into the rocks below. A second demon lunged at him with a bayonet-like spike, but Khamzat spun and drove his plasma blade through its chest. The air filled with the smell of ozone, molten metal, and burnt flesh. But as fierce as they were, the demons had one flaw — their weapons were heavy. Power packs the size of backpacks were tethered to their guns by thick cables, and when one of Khamzat’s warriors struck the cable, the weapon would short out in a burst of fire. “Cut the power links!” Khamzat shouted. “Sever the lines!” The Rus obeyed instantly. Plasma axes flashed red across the field, cleaving cords and rupturing power cells. The demons screamed as their own weapons overloaded, consuming them in fiery explosions. Within minutes, the tide turned. The once-coordinated demonic defense collapsed into chaos as their own energy packs detonated. Khamzat and his warriors closed in like a pack of wolves, cutting down the survivors with precision. When the last demon fell, silence took hold. The only sound left was the faint crackle of burning debris. Khamzat stood amidst the carnage — his armor blackened, his plasma blade dimming. Around him lay the bodies of both fallen Rus and slain demons, smoke rising from their wounds. He looked across the battlefield — the once-smooth ground now littered with broken armor, shattered weapons, and bodies. His breathing slowed. “Too many,” he muttered, scanning the faces of the dead. “Far too many…” He knelt beside a fallen Wulver, placing a clawed hand on the warrior’s chest before closing his eyes in silence. Then something caught his attention — the demon weapons. He picked up one of the plasma rifles, its heavy form humming faintly. It was crude yet effective — an ancient concept, reborn with dark engineering. He inspected the barrel, the internal coils still glowing faint orange. He muttered to himself, voice low and thoughtful: “What could pierce graphene armor?” The words echoed through the barren valley, lost in the wind as the pink and green skies shimmered overhead. Deep down, Khamzat felt an unease — a cold realization settling in his gut. These weapons were not of demon origin. They were manufactured. Designed. Repurposed. Something — or someone — was arming the legions of Hell with advanced technology. It was Deathskull. And Khamzat knew that this battle was not the end… only the beginning. Khamzat stood amidst the smoking ruins of the demon outpost, the pink-and-green sky casting an unearthly glow across the battlefield. The air still shimmered with heat distortion from the plasma exchanges, and the scent of scorched metal hung thick like poison. Around him, his Rus Viking warriors began tending to the fallen, salvaging what they could from the carnage. Khamzat’s amber-yellow eyes swept over the fallen demons. The heavy, clunky energy guns scattered across the rocky ground still hummed faintly, their coils glowing a dull orange. He crouched beside one, the weapon buzzing in his grip. “Gather them all,” he ordered, his voice gravel-deep. “Every last one. We’ll take them back for analysis.” The warriors obeyed immediately. Elves and Wulvers alike moved across the field, retrieving the weapons, stacking them carefully in a containment crate made of hardened nanosteel. The energy packs hissed faintly as they cooled, leaving trails of vapor rising into the alien air. Once the field was secure, Khamzat turned toward the outpost itself — a squat, jagged structure of black alloy fused with organic tissue. It looked less like a building and more like a creature that had been petrified mid-scream. The walls pulsed faintly with orange light, veins of energy snaking across the surface. As he approached, Khamzat’s claws scraped against the obsidian-like floor, echoing through the empty corridors. Inside, the air was stale and hot. The small outpost buzzed with residual energy, the hum of power lines faintly audible through the metal panels. Khamzat made his way toward the control room, guided by flickering red light that seeped from beneath a sliding door. He pressed his gauntleted hand to the panel — the door hissed open, revealing a Vikingnar-style control center that had been twisted into something grotesque. Red holographic runes flickered above the consoles, now distorted into orange demonic symbols. The once-familiar Vikingnar layout had been corrupted, the icons pulsing irregularly as if infected. Screens displayed fractured data feeds — images of planets, coordinates, schematics for the same energy guns his men had collected. Khamzat narrowed his eyes. “So they’ve been using our own systems…” he muttered. He stepped forward, bringing up a holographic display with a wave of his claw. The interface resisted his touch at first, snarling with static, but eventually gave way. Streams of data poured across the display — encrypted transmissions, fleet movements, resource allocations. Khamzat quickly inserted a data chip into the console and began extracting everything of value. “Come on, come on…” he growled as the progress bar crawled forward. The entire outpost trembled slightly — the power grid was unstable. Sparks rained down from a cracked ceiling conduit, illuminating the room in bursts of orange light. Just as the data extraction finished, a loud metallic banging echoed behind him. Khamzat froze, ears perking toward the sound. It came again — rapid, desperate, like fists slamming on metal. “Help! Please! Let me the hell out of here!” The voice — a woman’s, panicked, human — came from a storage compartment near the rear of the control room. Khamzat spun around, his instincts kicking in. His plasma blade hissed to life as he strode to the door. He pressed his ear to the cold metal — he could hear frantic breathing on the other side. He deactivated his blade, gripped the locking mechanism, and twisted hard. The door screeched open, hinges snapping under his strength. Inside, huddled in the dark, was a human woman — pale, trembling, her wrists marked with bruises from restraint. Her brunette hair hung in tangled strands over her face, and her hazel eyes darted upward as the light from Khamzat’s armor washed over her. Her voice broke as she whispered, “Please… don’t hurt me.” It was Hailey. Khamzat crouched, his towering frame filling the doorway. “My name is Khamzat,” he said, his tone low but gentle for a creature so fearsome. “You’re safe now. You got a name?” The woman hesitated, her lips trembling. “My name is… Hailey.” Khamzat extended his hand — massive, furred, yet steady. Hailey hesitated before taking it. His claws never tightened around her hand; his grip was firm but reassuring as he helped her to her feet. She stumbled once, and he caught her by the arm, supporting her weight. “Easy,” he said. “You’re weak. How long have you been in there?” Hailey shook her head, tears streaking through the dirt on her cheeks. “I… I don’t know. Days, maybe weeks. They kept moving me around—told me I’d be ‘useful’ to them.” Khamzat’s eyes narrowed, the amber glow intensifying. “Demons have no use for the living unless they mean to break them,” he muttered under his breath. He guided her out of the closet and through the flickering control room. The holograms cast eerie orange light across their faces, making the human and the wolf-headed warrior look almost like shadows from another age. Outside, the sound of the Rus gathering salvage filled the air — metallic clanking, the hum of containment units, low murmurs of exhaustion and grief. As they stepped out of the crumbling outpost, the alien wind caught Hailey’s hair, sweeping it back from her face. She looked up at the pink-and-green sky, eyes wide. “Where… where am I?” Khamzat paused beside her, his armor gleaming faintly under the alien light. “You’re on Goat Heim,” he said simply. “You’re safe with us now.” Together, they walked away from the ruined outpost — the last orange lights fading behind them, replaced by the red glows of Rus banners fluttering in the alien wind. In the distance, Khamzat could see the silhouettes of his warriors loading the captured demon weapons into the dropship. He clenched his fist around the data chip he’d taken from the control panel. Whatever was happening across the galaxy, he knew this data — and the girl he’d just rescued — were both part of something far larger. Something that would change the balance of the war. Back on Skogheim, Sigvard & his two troll guards, Anisia, Jimmy, Pete, Mathew, Elizabeth, Rick, Cole, Hanna, Droid L-84, and I were in our holding cell. Everyone’s armor was deactivated, except Sigvard & the Trolls who wore more primitive armor. Our holding cell room was white, there was a plant in the middle of the room, and there was red glass on our window. Emily & I sat on a cold metal bench which jutted out from the wall. Across from us, Anisia sat on a similar bench, who quickly glared at us giving us a scowl, and looked away. She was quiet for the remainder of the time, and Emily whispered to me, “I guess it’s that time of the month for her, boo.” I grinned & we held each other tight. Samuel then barged into our holding cell saying, “Alright guys & gals, it’s time to show you around.” We all stood up and proceeded to follow Samuel out into the hall. The corridor beyond the cell was wide, lined with luminous panels that gave off a faint orange glow. The metallic walls were engraved with runic patterns, an ancient language fused with circuitry that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Every few meters stood a Rus Viking guard, their armor—pale green with black trim—gleaming under the corridor’s light. The rhythmic hum of reactors and faint mechanical chatter echoed through the passageway as we walked. We passed the bio-lab, where tall transparent pods filled with viscous blue fluid lined the walls. Inside, fully grown Rus Viking adult warriors floated motionless, their muscular bodies enhanced with cybernetic implants, waiting to awaken. Scientists in long white robes and half-metal masks moved between control panels, adjusting parameters and monitoring vitals. The room was filled with the soft beeping of machines and the hiss of sterilized vents. One of the scientists turned his head slightly as we passed, his one organic eye meeting mine before he looked away again. Next, we entered a hall adjacent to another lab—this one devoted to weapons and armor testing. Sparks flew as engineers hammered pieces of graphene plate under robotic arms. Holographic displays flickered with energy readings, ballistic simulations, and molecular models of advanced alloys. A test subject, a Rus Viking in full nano-chainmail, stood in a transparent chamber as drones fired concentrated plasma at him. The plasma splashed harmlessly against his armor, leaving glowing marks that quickly faded. Samuel didn’t slow down. “These labs,” he said, gesturing with his hand as he walked, “are where our warriors are born, built, and perfected. We blend nature with science here—muscle with machine.” We kept walking, and the sound of hammering and weapons tests slowly gave way to the heavy echoes of war cries. We reached the training facility, where hundreds of warriors sparred with plasma swords, heavy shields, and even massive axes that emitted faint energy ripples. Drones hovered overhead, scanning combat forms and recording performance metrics. Emily’s eyes widened slightly at the sheer size of the chamber—walls stretched upward for what felt like a hundred feet, with multiple training tiers suspended above by energy scaffolds. Samuel looked over his shoulder at us and said, “They train every morning. No rest, no excuses. You’ll understand soon enough why.” We then approached a large elevator shaft, its doors etched with glowing Norse runes and mechanical engravings. When the doors opened, a gust of cold air swept over us, carrying the metallic scent of deep earth. We all stepped inside the circular elevator. The platform began to descend, guided by beams of pale red light. The further we went down, the darker it became—until the soft hum of the elevator was all that broke the silence. It was then that something strange happened. My vision began to warp—the orange lighting flickered into strange shapes, and my surroundings blurred. Emily’s hand in mine felt warm, too warm, almost burning. When I turned to look at her, her face seemed to melt and reform, her skin turning orange, her hair darkening into a slick demonic hue. Her pupils became slits, her lips deep red, her expression both alluring and terrifying. The image of her reminded me of Maladrie—the same haunting aura, but Emily’s green eyes still shone through, like two beacons of defiance against the transformation. I blinked, my heart pounding. The walls of the elevator felt like they were closing in. I shut my eyes tightly, inhaled deeply, and when I opened them again—everything was back to normal. Emily looked the same as she always did, standing by my side, still holding my hand. She gave me a teasing smile and softly said, “Meow.” I exhaled, shaking off the lingering unease. The elevator continued its descent, the hum deepening into a low mechanical growl. Finally, with a heavy metallic thud, the platform came to a halt. When the doors opened, we stepped into a breathtaking ancient underground city. Despite being technological, the architecture didn’t match the Rus Viking aesthetic at all. The city’s vast corridors and spires were built from black, metallic stone, covered in strange etchings that glowed faintly red and blue. Streams of light pulsed through cracks in the walls, as though the entire city were alive, breathing energy. Large monolithic statues of unknown beings—neither human nor Viking—lined the central avenue. Between them floated orbs of pure plasma, acting as ambient lighting. The floor beneath our boots was made of smooth obsidian, reflecting our forms as we walked. The air was colder here, thinner, and filled with the faint static hum of ancient machinery buried deep within the earth. Emily whispered, “This place… it’s not Viking, is it?” I looked around at the towering architecture, the symbols that didn’t resemble any known Norse design. “No,” I said quietly. “This is older.” Samuel turned to face us, his expression solemn beneath his helmet. “You’re right. This place isn’t ours. It predates us by thousands of years. We call it the Old Mechanum—a remnant of a civilization that once ruled the stars before the Demon Wars began.” As he spoke, red and blue ambient light flickered across his armor, “Welcome,” he said, “to the world beneath Skogheim—where even gods feared to tread.” Samuel then led us deeper into the underground city, and we entered a spacious chamber with unusual statues. The air felt heavier here—denser, colder, as though the walls themselves held their breath. The faint red and blue luminescence that had filled the previous halls was replaced by a deep violet glow, emanating from veins of crystalline rock embedded into the walls and ceiling. Dust and mist floated through the air like shimmering threads of energy, catching the light in haunting patterns as we stepped forward. The statues stood in a perfect circle around the chamber, towering nearly three stories high. Their forms resembled Cthulhu, but the resemblance was distorted and far more grotesque. Each figure had a theropod-like stance, bent forward with a predatory slouch, their sinewy limbs clawed into the ground as if frozen mid-hunt. They bore four limbs—two massive hind legs shaped like those of a reptile and two smaller, clawed arms folded against their chests. Their faces, though alien, possessed an unsettling human-like quality: the structure of their upper faces bore recognizable bone ridges and eye sockets, but their eyes—even carved from obsidian—seemed too alive, too aware. The lower portions of their faces were hidden behind clusters of thick tentacles, like flesh-born vines, coiling and twisting around what must have been their jaws. Above their distorted faces rose octopus-shaped heads, bulbous and covered in sculpted grooves that spiraled toward the crown. Each statue exuded an aura of ancient malice. It wasn’t just stone—it felt remembered, as if these things had once been alive and turned to minerals by time itself. In the center of the chamber stood a colossal arch monolith, its surface rippling faintly with liquid metal. Strange symbols pulsed across it, not in a pattern, but in rhythmic, almost biological waves. The entire arch hummed faintly, a deep vibration that could be felt in the chest more than heard. I took a cautious step forward, my eyes locked on the shimmering archway. “Is that a portal of some kind?” I asked. Samuel nodded, his voice echoing softly off the dark stone. “Precisely, but it’s no ordinary portal. It doesn’t lead to the Wraith, but it could lead somewhere much worse…” He paused, his tone tightening. “We’ve sent expeditions only to never return—or return with wounds from what appears to be suction cups—and were infected.” “Infected?” I asked, my voice carrying a note of disbelief. Samuel nodded grimly. The violet glow flickered over his face, revealing tension even behind his stoic expression. “We also have a secret lab here. Come.” We followed him deeper through the ancient chambers of the underground city. The corridors narrowed, the architecture shifting from the alien black stone into a fusion of Viking and ancient design. Heavy metallic beams were bolted into the walls to reinforce them, and cables ran along the floors, feeding power into recessed ports that glowed with red energy. The deeper we went, the louder the hum of machinery became. A low droning sound—almost like a heartbeat—throbbed through the stone. The air smelled of salt, metal, and decay, faint but distinct, as though the sea itself had found its way underground. We emerged into a vast, domed laboratory, grafted awkwardly into the alien city’s stone structure. The Rus Vikings had clearly built their facility inside this ancient expanse, and it showed—the contrast between old and new was striking. The walls of the lab were lined with reinforced glass panels, glowing containment cells, and steel catwalks suspended above bubbling vats of bioluminescent fluid. Then we saw them. Inside the paddocks—enormous transparent chambers filled with mist and dark fluid—were the creatures. At first, they were motionless, their tentacles limp, their forms almost too alien to process. But as we approached, one of them stirred. Its eyes opened—large, yellow, human-like yet full of malice—and it pressed against the glass. The creature’s body was a grotesque fusion of humanoid and cephalopod features, dripping with a slimy brown texture that gleamed under the artificial light. Its skin was rough, rubbery, and covered in patches of glistening organic plating. Tentacles extended from its jaw and shoulders, twitching as if responding to our presence. The air was thick with the scent of brine and rot. Samuel stopped before the largest containment cell and gestured. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice firm. “These tragic beasts can’t escape their paddocks.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked up at the monstrous being. “The ancient texts refer to these creatures as the ‘Kraken.’” The name hung in the air like a ghost from legend. The word alone carried weight—ancient, mythic, and terrifying. I looked closer and noticed the black goo these creatures excreted as they moved. It oozed from their pores, trailing down into the grates beneath their containment tanks. It wasn’t just liquid—it was alive. It pulsed, shifted, and bubbled as if trying to reach upward. Some of it was smeared across the paddock glass, where the creatures had begun building strange, webbed nests of hardened residue. The black fluid shimmered with faint bioluminescent veins, almost like circuitry. The sight triggered a memory. That same texture, that same odor—I’d seen it before. I turned to Samuel. “Are you sure nobody came down here before? That black ink looks similar to the Shark People’s venom—the kind the demons used against us Immortals.” Samuel turned sharply, his eyes widening behind his visor. For the first time, he looked unsettled. “What?” His voice echoed through the lab, startling one of the smaller Krakens into slapping its tentacles against the glass. “No! First of all, the Shark People don’t have venom, and their glands carry anti-venom—a white substance. Lastly, there’s no way any demon can step into this city uninvited.” His tone hardened, as though needing to convince himself as much as us. “Which is why I wanted to show you this place—because we’re sworn to protect it from demonic foes who may want to release the Kraken Hive onto this reality.” Emily looked at me knowingly. She understood the implication—the similarity wasn’t coincidence. But neither of us spoke. I finally exhaled and brushed it off with a shrug. “Ok!? Is there anything else you’d like to show us?” Samuel’s tension faded slightly. He nodded and gestured toward a reinforced corridor lined with glowing red runes. “This way.” He said as he walked forward. Beside me, Emily jokingly whispered into my ear, “I guess he forgot to take his menstrual meds.” I then hid my laughter by clearing my throat. We followed him deeper into the lab’s sublevel, where the air grew colder and the walls seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible vibration. The architecture began to change again—the metallic corridors giving way to a mix of steel and the same black alien stone as before. We reached a large freight elevator, circular and surrounded by rotating gears that disappeared into the abyss below. The platform was old, ancient even, but reinforced with modern components—thick power conduits, runic stabilizers, and magnetic rails that spiraled downward into infinite blackness. We stepped inside. The elevator doors sealed shut behind us with a hiss, and the descent began. The motion was smooth but unsettling, as if the mechanism wasn’t mechanical at all but alive, gliding downward through something viscous. The faint hum of the machinery was replaced by a deep, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate through our bones. No one spoke. Even the trolls stood in silence. Emily held onto my arm, her eyes fixed on the faint red glow beneath our feet. I felt her tension—it wasn’t fear, exactly, but anticipation. The kind that came before something profound or horrifying. The deeper we went, the more the light faded, until the only illumination came from our armor’s dim energy cores. Outside the elevator walls, faint shadows seemed to move—like slow tendrils of ink swimming through the darkness. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator stopped with a low metallic groan. The doors opened—not to another lab, but to something far older. The hidden chamber before us stretched endlessly, illuminated by veins of glowing blue crystal that pulsed like the heartbeat of a sleeping god. Black structures rose from the ground like spires, spiraling upward into the shadows. A pool of dark, mirror-like liquid spread across the center of the chamber, reflecting the blue light in strange, rippling patterns. Even Samuel hesitated before stepping out. The air here was different—thick, charged, almost whispering. Every breath carried the taste of electricity and saltwater. Whatever was hidden down here, it was not meant for mortals—or even immortals—to see. At first glance, we were being led into another vast chamber of the underground city—another lab, or so I thought. The air had changed once again; it was dry now, stale, with the faint chemical tang of age and decay. The metallic corridor opened into a domed room whose once-white walls had long yellowed, cracked, and peeled away to reveal the old synthetic plating beneath. A broken light flickered weakly above the doorway, casting intermittent shadows across the rusted sign overhead. The sign read, in faded, chipped blue lettering: NASA. The word alone made my stomach tighten. It was something I hadn’t seen in ages, something that belonged to the ancient myths of old Earth—a time when humans still looked to the stars as dreamers, not conquerors. Emily’s hand gripped my arm tighter as we all entered the decrepit chamber. Even Samuel paused for a brief second at the threshold, as if the name itself carried weight. Inside, the lab was a tomb of humanity’s past. Rows of shattered glass tanks lined both sides of the massive room, their contents preserved in pools of formaldehyde that had turned murky and dark over the centuries. The stench was overwhelming—chemical, rot, and something else beneath it. Something that still lived. In the first tank to our left, a primitive Shark Person floated eerily still. It was unlike the evolved ones we had fought—it was smaller, hunched, its body covered in rough, sandpapery skin that had lost most of its color. The creature’s once-bright eyes were now clouded over like pale stones, and its gills had long dried and shriveled. Its mouth hung open in a silent scream, exposing jagged teeth that seemed to glint faintly under the flickering light. Dozens more tanks lined the room—each one holding a creature just as disturbing. Some were missing limbs. Some had mechanical implants fused crudely into their spines. Some were so twisted and malformed they barely resembled living things at all. At the center of the lab stood a corroded steel table, and upon it lay the decomposing body of another experiment. Tubes and wires still clung to its ribs like vines. The flesh was leathery, dark brown, and splitting apart, exposing the bone beneath. The entire sight looked as if time itself had tried to erase the evidence, but failed. Emily covered her nose. “God…” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling. I stepped closer, trying to process the horror, when something else caught my eye—another row of tanks, far in the back of the lab, still faintly powered. Inside them floated strange, suspended forms that churned slowly in the greenish liquid. I moved toward them, my boots squelching in the damp grime coating the floor. As I approached, the forms became clearer. They weren’t just Shark People. They were hybrids. In one tank, a half-human, half-shark creature floated upright, its human torso fused into a gray, finned lower body. Its face was eerily familiar—human features stretched over an aquatic frame, with teeth like knives. The next tank held a Wulver-Shark hybrid, its fur matted and floating in strands, its muzzle reshaped into a snout full of serrated teeth. Beside it was an Elf-Shark, its long ears warped into fins, its once-beautiful face distorted by gills and scales. And further down the row—a Crimmseed-Shark, pulsating faintly within the fluid, its skin shifting colors like oil on water. The realization hit me like a blow. This wasn’t random. These were cross-breeds. I turned sharply toward Samuel. “What the hell is this place?” I demanded. My voice echoed through the decayed chamber, bouncing off the tanks. Samuel stood silent for a moment, the orange light from the broken bulbs painting his face in a somber glow. Finally, he spoke. “This,” he said, his voice slow, heavy with meaning. “This is our history.” He stepped forward, his armored boots clicking softly on the cracked floor. “You see, once Earth recovered from the Age of Uncertainty, Earth’s humans looked to the stars for a sense of purpose. They were determined to get to this specific world after acquiring samples from its long-gone inhabitants. The ‘Shark People.’” I frowned. “Why?” Samuel turned, his gaze fixed on the murky tank beside him where a half-dissolved creature floated. “Because they were seeking a way to cure aging,” he said. “And to create bodies better suited to conquering space and the planets that inhabit it.” He gestured around the room with an open hand. “They succeeded. That’s how we can regrow teeth, not age, grow adults in labs, make hybrid species like you. We have a second stomach to burn waste. We built numerous worlds and civilizations from scratch. All thanks to the Shark People and their genetic code.” His words hung in the cold air, and I felt a chill trace my spine. The Shark People—the same creatures we’d been at war with—were not alien to us at all. They were our origin. I swallowed, my throat dry. “Then what happened to the Shark People? And who built this ancient underground city?” Samuel’s helmeted head turned toward me. His voice softened. “The Shark People left this already habitable planet on their own accord,” he said. “As for who built this ancient derelict underground metropolis…” He paused, looking up at the cracked dome above us, where faint blue veins of energy glowed like constellations. “I’ve got no clue. Maybe it was aliens. But do you see why we guard this place?” “Yes,” I replied quietly. For a moment, no one spoke. The sound of dripping formaldehyde and the low hum of the last surviving machines filled the void between us. Then another question came to me, one that had been gnawing at my mind since the moment I saw the NASA sign. “Are you people descendants of some sort of military branch… from Earth?” Samuel took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said finally. “And the reason why people went crazy was due to interference with our communication systems across planetary colonies. Everyone was on their own for a century. Once we invented better communication, we started to regain a connection between colonies.” He walked slowly past the tanks as he spoke, his voice carrying a weary tone that hinted at centuries of burden. “Although, some worlds wanted to be part of their own galactic empire, which caused the war between two radical factions.” He stopped and turned back toward us. “We left the scene, disguised ourselves as Rus Vikings, and we swore to protect this history from anyone or anything.” His voice grew softer now, almost mournful. “It’s kind of sad that we created all of this,” he said, gesturing to the ruined lab, the tanks, the monsters born of human ambition. “And we still choose to kill each other. I guess that’s the nature of our reality.” The silence that followed was heavy. The fluorescent light above us flickered one last time and went out, leaving us in dim, reddish darkness. Only the faint bioluminescence of the old tanks gave the room its sickly glow, illuminating the faces of the beings who were half our ancestors, half our sins. Emily reached for my hand, and I held it tightly. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t know whether to feel awe, horror, or guilt. Because standing in that NASA lab, surrounded by the ghosts of humanity’s own creation, I finally understood— We weren't just fighting aliens or demons. We were fighting the consequences of ourselves. Samuel’s wrist gauntlet suddenly crackled with a sharp tone that echoed throughout the ancient NASA chamber. The eerie hum of old machinery was drowned out by a metallic chime, and a thin red holographic light projected upward from his wrist. The light shimmered into focus, forming the sharp, battle-worn face of Alexandria Octavia. Her holographic armor glowed crimson, static washing over her image as if even the signal itself trembled under tension. Samuel raised his wrist closer. “Alexandria, what is it?” he asked, his voice calm but low, the tone of a man expecting bad news. The hologram flickered, and Alexandria’s voice came through—strained, her breathing rapid. “Khamzat brought back a survivor who became possessed,” she said quickly. “She’s killed her way down into your location.” For a moment, silence reigned in the lab. Even the dull hum of the ancient systems seemed to stop, as though the entire underground world was holding its breath. Samuel’s eyes widened. “Can you send warriors down here?” he demanded. Alexandria’s red projection shook her head, the static deepening. “She cut the cables to the first elevator shaft,” she said grimly. “Nobody’s getting in or out until she’s dealt with.” The hologram blinked out. A faint hiss followed, and then the gauntlet dimmed to black. I exhaled slowly, already feeling the tension pulse through the air. Without hesitation, I powered on my armor, the nanites on my chest igniting with a red ripple that spread across my entire body. The black graphene plates shimmered as they locked into place with a low mechanical hiss. Emily did the same beside me, her black and white leather jumpsuit transforming as her armor’s digital filaments activated, forming sleek plating that glowed faintly along her limbs. Around us, the others followed suit. Sigvard and his two Troll guards—already clad in crude yet heavy armor—stood ready, though they had no weapons. I pulled two spare plasma knives from my belt and tossed them their way. “Take these,” I said. “They’ll do the job.” Droid L-84’s chest emitted a sharp mechanical hum as his internal weapons deployed from hidden compartments in his forearms, locking with metallic precision. The rest of my Immortal companions—Anisia, Rick, Mathew, Cole, Pete, Elizabeth, Hanna, and Jimmy—raised their hands, and in a series of glowing bursts, their swords materialized, formed entirely from their spiritual essence. The blades shimmered with radiant red. The air in the lab grew heavier, electric, as if even the forgotten machines could sense the coming storm. Samuel looked at me, his amber eyes glowing faintly through the visor of his helmet. “Going somewhere?” he asked. “Emily and I will go and kill this demon,” I said firmly. “The rest will stay here and guard you—and this lovely establishment.” Samuel tilted his head slightly, half skeptical, half impressed. “How can I be sure of your success?” I smirked beneath my visor. “Don’t worry, demons are our specialty.” Emily turned her helmet toward me. Her voice came through my comm link, slightly distorted but teasing. “Seriously? A lost media reference?” I grinned. “Let’s go.” Together, Emily and I rushed out of the dilapidated NASA lab, our boots echoing down the steel corridors as alarms began to pulse faintly through the underground city. We entered the vast chamber once more, where the massive alien statues loomed like silent witnesses. Their tentacled visages stared down at us, illuminated by the crimson glow of the emergency lights. The only functioning elevator was at the far end of the chamber. We sprinted toward it, and the doors hissed open with a metallic groan. Once inside, the elevator ascended smoothly, the old gears whining as the digital screen flickered to life. Through the transparent floor panels, we could see the vast ancient city below—black stone bathed in red and blue ambient light. The deeper chambers pulsed faintly, as though the city itself still lived and breathed beneath us. As the elevator stopped on the first level of the underground metropolis, the doors parted, and a rush of humid air hit us. We were inside the Rus Viking Laboratory, its interior far newer than the ruins below. The walls gleamed faintly, though cracks and signs of stress had begun to show. The facility was under lockdown—the main blast doors sealed, lights flashing red in warning. Scientists and engineers ducked behind workstations, clutching datapads, their wide eyes following us as we passed. “Stay down!” I barked. “You’ll only get in the way!” They obeyed without hesitation. We continued through the final sliding door, stepping back into the open expanse of the underground metropolis. Even now, I couldn’t help but marvel at it. The ceiling stretched miles above us, an artificial sky of dark steel and holographic light. Streams of artificial rain fell from hidden vents, hitting the black stone roads and sending a misty sheen across the glowing streets. Massive towers, ancient and new, rose like titans into the cavernous space, their red and blue lights flickering through the haze. Emily’s voice cut through the comms. “This twat could be anywhere.” I scanned the distance. And then, through the veil of rain, I saw movement—a figure standing just beyond the flickering glow of the nearest holo-streetlamp. “Wait…” I muttered. Emily squinted through her visor, then sighed. “Oh, false alarm.” She began to lower her red energy sword, but something inside me stirred. Instinct. “Wait.” I raised my hand to stop her, then called out, “Hailey? How did you get here, Hailey?” At first, she didn’t answer. She just stood there, trembling, her hair soaked, her skin pale under the orange glow. Then her head twitched. Once. Twice. And her voice came out—distorted, broken— like several voices layered over one another. “You lied to me, Will!” she screamed. Her body began to convulse violently. “You lied to me, Will!” The words echoed across the cavern, the sound bouncing off the stone walls until it felt as if a hundred Haileys were screaming at once. Then she stopped shaking, her body going still. Slowly, she turned toward us and gave the most uncanny grin I had ever seen—so wide it looked unnatural. Her eyes turned black, and a chilling calm washed over her voice as she said, “Maladrie showed me the truth.” And then it began. Hailey’s skin rippled as though something were crawling beneath it. Her veins pulsed black, spreading like spiderwebs beneath her flesh. In seconds, her skin turned orange, her shoulders cracking as wings erupted from her back in a shower of blood and flame. The ground beneath her burned in circular patterns, ancient demonic runes glowing red-hot. She laughed—a sound that was not her own. Then she manifested a flaming sword, its blade wreathed in molten energy. I tightened my grip on Revenge, my chainsword roaring to life, its serrated teeth spinning in a shrieking hum. Emily ignited her red energy sword beside me, her armor’s lights flaring to full power. The battle began. Hailey lunged with inhuman speed, wings slicing through the air. Sparks flew as her flaming blade clashed against mine, the shockwave cracking the ground beneath our feet. Emily leapt into the fray, striking from the side, her blade cutting across Hailey’s wing. The demonette screamed, retaliating with a fiery arc that nearly cleaved through my chestplate. She laughed again, her voice half Hailey, half Maladrie. “I can’t believe you let my sister die!” Her rage made her faster, more feral—but her movements were wild. I parried a strike, spun under her next swing, and slammed Revenge deep into her chest cavity. The chainsword screamed as it tore through armor, flesh, and bone. The fire around her extinguished in an instant. Hailey’s demonic form shuddered, until a faint purple ball of energy hovering above her corpse. It pulsed like a dying star. Then, without warning, a blinding beam of violet light shot upward, piercing the roof of the underground city and vanishing into the cosmos. And then there was silence. Emily stood beside me, her chest heaving. The rain hissed softly as it fell around the fading embers of the now vanished purple orb. Hailey’s demonic corpse just laid there to rot. We had done it. We’d guarded the portal—stopped whatever Maladrie had sent after us. How could Maladrie turn people into physical demons within the confines of reality itself—just by will alone? That question lingered like smoke in the dark. And somehow, deep down, I knew the answer would be worse than the war we were already fighting. After that battle, Emily and I were somewhere else—still on Skogheim, but far from the burning depths below. The sound of rain and distant thunder replaced the echoes of chains and war cries. We were now above ground, in the quiet heart of the Rus Viking capital. Our quarters were luxurious by their standards: smooth metal walls engraved with Nordic runes, softly pulsing with gold light, and a panoramic window that looked out over the city of Skogheim and the endless wilderness beyond. Far below, faint rivers of molten energy traced through the streets like veins of light. The towers gleamed against the pale sky, and far on the horizon, the silver outline of a mountain fortress rose like a monolith. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the world was still. We had been ordered to rest until Alexandria, Samuel, and Khamzat decided what to do with us next. There were no alarms, no enemies, no screams—just the sound of machinery humming faintly beneath the floor and the steady rhythm of the alien rain outside. I lay back on the bed—its surface strangely warm, as though it were alive, responding to my pulse. My armor was stacked neatly beside the wall, and my sword Revenge rested on the table. Then, the door to the shower chamber slid open with a soft hiss of steam. Emily stepped out, droplets of water still glistening on her skin. She was dressed in a sleek black leather bikini, more sexual than functional—thin lines of circuitry ran across it like glowing tattoos, and her thigh-high boots gleamed beneath the soft light. Her dark hair fell freely across her shoulders, and she’d placed a pair of small horn adornments above her temples—clearly synthetic, part of some personal joke or ritual. She looked at me with that familiar, mischievous glint in her eyes. I frowned slightly, half amused, half confused. “What are you doing, Emily?” I asked. She smiled faintly, her voice low and calm. “I’m trying to fix you.” Her words hung in the air. Before I could respond, she walked closer and pressed her forehead gently to mine. The lights in the room dimmed, and a strange vibration coursed through the air. The world seemed to dissolve into energy. A warmth began to spread between us—something ancient, older than the both of us, neither physical nor purely emotional. It was like a circuit connecting two broken machines. The glow started from the center of our bodies—at the core of our beings—and spread outward. A bright orange light radiated from our midsections, pulsing in rhythm with our hearts. It wasn’t just passion—it was also energy, life-force, a merging of fractured sex chakras trying to become whole again. The glow expanded until it illuminated the entire room, casting amber reflections on the walls and ceiling. It moved upward, through our chests, through our throats as we copulated, until even our eyes began to glow, burning softly like twin suns. I felt my entire body tremble as waves of energy coursed through me, not burning, but purging—washing away layers of old emotion, pain, and desire. In that moment, all the restless hunger I’d carried through battles and nightmares began to fade. The lust for bad women, all of it drained from me as though being pulled out by Emily’s sexual energy. What replaced it wasn’t emptiness, but calm—an unshakable peace I hadn’t known in years. I was finally satisfied with the sexy elven woman I already have. Emily’s hand remained on my chest as she whispered something I couldn’t quite hear—a blessing, a promise, or maybe just a sigh. The glow began to fade, the energy dispersing like dust on a solar wind. The light dimmed until only the faint blue illumination of Skogheim remained beyond the window. When the silence returned, I lay still, breathing slowly, the warmth still lingering in my veins. I felt different—lighter, clear, as if something long corrupted had finally been purified, sexually. Emily laid beside me, her expression soft and knowing. Outside, the wind swept across the alpine forest, the city towers, and somewhere far below, the ancient machines of the Rus Vikings hummed on, unaware that in one quiet room above them, something sacred had just awakened. CHAPTER 26: "CUTTING TIES" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner CHAPTER 25: "SEVERANCE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" Serenity and Beelzebub trudged through the wheat field, the air still thick with the residual haze from the explosion that had consumed Maladrie’s fortress. The orange hue of the sky shimmered faintly above them, filtered through clouds of dust and drifting ash. Between them, Haj Tooth’s weight pressed heavy, her armor slick with dark, coagulated blood that shimmered like oil in the dim light. Each step was labored, her breaths uneven and shallow. Ahead, the Shark People’s Hive Fleet loomed like a wall of metal and bone—hundreds of living ships resting silently above the wheat fields. Their hulls pulsed faintly, as though alive, their bio-mechanical forms breathing in unison. Despite the chaos that had erupted only hours earlier, the fleet stood untouched—guarding the entrance to the cave nestled beneath the largest of the petrified roots. “Let’s get her inside,” said Beelzebub, his tone firm yet tinged with urgency. Together, the two carried Haj Tooth down the slope leading into the cave. As they crossed the threshold, the harsh orange light of the surface gave way to an ethereal glow. Bioluminescent flora clung to the walls like veins of living sapphire, casting the subterranean chamber in a ghostly blue-green light. The air was warm and moist, filled with the hum of life—a stark contrast to the death and ruin outside. The deeper they went, the more vibrant the scene became. The interior of the cavern opened into a subterranean garden that stretched for hundreds of meters. Alien flowers bloomed from stone, their petals shaped like crystalline fans. Water trickled through translucent vines, collecting into clear pools surrounded by smooth stones. Wasp humanoids—Beelzebub’s kin—moved methodically among the flora, tending to the plants with reverence and guarding the chamber’s sacred calm. But that calm fractured as soon as they saw Haj Tooth. The Shark warriors who had accompanied Serenity before—the same ones loyal to Haj Tooth—stood from their stations in alarm. Their eyes, normally glowing with tranquil bio-luminescence, flared bright with concern. One of them let out a guttural growl that echoed softly through the cavern. The hive murmured in anxious tones as Serenity and Beelzebub carried their wounded leader toward the back of the cave. At the heart of the chamber stood a flat stone table—ancient and smoothed by time. Serenity recognized it immediately. It was the same place where Beelzebub had once healed me. The memory felt haunting now. They laid Haj Tooth gently upon the cold surface. Her breathing was faint, her gills fluttering weakly against her neck as blood trickled down into the creases of her armor. Serenity powered down her armor, and decided to power down Haj Tooth’s as well. Obviously it was necessary for this medical procedure. Beelzebub immediately went to work, his many hands moving with frantic precision. He rummaged through rows of glass jars filled with strange glowing liquids and powders—an alien apothecary assembled from the Hive’s centuries of collected medicine. He found a jar filled with shimmering green paste, popped the lid, and began applying it to the open wounds along Haj Tooth’s torso and neck. The substance hissed faintly as it made contact with her skin. Serenity leaned closer, frowning. The blood didn’t stop. It seeped through the paste in small rivers, glistening black under the chamber’s dim light. “I don’t think this is working! We need to stop the bleeding and sew her up!” she said, her voice tight with worry. Beelzebub didn’t hesitate. “The paste is a disinfectant, but I agree!” He tossed her a packet of sterile stitching cords, and together they worked quickly. Serenity pressed a glowing medical clamp to the wound to stem the bleeding while Beelzebub threaded a surgical needle crafted from crystalline resin. Their hands worked in harmony—Serenity cleaning and closing wounds while Beelzebub sealed each stitch with a flash of bioplasmic resin. Minutes passed in tense silence except for Haj Tooth’s weak gasps and the faint hum of the wasp guardians watching nearby. Finally, when the last wound was closed, Serenity brushed a strand of damp hair from Haj Tooth’s face. She noticed then how hot the shark warrior’s skin had become. When she laid her palm against Haj Tooth’s hammerhead crown, it was scorching. “She needs something for her fever—like an antibiotic,” Serenity said, looking up. Beelzebub rummaged through a row of canisters before handing her a small metallic pill. “This should work. It’s synthesized from our Hive nectar—stronger than anything humans make.” Serenity nodded, kneeling beside Haj Tooth. The Shark Queen’s breathing was shallow, her eyelids half open, consciousness flickering like a dying flame. Her anatomy, while alien, mirrored human structure enough that Serenity could understand what to do. She cupped Haj Tooth’s lower jaw, tilting her head slightly back. “Come on, stay with me,” Serenity whispered. She placed the pill into Haj Tooth’s mouth, then lifted a small vial of purified water to her lips. Gently, she helped her swallow. Haj Tooth coughed once, but the pill went down. A few moments later, her breathing began to steady—still weak, but consistent. Serenity let out a slow breath of relief. She reached for a nearby cushion made of woven seaweed fiber and slipped it beneath Haj Tooth’s head, adjusting her so she could rest comfortably. Beelzebub stepped closer, his wings folding against his back as he observed their patient. His compound eyes flickered in shifting colors of concern and thought. “She’ll live,” he said softly, though his tone carried the weight of uncertainty. “But she needs rest. Deep rest.” Serenity nodded, brushing her fingers across Haj Tooth’s scaled hand. “Then we’ll let her rest.” Beelzebub placed a hand on Serenity’s shoulder, his expression grave but steady. “You did well. Both of you did.” Serenity took a deep breath, glancing toward the cave’s entrance where the light of the wheat field glowed faintly beyond the vines. The war still lingered outside, and yet, in this hidden sanctuary, there was an uneasy stillness. “I’m going to go and send a message to William,” she said finally, her voice quiet but resolute. “To fill him in on what’s happening.” Beelzebub nodded once. “I’ll stay here. I’ll watch over her.” Serenity lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on Haj Tooth’s resting form, the leader who had risked everything to destroy Maladrie’s abominations. Then she turned toward the mouth of the cavern, her armor glinting faintly as she disappeared into the glow beyond—leaving Beelzebub and the quiet hum of the subterranean hive to guard the fallen queen. Outside the cavern, the air shimmered faintly under the artificial orange sky of the Wraith. The massive silhouette of the Shark People’s flagship, the Nautilus Ascended, loomed like a sleeping beast among the windswept fields of golden wheat. Its plated hull still dripped with oceanic condensation, the scent of brine mixing with the Wraith’s metallic air. The fields bowed gently against the distant hum of its engines, which pulsed like the heartbeat of a giant. Serenity ascended the ramp leading into the ship’s main access bay—her boots echoing against the metallic floor as the interior lights flickered to life, responding to her biosignature. Inside, the corridors were sleek and cold, a blend of alien architecture and Biomechanical engineering. Thin veins of green light pulsed through the walls like arteries, carrying energy from the ship’s living core. She moved through the vessel’s labyrinth of metallic passages until she reached the communications bridge, a circular chamber filled with holographic orbs, scanners, and quantum relays. The transparent viewport displayed a haunting panorama of the wheat plains below and the cave entrance in the distance, guarded by faint silhouettes of wasp-like sentinels. Serenity sat before the main communication terminal, a black crystalline surface that awakened at her touch. A dozen holographic runes appeared midair, rotating gently as the system came online. She adjusted a small dial on her gauntlet and initiated the dimensional communication link. Static washed over the interface—lines of interference rippling across the hologram as the connection struggled to bridge realities. She frowned. “Come on…” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The system beeped in denial, and the link failed to stabilize. She exhaled deeply and switched tactics. Instead of a live transmission, she composed a holographic message, her face shimmering within the translucent sphere. Her tone softened, though the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed her composure. “Hello William,” she began, her voice carrying the low hum of the ship around her. “We’ve reached the Wraith and infiltrated Maladrie’s Dark Castle. I think it’s best to tell Hailey to let go of her sister Page. Sorry... There were also very few Demon Warriors guarding the exterior of the castle. We managed to slip in explosives and escape unseen, but at the cost of getting Haj Tooth injured. Lastly, I’d like to know how long we’re forced to stay here. Nothing else is happening—which is weird. I also found Maladrie’s strange journal and will send digital copies of them. Bye.” Her words lingered in the air for a few seconds before dissolving into streams of light that uploaded themselves into the device. She hesitated before pressing send, her hand hovering as if expecting the hologram to flicker back with a familiar voice—mine. But there was only silence. No pulse of acknowledgment. No echo through the void. Serenity’s expression hardened. She finally pressed the button. The sphere dimmed and folded into the terminal with a soft chime, sending the message across dimensions through layers of subspace. The room fell eerily quiet, save for the soft mechanical rhythm of the ship breathing. She leaned back in the chair, staring at the reflection of her own face in the glass—eyes illuminated by the distant shimmer of the nebula. The faint hum of the ship filled the air, like an echo of something alive, something aware. She knew the message would find me, even if the distance between galaxies and realms made such communication nearly impossible. Once she was certain the data was transmitting, Serenity powered down the terminal. The crystalline panel dimmed, the room returning to its shadowed calm. She stood and activated the wrist gauntlet strapped over her black leather glove. The device emitted a faint turquoise glow, and she retrieved a bundle of parchment-like sheets from her belt pouch—the disturbing pages of Maladrie’s journal. Each page was etched in ink that writhed faintly when exposed to light, as if alive. Serenity scanned each one carefully. Her gauntlet projected shimmering digital copies, translating the runic scrawls into readable code. The air shimmered with holographic text as strange words scrolled upward like whispering smoke. Some pages showed diagrams—half anatomical, half arcane—depictions of experiments that blended flesh and machine, demon and human. Others revealed cryptic entries of Maladrie’s obsession with “the reversal of souls” and “the final ascension of the flesh.” When Serenity finished scanning the last page, her gauntlet emitted a soft tone, confirming that the files had been encrypted and transmitted. She exhaled through her nose, lowering the device and watching the holographic lights fade. “That’s it,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s hope it reaches him.” She glanced once more at the viewport. The wheat fields outside glowed faintly, illuminated by the vessel’s underbelly lights. In the distance, she could just make out the entrance to the cave—a soft orange flicker indicating the torches of Beelzebub’s sentinels. Serenity made her way out of the bridge, the automatic doors hissing open. Her reflection passed through streaks of blue light as she walked down the corridor. The sound of her boots echoed against the metallic floor until the artificial hum of the ship’s systems faded behind her. Outside, Serenity paused for a moment at the base of the ship’s ramp, breathing in the metallic scent of the alien wind. Her white & black leather jumpsuit gleamed softly beneath the sky’s orange color. Then, without hesitation, she began the trek back toward the cavern, her silhouette gliding through the swaying golden grass. The ship’s lights dimmed behind her, and the wheat parted gently as she passed, whispering like ghosts of the past. Ahead, the mouth of the cavern glowed faintly with bioluminescent moss and the movement of insectoid sentinels. When she entered the cavern again, the air grew warmer—filled with the faint hum of the subterranean garden, its vines glowing with their internal light. Serenity’s pace slowed. She looked around, taking in the intricate hive structures that lined the walls and the faint sound of wings deeper within. Somewhere in that labyrinth of tunnels, Beelzebub tended to Haj Tooth’s recovery. Once Serenity returned to the cavern, she was greeted not by calm or rest—but by a wave of chaos that shattered the silence. The once-glowing subterranean garden flickered dimly as the wasp sentinels and Shark warriors gathered in alarm around the stone table. Haj Tooth, who only moments ago had been resting peacefully beneath the bio-lights, suddenly arched her back in violent convulsions. The stone beneath her vibrated under the strength of her spasms. Serenity sprinted across the uneven floor, her boots echoing sharply in the hollowed chamber. “Haj Tooth!” she shouted, her voice trembling as she reached the table. Haj Tooth’s gills flared wide and her sharp teeth clenched tight as blood began to bubble from her mouth, dripping in crimson streaks down her armor. Serenity grabbed her friend’s trembling hand, trying to steady her, the metallic scent of blood filling the humid air. “Beelzebub, help!” she yelled, panic breaking through her normally calm tone. Beelzebub rushed over, his expression shifting from confusion to dread as he saw the blood staining the table. “She may have an infection!” he barked, already tearing open a small canister of nanobot paste. His voice carried across the cavern, silencing the low murmurs of the Shark people who were beginning to gather. But it was too late. Haj Tooth’s eyes rolled back, her breathing grew shallow, and the movement beneath her skin began to slow. Serenity pressed her hand against Haj Tooth’s chest, feeling for a pulse that no longer beat. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No… no, please.” Beelzebub froze where he stood, the canister slipping from his claws and shattering on the cavern floor, its contents oozing like quicksilver. He stared in disbelief as Haj Tooth’s head fell sideways, her gills going still. Serenity felt the last tension in Haj Tooth’s hand fade—the hand that had once wielded a hammer with unstoppable fury, that had torn through enemy lines, that had held the strength of a leader. Now, it was limp in Serenity’s grasp. A silence spread through the chamber like a suffocating fog. The Shark people, who had watched their leader fight and bleed beside them, lowered their heads in mourning. Even the bioluminescent plants dimmed, their faint glow flickering as if acknowledging the loss. Serenity’s tears fell freely, streaking down her pale cheeks as she leaned over Haj Tooth’s body. “You didn’t deserve this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She brushed the damp medical paste from Haj Tooth’s face, her gloved fingers trembling. Beelzebub took a step back, his head lowering in shame. His mandibles clicked softly in frustration. He had done everything he could—every salve, every mixture, every ancient treatment he knew—and still, his efforts had failed. His claws clenched tight as he muttered to himself, the guilt clear in his tone. Around them, the Shark warriors began to kneel one by one, their heads bowed. Some placed their weapons on the ground as a sign of respect. The sound of dripping water from the cavern roof was the only thing that broke the quiet. Serenity’s sobs echoed softly through the chamber. Beelzebub turned away, hiding his expression, though his trembling shoulders betrayed him. In that dimly lit cavern, among roots turned to stone and gardens that glowed faintly beneath alien soil, a legend had died—and the weight of her passing pressed down on them all. There wasn’t time for sorrow—no time even to breathe. The cavern walls trembled with a deep, booming force that rippled through the ground like a shockwave. Serenity’s tears had barely dried when the stone beneath her boots cracked, sending small fragments tumbling from the ceiling. A low rumble turned into a deafening quake. “What’s happening?!” one of the Shark warriors shouted. Beelzebub’s antennae twitched, his multifaceted eyes widening. “Something’s outside,” he hissed, wings buzzing in agitation. Without hesitation, Serenity grabbed her sword and sprinted toward the exit, her black hair whipping behind her as the other warriors followed. When she burst out into the open wheat field, her heart dropped. The horizon burned red. The once calm amber fields now blazed with flames as a massive demon legion marched forward, the ground shaking beneath their advance. At their front were towering Demon Warriors clad in molten armor, flanked by slithering Demonettes with elongated claws and glowing eyes. But what made Serenity’s blood run cold was who stood among them—Deathskull, the golden terminator droid who had once led the Vikingnar Empire, and beside him, Anubis, his tall jackal form illuminated in the orange light. Behind them, a line of Jackal humanoid warriors in rustic Brass armor advanced in perfect unison. Intermixed with them were legions of Deathskull’s droids, their metallic forms reflecting the hellish glow of the sky. The mechanical precision of the droids and the chaotic fury of the demons made the force look unstoppable. At the center of their formation, a massive laser cannon was being calibrated, its barrel pulsing with crimson energy. The cannon fired again, the sound like thunder ripping through space. The beam struck the ground near the cavern’s entrance, erupting into a geyser of molten earth and smoke. Serenity raised her arm to shield her face from the blast. “Everyone take cover!” she shouted, diving behind a jagged stone outcrop. Beelzebub followed, crouching beside her as the second beam carved a smoking crater nearby. “Alright everyone, get into formation!” Serenity commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. She turned to Beelzebub, her blue eyes glowing fiercely beneath the reflection of the fires. “Do you have any energy shields?!” Beelzebub nodded sharply. “Yes—get them up! Hurry, and get all of the warriors out as well!” he barked at two of his wasp guards. The guards saluted, wings buzzing as they darted back into the cavern. Within moments, a hum filled the air as a translucent dome began to shimmer to life around the battlefield. The energy shield pulsed with a bright azure glow, forming a barrier between Serenity’s forces and the incoming legion. Serenity activated her armor. Her chest medallion glowed crimson as a surge of nanobots poured across her body, solidifying into silver graphene Viking armor streaked with red energy veins. The plates locked together with metallic precision, forming a sleek yet battle-hardened appearance. She drew her red energy sword, its blade humming as it ignited to life. The ground glowed beneath its heat. Beside her, Beelzebub extended his corbin, its head sparking with blue plasma. Behind them, ranks of Shark warriors emerged from the cavern, their luminescent armor glinting under the fiery skies. Their weapons—tridents, spears, and rifles—charged with electric blue energy. The Wasp humanoids joined them, hovering above with mechanical wings and plasma rifles aimed downward. The energy shield flickered as another laser hit, but it held firm. Beelzebub roared over the noise, “Shields stable!” Then came the sound—a roar that split the heavens. Everyone looked up. Out of the orange mist of the Wraith sky, the Golden Dragon descended. Its scales shimmered like molten gold, and its wings stretched wide enough to blot out the sun. With a deafening screech, it dove down through the clouds, flames rippling from its throat. It unleashed a torrent of fire that swept across the advancing demon horde, incinerating dozens of Demon Warriors in a single blast. The force of the firestorm threw bodies through the air, scattering molten armor and ash across the wheat field. “The River Guardian!” one of the Shark soldiers cried out. The Dragon’s golden eyes gleamed as it circled above, roaring again. But even its fury couldn’t stop what came next—the legion answered back. From within the ranks, Maladrie herself emerged, surrounded by twisted Demonettes that danced around her like living shadows. Her gaze was cold, her armor black as obsidian, etched with pulsating red runes. The moment her hand lifted, the demon army surged forward. The warriors roared in response, their unified shout echoing across the Wraith’s hellish plain. Energy blades clashed, tridents pierced through demon hides, and plasma bolts streaked through the smoke-filled air. The field erupted into chaos—steel and fire, wings and claws, blood and ash. The Golden Dragon swooped again, raking through the air with a sonic boom as it bathed another legion in flames. The Shark people fought fiercely under its shadow, while the Wasp humanoids strafed the enemy from above, leaving trails of blue light in the haze. Serenity and Beelzebub charged side by side into the fray. She struck down a Demon Warrior with a clean slash of her energy sword, the blade cutting through armor like liquid light. Beelzebub impaled another with his corbin, twisting the weapon before discharging a blast of plasma that vaporized the creature entirely. Overhead, Deathskull’s golden frame glinted as he marched through the ranks, leading the droids with mechanical precision. His red optics flared as he raised his plasma rifle and began returning fire at the shielded defenders. And with that, she charged forward through the storm of fire and light as the Battle of the Wraith Plains truly began—an all-out war of gods, machines, demons, and warriors under the burning orange skies of the damned. As the battle raged under the orange skies of the Wraith, fire and blood mingled with the burning sands. Serenity’s blade was a red arc in the chaos—cutting through the smoky haze, slicing down Demonic warriors that lunged toward her. Explosions echoed across the field, and the ground quaked under the weight of fallen beasts and shattered mechs. Through the wall of flame ahead, a dark figure emerged—her presence alone enough to make even the bravest soldiers hesitate. Maladrie. Her obsidian-black hair flowed wildly in the heated wind. Her eyes glowed like twin suns bleeding fury, and her body was draped in skin-tight black leather garments, slick as oil and stitched with glowing crimson veins. The garments provided no armor, but the raw energy pulsing beneath her skin made her almost invincible. “Did you think you could come into my home and defile my father’s corpse?” Maladrie hissed, her voice venomous and echoing through the battlefield like a curse. Serenity froze where she stood, the words slicing through her thoughts like daggers. Her helmet concealed her face, making her unreadable—a faceless knight of vengeance. Then Maladrie lunged. Their swords clashed with a metallic shriek that sent sparks flying. Serenity blocked the first strike, twisted, and retaliated with a horizontal slash that grazed Maladrie’s side. The wound sizzled—but almost instantly healed, the torn flesh sealing shut with a hiss of black smoke. Maladrie smirked. “You think pain can stop a goddess?” Serenity didn’t answer. She stepped forward, thrusting her blade toward Maladrie’s chest. Maladrie parried, their blades locking as they pushed against each other, metal grinding between their armored hands. Serenity kicked Maladrie backward, only for the demoness to flip in midair and land in a crouch, snarling. The two circled each other like predators, fire reflecting off Serenity’s silver graphene armor and Maladrie’s slick black leather. Serenity struck again, fast and precise—her sword slicing through the air with red light. Maladrie ducked, then swung upward, her own demonic blade humming with dark energy. The strike missed Serenity’s throat by inches. They exchanged blows in a dizzying blur—metal clanging, sparks bursting, their footsteps echoing on the cracked ground. Every time Serenity’s sword found flesh, Maladrie’s body regenerated, each wound sealing as if time itself bent to her will. Despite the armor’s durability, Serenity was tiring. Her movements slowed, her breathing heavy beneath the helmet. Maladrie’s laughter echoed—mocking, sharp. “You’re strong, mortal, but strength means nothing against divinity.” Serenity pushed forward one last time, slashing diagonally across Maladrie’s chest. The demon goddess stumbled back—then countered with a vicious leg kick that swept Serenity off her feet. The two fell together, rolling through dirt and ash. Serenity gasped for air, armor plates shifting under her weight. Maladrie sat up first, her eyes narrowing. She raised two fingers to her lips and whistled sharply, the sound slicing through the battlefield. In the distance, Deathskull—the golden terminator droid—paused mid-command. His red optics glowed as Maladrie yelled, her voice echoing across the plain: “Time to get out our experimental weapon!” Deathskull’s voice boomed back, flat and mechanical: “It’s only going to slow her down, not kill her.” “That’s the point, idiot machine! Now go!” Maladrie barked. Within moments, the battlefield shifted. The smoke parted as Deathskull approached, accompanied by two towering Incubi—Hassan and Zach Carpon. Both wore heavy metal backpacks connected to strange, oversized guns with glowing orange coils. Steam hissed from the weapons as they powered up. “Fire,” Deathskull commanded. The weapons roared to life, unleashing streams of orange plasma that tore through the air. Serenity barely managed to raise her sword to block the onslaught, but the plasma wasn’t ordinary—it splashed against her armor like liquid fire, dissolving the graphene plating back into its nanobot form, which retreated in a cloud of molten silver dust. The heat scorched her exposed neck. Serenity screamed as the plasma ate through her suit’s shielding, her energy systems flickering. She stumbled backward, her once-silver armor now reduced to fragments that crawled helplessly across her body. “Keep firing!” Maladrie shouted. Serenity fell to one knee, gasping for air. Around her, the Shark warriors lay in ruin—bodies charred, weapons broken, their glowing blue armor flickering out like dying stars. The battlefield that had once roared with life was now silent, save for the low hum of Deathskull’s weapons and the crackling of fire. Beelzebub, still alive but heavily wounded, called out from the distance: “All units, retreat back to the cavern! Now!” His remaining wasp humanoids obeyed, dragging injured comrades as they disappeared into the wheat field fog. Maladrie smirked, walking toward Serenity, whose sword trembled in her grip. Behind her, Hassan approached—tall, armored, and sneering. He looked down at Serenity’s weakened form and chuckled darkly. “So, when is this hag going to understand that I’m the only one who’s allowed to discipline my dogs?” Maladrie snarled, shoving him hard. “Beat it, jackass! My father’s corpse is more important than your beastly property! I’ll deal with her. And besides—” she leaned closer, her tone dripping with venom, “I castrated you. Remember?” Hassan stiffened, staring at her in fear, but eventually smirked, bowing mockingly. “I suppose you’re right, my lady. It’s your time to shine. I just worry those insects who retreated back into the cave will be an issue.” Maladrie’s red eyes glowed brighter, and she gave a cruel smile. “Don’t worry about them, they’re back to running.” Behind her, the smoke rose higher, swallowing the battlefield in a crimson fog as the last of Serenity’s allies vanished into the burning horizon. And there she lay—broken, weakened, but not defeated. Even as Maladrie’s shadow loomed over her, Serenity’s hand clenched tighter around her sword. A faint spark still glowed beneath the ashes. Beelzebub stood in the trembling orange gloom of the Wraith, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion, his leather armor slick with blood and ash. The cavern walls behind him pulsed faintly from the residual energy of the battle outside — a low hum that seemed to echo from the very bones of the dimension itself. The air was thick with smoke and ozone, the scent of burnt flesh and melted circuitry mingling with the faint, metallic tang of the river that ran beneath the roots of the ancient cavern. He turned, clutching his corbin with both hands, the weapon’s energy core flickering like a dying star. Outside the cavern, the battle was lost. Through the thick haze and drifting ash, he could just barely make out the sight of Serenity — her once-brilliant armor now cracked and flickering — being dragged away across the wheat fields. The orange sky above seemed to ripple like liquid fire, and beneath it, Maladrie’s demonic horde marched triumphantly, their black banners swaying in the sulfuric wind. Beelzebub’s throat tightened. He could still hear Serenity’s last scream echoing through the void, fading as the Demons disappeared into the lightless distance. The Shark People who remained lay in heaps of motionless scales and blood near the shield generator, their once-glistening fins now dulled by death. The wasp warriors, those who hadn’t been vaporized by plasma, twitched weakly where they’d fallen. He stumbled backward into the cavern, gripping his side where a shard of molten glass had embedded itself. His mind raced — grief, confusion, and fury colliding in a chaotic storm within him. The walls seemed to breathe; shadows lengthened unnaturally, curling like smoke. He stopped suddenly. Something was wrong. The stone table — the same cold slab where Haj Tooth’s lifeless body had rested — was empty. No blood. No remains. Not even a mark of where she had been. Beelzebub blinked, trying to steady his mind. Perhaps one of the Shark People moved her before dying? No… that couldn’t be. Every warrior was accounted for. The cavern was a tomb. Then, from the darkness beyond the energy crates and scattered debris, came a faint shimmer. Beelzebub turned sharply, raising his weapon, energy core humming again as he took aim. The shimmer took shape — the faint, translucent outline of a woman with webbed hands, shimmering silver eyes, and gills faintly glowing through her spectral form. Haj Tooth. He froze. His grip loosened on the corbin, his breathing ragged. She stepped forward, her voice soft yet resonant, echoing as though carried by the deep ocean itself. “Don’t worry,” she said calmly, her tone gentle yet commanding. “The Immortals will surely come to rescue their own.” Beelzebub’s mind reeled. Her lips didn’t quite move with her words — they rippled through the air like sonar. She looked peaceful, untouched by the torment of death that had wracked her mere moments ago. “Tell the other Immortals,” she continued, “or Vikings, that Maladrie no longer owns the Shark Hive.” Beelzebub’s eyes widened, confusion flashing across his face. “What—” he started, but the words caught in his throat. Haj Tooth simply gave him a faint smile — a soft, knowing one — and began to fade. Her form flickered like light refracting through water, growing dimmer until she vanished completely, leaving only the faint sound of waves echoing where none should exist. The silence afterward was deafening. Beelzebub stood frozen, staring at the empty space where her apparition had been. His pulse pounded in his ears, and the only sound left in the cavern was the steady drip of water from the stalactites above. The battle outside had gone quiet — too quiet. The demonic legions were gone. The Wraith’s skies had grown darker, pulsing with the energy of the rift that separated this realm from all others. His lips finally parted, his voice hoarse and low. “What the fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, “did I get myself into?” He ran a clawed hand through his hair, looking toward the distant horizon where Maladrie’s forces had vanished. His thoughts churned: Immortals. Rescue. Shark Hive. It didn’t make sense — none of it did. And yet, somewhere deep inside, he could feel it — a shift in the Wraith’s energy, as though something older and far more powerful than Maladrie was awakening. The air rippled again — a tremor that wasn’t physical, but spiritual. Beelzebub tightened his grip on his corbin, feeling the vibrations of the realm flow through the weapon’s handle. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the fiery wheat fields, the sound of thunder rolled across the sky. It wasn’t natural thunder. It was the sound of something massive breaking through. And though he couldn’t see it, Beelzebub knew — Haj Tooth’s final words weren’t a warning. They were a promise. Something was coming. Maladrie’s throne room glowed like the heart of a dying star—vast, suffocating, and filled with the scent of scorched sulfur. Black marble pillars wrapped in pulsating red veins stretched upward, supporting a ceiling lined with screaming faces fossilized in molten glass. Her new fortress, built upon the remains of the old castle that had been obliterated in Serenity’s assault, was both a palace and a tomb. The structure seemed alive—breathing, whispering, shifting in the flickering crimson light that poured through the stained-glass windows depicting infernal wars of old. At the center sat Maladrie herself, draped in a flowing gown of shadow silk that shifted hues with every movement—black, purple, and crimson bleeding together like oil in water. Her bare feet rested on the skull of a fallen Wraith general, and her left hand idly caressed the armrest of her throne, which was carved from the petrified spine of a dragon. Around her, the air shimmered faintly with residual demonic energy—her power leaking into the room like vapor. Deathskull stood several feet away from her, his towering golden endoskeleton polished but scarred from countless wars. The red glow of his eyes flickered with machine precision, the sound of his internal systems humming low like a mechanical growl. Beside him stood Anubis—tall, black-furred, and clad in ceremonial armor etched with hieroglyphs that pulsed faint blue with spiritual energy. His jackal-like visage betrayed nothing but patience. Behind them, Zach and Hassan—Maladrie’s last surviving Incubi generals—stood rigidly at attention, their demonic wings folded behind their backs, both visibly tense from the last battle’s heavy losses. Kristi, the only human-like figure in the room aside from Nancy, leaned against a pillar, her face half-lit by the room’s burning chandeliers. And finally, Nancy—the pale-skinned Succubus with silver hair and violet eyes—stood near the base of the throne, her tail twitching nervously. Deathskull broke the tense silence first. His voice, metallic and deliberate, reverberated across the chamber like a low, grinding echo: “So how do we fight a two-front war now?” Maladrie slowly tilted her head, her serpentine eyes narrowing as she studied him. The room seemed to grow darker as she replied, her voice a cold hiss beneath a velvet tone: “We don’t have to fight a two-way anything. They’re all scattered.” She rose from her throne, each motion calculated, deliberate, her black hair flowing like smoke. Her expression hardened, and her tone shifted from calm command to venomous intent. “And while you’re working on our little simulation, consider making a weapon to kill the bitch chained up in the dungeon.” Deathskull’s metal jaw clicked as he processed her command. His golden hands flexed, and the sound of hydraulics filled the chamber. “You mean Serenity?” he asked, his red optics narrowing slightly. Maladrie nodded once, her lips curling into a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. Nancy, who had been quiet until now, frowned and folded her arms. “Is it really necessary to perform side tasks?” she asked sharply, her tone carrying the kind of insolence that could get someone killed in a place like this. Maladrie froze. The entire chamber went deathly still. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, she turned toward Nancy. “She desecrated my father’s carcass,” she hissed, her voice now trembling with rage. “Our previous engineer—Zuccubus—died in the explosion at the old castle.” Her eyes flashed crimson as she turned sharply toward Deathskull. “You’re my best shot now, Deathskull.” Then she pivoted back to Nancy, her tone softening—but it was the softness of a blade just before it cuts. “And her friend took William away from me.” Nancy scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ was just your adopted father, and William was never meant to be yours.” The insult struck like lightning. Before anyone could react, Maladrie blurred into motion—her form dissolving into smoke and reappearing directly in front of Nancy. Her black-clawed hand snapped forward, twisting violently. A sharp crack echoed through the throne room. Nancy’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened soundlessly as her neck bent at an unnatural angle. She crumpled to the obsidian floor with a soft thud. For a moment, no one moved. The air grew heavy, filled with static and the faint scent of ozone. Maladrie turned, eyes blazing like twin furnaces. Her voice came out as a roar that rattled the chamber walls. “Does anyone else have a problem?” Silence. Then, from the far right, an Incubi soldier—young and foolish—raised his hand nervously. “I-Ivan,” he stammered, “just wanted to ask if—” He never finished his sentence. Maladrie’s eyes flared with dark energy, and a crack of shadow lightning burst from her fingertips, striking Ivan square in the forehead. His skull exploded like glass, coating the floor and nearest wall with blood and fragments of horn. “Fuck you, Ivan!” Maladrie snarled, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Chunks of molten flesh sizzled as they hit the burning braziers that lined the room. Kristi took a step back, eyes wide, while Zach and Hassan both averted their gazes, knowing better than to speak. Maladrie turned to face the survivors, her expression hardening again into cold authority. “Zach. Hassan. You’re my last two Incubi,” she said sharply, her tone now eerily composed after her outburst. “You will keep an eye on our galactic borders.” She pointed at them with a clawed finger, then gestured toward Deathskull and Kristi. “Kristi and Deathskull will hold your hand if needed.” The four nodded wordlessly. The order was not one to be questioned. They turned and began to exit, the heavy iron doors groaning open as they passed through, leaving Maladrie alone. As the doors closed, sealing her in, Maladrie sank slowly back onto her throne. Her breathing steadied, and she stared ahead at the burning sigil above the main gate — the mark of her father, still faintly glowing in defiance of death. The shadows crept up around her like old friends. Her hands clenched into fists. Beneath her breath, she whispered to herself, the words barely audible — a promise born of fury and obsession. “William was meant to be mine. Meow.” Maladrie purred while rubbing her black leather bikini & thigh boots. And somewhere deep below the castle, chained in darkness, Serenity stirred as the faint echo of that voice reached her through the stone. She is tied up wearing her black & white leather jumpsuit, now weathered from the previous battle. CHAPTER 25: "SEVERANCE" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 17: "RISING RISK" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" Stepping back through the gate felt like piercing the surface after drowning too long in the shadows. The heavy static charge of the Labyrinth evaporated behind us, replaced by the steady pulse of a temple alive with sunlight and water. The transition was jarring—the hush of endless tunnels and humming data towers giving way to open air, sound, and warmth. We emerged into the lower halls of the temple, its architecture vast and ancient. Smooth stone walls bore engravings of constellations, and luminous moss threaded veins of green light through the cracks. Sunlight poured down from tall, arched windows, gilding the chamber in gold. At the center, a wide pond rippled with the gentle overflow of a marble fountain. Its cool spray carried across the chamber like the whisper of rainfall, a sound far removed from the mechanized threats we had just faced. Valrra, Deathskull, and Droid L-84 were already there, standing at the fountain’s edge as though they had known the exact moment we would return. Deathskull’s armor gleamed beneath the fractured light, his red servo-eyes narrowing as he turned toward us. Valrra stood at his side, a picture of poise in her green leather jumpsuit and black thigh boots, her long black hair falling over crimson skin that almost seemed to shimmer beneath the sunlight. Droid L-84, ever silent, adjusted his stance with machine-like precision, as though calibrating to our presence. The moment was still—like a breath drawn before a storm—until Deathskull spoke. His voice was low, metallic, and final. “We’ll need to take this to Cybrawl,” he said, his servo-eyes tilting toward Valrra. The gemstone—pure and radiant—rested within his armored grip, pulsing faintly as though alive. “It’s the only place equipped to build the locator.” I raised a hand to halt Valrra before she could step forward. My chest still heaved from the battle in the Labyrinth, but the weight in my mind pressed heavier than fatigue. “Wait,” I said, the words echoing against the chamber’s high dome. “What was the Labyrinth exactly? And why did it feel so… whimsical, so unreal? You never explained. And—” I paused, eyes narrowing on her, “you still haven’t told me how I time-traveled here in the first place.” Valrra turned slowly, her expression unreadable. The fountain’s mist clung to her hair, dampening the black strands so they shimmered like silk. When she finally spoke, her voice was even—too even, like she had practiced this explanation before. “The Labyrinth,” she said, “is not of this world. It is a pocket dimension. A vault of knowledge created by those who once walked the threshold of divinity. All of the information the universe has ever held—every star, every particle, every thought—is preserved within its corridors. It is whimsical because it is meant to be—an endless mirror to the mind itself. What you saw was only a fragment of its design.” I clenched my jaw, but pressed further. “And my time travel?” Valrra’s crimson eyes flicked toward Deathskull, then back to me. For the first time since I’d met her, hesitation cracked her tone. “The Immortal inside of you most likely caused your time jump,” she said. “That much I can tell you. Its influence is unpredictable, pulling you through folds in reality that mortals were never meant to cross.” She glanced toward the others, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor as she stepped closer to the fountain. “That’s all I know. We should get moving now, Will. Time is not our ally.” Her answer rang hollow in my ears. Too smooth, too rehearsed. Something in her words—perhaps the way she glanced at Deathskull—spoke of omissions. Pieces of truth held back like cards close to her chest. Emily’s hand slid into mine, grounding me. She was still streaked with mud from the Labyrinth, her black & white leather jumpsuit stained but unbroken, her green eyes steady. “She’s right, Willy,” Emily said softly, her voice brushing past the mistrust that swirled in my mind. “Let’s go.” I exhaled, but in my thoughts, doubt curled like smoke. Valrra was still hiding something. The Labyrinth had felt too deliberate, too alive. And my sudden displacement in time—pulled from one reality into another—was not something I could just accept as an accident. Answers lingered out there, beyond her practiced words, but for now my quest for truth had to wait. The six of us stood at the fountain’s edge as though the temple itself had been waiting for our decision. Water trickled, sunlight burned, and somewhere far above, the world beyond the temple spun in silence. For the moment, survival demanded we follow the path Valrra laid before us. But deep inside, a seed of suspicion had already taken root. Deathskull’s gauntleted hands moved with a calculated urgency, each strike against the control panel echoing in the vastness of the lobby. The dormant arch responded like some ancient creature roused from slumber. Its frame quivered, faint vibrations running through the stone and metal as red circuitry flared to life, lines of molten light crawling across its surface. At first, it was only a faint shimmer, a thin veil barely visible against the air. Then, with a violent shudder, the entire structure ignited—swirling crimson energy expanding within the archway, twisting and folding in on itself like molten glass being pulled by unseen hands. The glow was not constant, but alive, pulsing in rhythm with the beating of a colossal heart. The sound filled the chamber, low and resonant, a hum that pressed against our chests and rattled the fountain behind us. Shadows stretched and contorted across the walls, turning the temple’s pillars into looming silhouettes. The heat from the portal rolled outward in slow, suffocating waves, licking across our armor and clothing as if testing us, daring us to step forward. Deathskull moved first. Without hesitation, his armored figure was swallowed whole by the swirling red vortex, his form blurring and dissolving into strands of light. One by one, we followed—Emily’s boots catching the glow, Serenity’s silhouette briefly outlined in fire, Haj Tooth’s towering frame consumed, Valrra’s crimson figure vanishing into the current, Droid L-84 flickering as his mechanical body fragmented into code-like streaks. Crossing through was not like walking. It was falling—forward, sideways, and inward all at once. The body unraveled, every nerve screaming as heat surged through veins like liquid plasma. Vision fractured into jagged shards of light, pieces of memory and sensation bleeding together, weight suspended in a storm of rushing wind and fire. The mind screamed at the body to breathe, but there was no air, only the suffocating density of energy pressing tighter and tighter until it threatened to crush everything. Then, suddenly, release. The pressure broke, the current spit us out, and boots struck solid ground again. The metallic causeway stretched onward like the spine of some colossal beast, its segmented plates trembling faintly with every step we took. Energy lines ran beneath the surface, pulsing in steady rhythms that guided the eye toward the city’s heart. Around us, Cybrawl breathed. The skies above rippled with color—clouds thick as armor, yet pierced with threads of neon green and blue, shifting patterns that pulsed as if the atmosphere itself were alive. From within the haze, the outlines of aircraft passed—sleek, darting vessels that left trails of light lingering in their wake. Their engines hummed in harmony with the deep thrumming of the world below, a symphony of machine and nature locked in perfect cadence. The city unfolded in layers. To one side, towers of polished alloy reached skyward, their faces reflective like obsidian mirrors broken with streaks of green ivy. Blossoms in shades of violet and gold clung to the vines, releasing faint bursts of pollen that caught the neon air, glowing faintly as if charged by the city itself. At the base of these towers, streams of water flowed along carved channels, their surfaces so clear that the fish within looked suspended in midair. The streets were alive with the movement of small creatures—furred and feathered alike—darting between roots and conduits, utterly unbothered by the passing of machines that towered ten times their height. Massive mech foundries rose in the distance, but they did not choke the air with smoke. Instead, their stacks released faint veils of silver mist that curled skyward and dispersed into rain-like droplets. Where they fell, plants seemed to thrive—roots thickening, branches stretching higher, blossoms bursting into sudden bloom. Gardens sprawled across rooftops, threaded through steel beams, even draped across antenna arrays, their leaves trembling with the hum of hidden power. Bridges of glass and alloy arched overhead, connecting tier after tier of the sprawling city. Some shimmered faintly with protective shields, others wide open, lined with railings where vines had been allowed to coil. From those bridges, streams of citizens could be glimpsed—silhouettes of humanoid forms, both synthetic and organic, moving as one. The air itself seemed alive with whispers, faint electronic pulses mixing with the rustle of leaves. We advanced in formation. Deathskull led, his golden armor drinking in the light, making him stand out even against the sprawling brilliance of Cybrawl. His pace was steady, boots striking the alloy path with the weight of certainty. The rest of us followed closely, our shadows cast long by the neon glow that filtered through the clouds above. At last, the skyline broke open, and there it was—the pyramid. It dwarfed everything around it, a titan anchored in the city’s core. Matte black, it absorbed light like a void, yet from its faces came the glow of blue circuitry panels, running in deliberate patterns down its sides. They traced the steps of the ancient-like structure, converging at glowing nodes that pulsed like beating hearts. Water cascaded along hidden channels, spilling from one tier to another, forming waterfalls that caught the neon air and split it into shimmering rainbows. The sound carried across the distance, a low, eternal roar that seemed to resonate within the chest. Its sheer scale was overwhelming. Entire districts could have fit within its base, yet its apex cut cleanly into the cloud cover, vanishing into the glowing sky. The closer we drew, the more detail emerged—giant statues carved into the pyramid’s lower walls, depicting warriors of old, both human and machine, locked in eternal struggle. Between them were carved runes, some glowing faintly, others dormant, suggesting layers of history hidden in the architecture. The breeze shifted as we neared. It carried the mingled scents of rain-soaked earth and hot alloy, a perfume unique to Cybrawl. The metallic tang was softened by the sweetness of blossoms drifting down from the gardens above, settling on the water that flowed toward the pyramid’s moat-like base. The pyramid was more than a factory, more than a citadel. It was a statement carved into the planet’s flesh—a convergence of power, technology, and reverence for the old world. It towered as a monument to survival, a hub for creation, and a fortress for those who commanded it. Deathskull’s pace did not falter as we approached the massive gates at its base, their surfaces engraved with more of those glowing runes. The closer we came, the more the hum of the city seemed to funnel toward this single place. Every energy line we had passed, every pulse in the ground beneath our boots, every light across the skyline—everything led here, as if the pyramid itself were the beating heart of Cybrawl. The pyramid’s massive entrance drew us into its depths like the throat of a colossal beast. As soon as the heavy shadow consumed us, light bloomed from hidden seams in the walls, spilling across the chamber in precise, geometric waves. The illumination revealed a hall of staggering proportions—vaulted ceilings supported by black alloy pillars that stretched upward like the trunks of titanic trees. The surfaces gleamed faintly, polished to a mirror sheen yet etched with faint inscriptions that seemed to ripple whenever the light touched them. The air was alive with industry. Faint vibrations hummed beneath our boots, resonating from the colossal machinery embedded within the pyramid’s frame. Overhead, tracks lined with suspended drones stretched in endless grids, their dormant eyes glowing faintly as if they were always aware, waiting for the call to descend. The air carried a blend of sharp metallic tang and the faint sweetness of oils used to polish the conduits. More subtle, beneath it all, was the static-laden scent of energy fields at work, leaving a faint tickle against the skin. At the center of the great hall rose a platform ringed by concentric layers of holo-screens. Suspended from above, mechanical arms hung like a tangle of metallic serpents poised to strike. Each one bore unique tools—fusion welders, precision claws, spools of cabling—that gleamed beneath the ambient light. The platform’s surface was marked with deep grooves, glowing faintly with energy, forming a circuit pattern that seemed older than the machinery surrounding it, as though the pyramid itself had been built upon ancient foundations. Deathskull climbed the platform with a stride heavy but sure, the gold of his armor reflecting in the dim light. The suspended arms stirred at his arrival, adjusting their positions as though recognizing their master. Valrra followed closely, her crimson skin catching the glow of the runes etched into the floor. From a compartment on her belt, she unfurled a stack of holo-schematics, spreading them wide across the central table. The black glass hummed at her touch, and ghostly projections burst upward—gears, circuit nodes, rune-sealed cores, and the skeletal framework of the locator itself. The White Gemstone was placed at the heart of it all. Deathskull set it down upon a padded cradle, and at once the gemstone’s faint inner glow brightened, casting pale light across their work. Its surface appeared alive, veins of luminous white swirling slowly as though stirred by some invisible current. Every flicker of its light was mirrored in the polished walls around us, scattering refracted patterns that danced across the ceiling like constellations. Valrra moved with practiced efficiency, selecting alloy plates etched with microscopic runes and setting them carefully in order. Coils of wire, polished to a silver sheen, were laid out beside her like strands of hair, each one humming faintly with residual energy. Deathskull worked in tandem, his armored fingers manipulating the pieces with surprising precision, locking each fragment into place with the measured rhythm of someone who had repeated this process countless times. The locator took form quickly. Circular in shape, it resembled a great shield laid flat, its frame thick and solid, layered with metallic alloys interlaced with strands of living circuitry. The runes engraved along its inner ring shifted with a strange fluidity, melting from one shape into another as though struggling to decide which form they preferred. The gemstone was fitted not at its core, but within a secondary housing on the inner rim, where its glow pulsed steadily in synchrony with the shifting symbols. It was clear the stone was not the heart of the device, but its stabilizer, a steady hand guiding the chaotic flux of Immortal energy into usable patterns. Above, the drone arms descended, moving with mechanical grace. Sparks flared briefly as welders sealed seams, the smell of heated alloys filling the air before being whisked away by invisible vents. Coils tightened into place, plates sealed with soft magnetic clicks, and filaments lit with slender trails of electricity. The locator seemed to breathe as each layer was added, expanding its glow in waves that rippled outward across the floor. Around the platform, the rest of us stood in silent observation. The hall echoed faintly with the sound of cascading water running through the pyramid’s internal channels. It blended with the low thrum of power lines, the hiss of welding arcs, and the steady pulse of the gemstone at the heart of the machine. The moment was heavy with significance—this was no simple creation, but the forging of something meant to pierce the veil of the cosmos itself. Piece by piece, the device grew closer to completion. Energy ran across its surface in bright veins, mapping unseen pathways into existence. The runes along the inner ring stilled for the first time, locking into a pattern that glowed white-hot before cooling to a soft silver. The gemstone pulsed once, brighter than before, and the shadows in the hall bent slightly toward it as if the stone’s gravity extended beyond the physical. The locator was nearly ready, its presence a silent promise of discovery. Around it, the pyramid seemed to hold its breath, the drone arms retreating upward, the hum of machinery falling quiet, until only the glow of the gemstone and the faint resonance of the runes remained. The terrace opened wide before us, a suspended garden hung above the vast sprawl of Cybrawl. Beneath our boots, channels of clear water curved across the floor, spilling over the edge in narrow waterfalls that plummeted into the gardens far below. The sound of rushing streams mingled with the deeper hum of the pyramid itself, a constant reminder that this place was alive with both nature and machine. A cluster of crimson flowers grew against the wall, vines winding upward toward a stone spout where a waterfall poured in a glittering sheet. The falling water caught the light in a shifting prism, scattering fractured colors across the alloy railing. I leaned against it, the cool metal thrumming faintly under my hand, and stared out at the horizon where towers and trees rose in equal measure. Emily joined me, her arms folded, her gaze fixed more on me than on the city. Her green eyes, lit with reflected colors from the waterfall, seemed sharper than usual, cutting through the noise of the place. “So,” she said, her tone carrying both curiosity and challenge, “what’s your deal?” I drew in a slow breath, the scent of wet stone and flowering vines filling my lungs. “Honestly? I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of living forever.” The admission left me heavier than I expected, as if the words had been pressing against my chest for too long. To my surprise, Emily didn’t argue. Instead, she gave a single, measured nod. “Most people don’t think about it that way. Sure, aging doesn’t kill us anymore, but people still die. In combat, by choice, in accidents. And when they go… there’s no guarantee we’ll see them again. Even the ones we care about most.” Her voice softened at the end, but her eyes stayed steady, watching me closely. I turned my attention back to the horizon, to the neon clouds veined with light and the living city beneath them. For a long moment, I let her words sink in. “Then maybe it’s best,” I said slowly, “to start detaching ourselves from mortals. They’re nothing like us anymore. Their lives are brief sparks. Ours are… something else entirely.” Emily’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. She reached out, brushing her fingers against one of the crimson blossoms before letting it go. “Detachment,” she murmured. “Maybe that’s the only way. But I don’t think anyone ever lets go completely. Every bond leaves a trace. Every memory becomes another weight you carry.” The prism-waterfall spilled light across her face, illuminating both the hardness and the fragility in her expression. I saw not just the warrior she had become, but the echoes of who she once was—someone who had lost, endured, and kept walking forward anyway. We moved on, following the mist-slick path as it curved around the terrace. Fish darted in the shallow channels of water at our feet, scales flashing silver-blue whenever the light struck them. Strange birds swooped above, their wings glimmering as though woven from strands of light. The air was alive with both movement and stillness, the balance of two worlds fused into one. Emily slowed as we walked, her boots ringing softly against the alloy tiles. “You’re right about one thing,” she said after a long pause. “Mortals will never understand us. They’ll live their short lives, fight their wars, and fade. We’ll remain. Watching. Carrying all of it.” Her words struck like a weight settling across my shoulders, heavy but familiar. I studied her in the shifting glow of the sky, the reflection of neon light turning her eyes into molten emeralds. There was strength in her voice, but beneath it, a thread of exhaustion that matched my own. “Maybe detachment doesn’t mean we stop caring,” I said. “Maybe it just means we learn to live with the distance. To exist where they can’t follow, without letting it break us.” Emily didn’t answer, but her silence felt less like resistance and more like agreement. We walked on in quiet understanding, letting the sound of waterfalls and machinery fill the spaces where words no longer reached. And at that moment, the pyramid didn’t feel like just a fortress or a factory. It felt like a mirror of ourselves—an impossible fusion of the eternal and the fragile, caught between creation and decay. A place, like us, struggling to endure. The prism-light still shimmered across the terrace as the waterfalls whispered their constant song, the hum of the pyramid carrying through the stone and alloy beneath our feet. Emily leaned back against the railing, her green eyes narrowing slightly as I studied her in the glow. The thought had been nagging at me since Valrra had so quickly brushed aside my earlier questions. “Why do you think Valrra brought us together?” I asked, my voice low but steady. “And what do you think she’s hiding?” Emily tilted her head, the lines of her jaw hardening. For a moment she said nothing, her gaze shifting past me toward the neon clouds rolling across the Cybrawl sky. Finally, she exhaled and shook her head. “I have no clue. She’s calculated, that much is obvious. Always giving just enough information to keep us moving but never the whole picture.” She pressed her lips together, the frustration evident. “If she’s hiding something, it’s big. And it’s probably tied to you.” Her words hung between us, heavy as the mist from the nearest waterfall. I could feel the truth in them, even if the shape of it remained just out of reach. Before I could respond, footsteps sounded lightly behind us—quick, almost eager—and Serenity stepped into the terrace’s glow. Her white leather jumpsuit clung to her like the reflection of starlight, the black thigh boots glinting with moisture from the mist. She smiled faintly, though her eyes were bright with something far less casual. She looked between Emily and me, then straightened her shoulders with uncharacteristic boldness. “I’ve been thinking,” Serenity said, her tone strangely deliberate. “Maybe it would be a good idea if… if Emily and I shared you. As a romantic partner.” The words struck like a sharp crack against the tranquil backdrop of falling water. Emily’s head snapped toward her, green eyes flashing wide with disbelief. “Excuse me?” Emily’s voice cut like glass. “Share? Get your own man!” Serenity flinched, but she pressed forward, her voice quickening with desperation. “But… we’re best friends. Practically sisters. And we’re Immortals. This—this isn’t the same as mortals and their fleeting attachments. We could make this work. We—” Emily straightened, stepping toward her, her boots ringing firmly against the alloy tiles. “Just because we’re Immortal doesn’t change the romantic dynamic!” Her tone dripped with disbelief and rising anger. “You think because we can’t die of old age that suddenly everything is negotiable? That love becomes communal property?” Serenity’s face wavered, eyes glassy under the prism light. “But—” Emily cut her off with biting sarcasm. “Maybe once Valrra, Deathskull, and Droid L-84 are done making their locator device, we can find you a boyfriend! Geeze, Serenity!” She threw up her hands, as if the absurdity of the request was too much to even argue further. The words landed like a slap. I could see Serenity’s composure unravel, the way her jaw trembled slightly as she bit back whatever remained unsaid. The confidence she had entered folded inward, leaving her smaller, fragile in a way that felt almost alien against the strength of this place. I stood there, caught in the fracture of it, but Emily’s stance made it clear—there was no room for compromise. She had drawn a hard boundary, and she wasn’t about to yield. Serenity’s lip trembled. She tried to hide it, turning her face away, but the prism light betrayed her as it caught the sheen in her eyes. She whispered something I couldn’t quite catch, and for a fleeting moment, I almost thought she would collapse right there. Emily’s arms crossed again, her stance protective, unyielding. I could tell she didn’t care for Serenity’s tears, not here, not in this moment. If anything, her disgust only deepened. And I… I couldn’t ignore the shift in the air. The terrace, so serene a moment ago, now felt cramped, charged with unease. The prism-waterfall continued to spill its fractured colors across us all, indifferent to the tension between flesh, steel, and eternity. If anything, Serenity’s vulnerability made it worse. The weight of it pressed on us, leaving only discomfort in its wake. We didn’t move. We didn’t comfort her. For all the strange, unreal beauty around us, the moment was a raw reminder that even Immortals weren’t beyond pettiness, longing, and rejection. And so the silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of the waterfalls and the faint hum of the living pyramid around us. The plaza outside the pyramid thrummed with quiet energy. The locator pulsed in Deathskull’s armored hands, its ring glowing faintly as runes chased one another around its surface like a living script. The hum was constant, low, almost like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anyone present but to something vast and distant. Valrra stood beside him, her posture poised, crimson skin lit by the faint reflection of the device’s glow. She was calm, as though already weighing ten different outcomes in her mind, each more calculated than the last. Serenity adjusted the straps of her small supply pack. Her eyes were downcast, rimmed faintly red, though she tried to mask it behind a mask of composure. Haj Tooth, meanwhile, hoisted her own pack over one shoulder, feminine & firm. Droid L-84 stood motionless nearby, its chassis gleaming under the Cybrawl sun, optical sensors glowing a cool white as it scanned the plaza for threats or flaws in the portal mechanism. I broke the silence, my voice steady as I watched the runes shift across the locator’s face. “The reading points to Draca. Strong, steady… if we go there, we might find Immortal-bound individuals. Ones who could be persuaded to join us.” Deathskull tilted his head, servo-joints clicking faintly in the quiet. He regarded me for a moment before nodding once, decisive and absolute. The movement alone was confirmation enough. He turned toward the massive portal arch standing like a monument at the edge of the plaza. Its obsidian frame was carved with the same flowing runes as the locator, though dormant now, waiting for activation. “Then Draca it is,” Deathskull said at last, his voice metallic yet carrying the weight of command. Valrra glanced toward me, green eyes piercing as always. “Recruitment is dangerous,” she remarked, not in objection but in warning. “Immortal-bound are unpredictable. But if we don’t take the risk, we’ll remain too few.” Her crimson hand brushed over the rail of the plaza as though she could already feel the distance stretching between here and the next world. Emily shifted closer to me, her black leather boots striking softly against the smooth stone. “You’re right,” she said, her voice calm but edged with thought. “If Draca holds others like us, better we reach them before anyone else does.” Her green eyes met mine briefly, and I felt a silent agreement pass between us. Deathskull reached the control panel at the portal’s base, his gauntleted hands moving with mechanical precision. Symbols flared to life as his fingers struck the keys. Each input triggered a deeper hum, the arch vibrating faintly under the weight of energies building inside it. The air thickened, warmer, until a sharp crack echoed outward and the portal flared into existence. The glow was red—deep, molten, and alive. It curled inward like liquid fire, swirling and folding over itself in endless motion. Sparks of energy shot off the frame, crackling before dissipating into the open air. The resonance vibrated through the ground beneath our boots, through the air in our lungs, until it was impossible to tell where our bodies ended and the portal’s pull began. The crimson light reflected across the polished stones of the plaza, bathing us all in its eerie glow. Our armor, our clothing, even our skin carried its tint, as though the portal had already claimed us before we ever crossed the threshold. Deathskull turned, the locator still pulsing in his hand. His eyes swept across us—the seven who would follow him into the unknown once more. No words were needed. His nod was command enough. One by one, we stepped forward. The air grew taut as I approached the portal, my breath shallow against the hum of its energy. The glow brightened, expanding outward, until stepping closer felt like leaning into the mouth of a storm. I glanced back once—at Emily, at Serenity, at Valrra and Haj Tooth, at Droid L-84’s steady white glow—before pushing forward. Crossing through was like falling into liquid heat. The red glow pressed in from all sides, fire and weight and rushing wind in a single endless instant. My chest constricted, my vision shattered into streaks of color, and then— The ground shifted beneath my boots. The air broke open, cool and heavy with the scent of iron and ash. The light dimmed, replaced by the glow of a blood-red sky streaked with dark clouds. We had stepped into Draca. The world greeted us not with stillness but with sound: the distant roar of waves crashing against cliffs, the guttural call of creatures unseen across the horizon, and somewhere far away, the deep thrum of something ancient and alive. The seven of us stood together on black stone, the portal crackling faintly behind us as though reluctant to let us go. Ahead stretched a world untouched by mercy—towering obsidian cliffs, jagged spires that tore into the red sky, and forests of gnarled trees that seemed more bone than wood. The locator pulsed brighter now in Deathskull’s hand, its hum deeper, as though the very soil of Draca vibrated in resonance. Whatever lay here, it was close. And we had come to claim it. The air was alive in ways that startled the senses, each breath heavy with pine resin and the sweetness of rain lingering on leaves. Beneath my boots, the earth gave slightly, softened by thick mats of moss that glowed faintly in the red light of Draca’s sky. For a moment, the transition from Cybrawl’s metallic causeways to this living world was jarring—yet beautiful. Draca was not the world I remembered. The scars of its past seemed buried under a mantle of renewal. The forges and smoke-belching stacks were gone. Where once the air had carried the stench of ash and molten ore, it now bore the fragrance of woodsmoke from distant hearths, intermingled with the crisp scent of rain-soaked forests. The horizon was dotted with villages unlike anything I had seen here before—sweeping Nordic-inspired homes, their triangular roofs rising like peaks themselves, clad in alloy-wood composites that gleamed under the dim light. Their shapes stretched from sharp tips down to sturdy bases, practical yet elegant, as though grown from the soil rather than built upon it. These high-tech Nordic houses rested on meadows of tall grass, where wildflowers bloomed in vibrant shades of violet, gold, and blood-red, their petals dancing with the breeze that rolled in from the hills. They did not disrupt the land but embraced it, spaced in patterns that followed the gentle curves of the terrain. From a distance, the settlements looked as though they had been rooted there for centuries, nurtured by both earth and hand. Between the homes, stone walkways wound in graceful arcs, lined with moss and etched faintly with glowing symbols that pulsed at night to guide travelers. Towering oaks rose between the paths, their trunks thick and gnarled, their canopies broad enough to shade entire communities beneath. Some trees had been partially hollowed and adapted into living structures, their interiors shaped into gathering halls and markets. Others bore platforms and woven bridges that stretched between branches, creating multi-level spaces where life moved vertically as much as horizontally. Water was everywhere, flowing in delicate channels carved with purpose and precision. Canals ran through communal gardens, their banks brimming with edible herbs and luminous flowers cultivated for both beauty and sustenance. The water sparkled as though infused with microscopic machines, self-cleaning, ever pure, catching the dim scarlet light of the sky in shimmering prisms. Fountains rose at intersections, shaped like runic wolves and dragons, their mouths spilling water into wide basins where children splashed and elders sat in quiet reflection. The air itself seemed charged, not with the choking fumes of industry but with something older—an atmosphere of reverence, as though the very soil of Draca had rejected its scars and embraced rebirth. Birds with metallic plumage darted through the canopy, their wings flashing iridescent blue and silver. In the undergrowth, small creatures scurried, their eyes glowing faintly in ways that spoke of engineered adaptation. Nature and technology coexisted seamlessly here, woven together in a tapestry where neither dominated but both thrived. Meanwhile, the wild lands of Draca breathed with an ancient unease. Mist clung to the trees like tattered veils, their towering trunks pressing together into dark corridors where even the moonlight struggled to break through. The grasses whispered against one another, tall as a man’s chest, carrying the scent of damp earth and rain. Every step was muted, every sound stretched thin, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. Through that vast silence, two figures moved with the precision of predators. Anubis glided low, his staff poised like a spear, golden eyes glowing faintly in the shadows. Maladrie trailed beside him, her silhouette more apparition than flesh, black silks flowing as if stirred by a wind that did not touch the world around her. They spoke no words, no signal passing between them. None were needed. Their quarry was close. A distant rumble broke the hush. The ground trembled, and the trees ahead shuddered as something massive shifted its weight. The air thickened with the musk of sweat, stone, and steam. Then came the roar. It was a sound so primal it seemed to claw through the marrow of the forest, tearing silence apart and sending flocks of birds shrieking skyward. The creature came into view. Once Edward, now a troll—his body a hulking mountain of orange-brown muscle, veins of sickly light glowing beneath the surface. His claws sank into the earth as though it were clay, and steam vented from his skin in furious bursts. His eyes, fiery furnaces, swept the clearing with wild, animal rage. The hunt was over. The strike began. Maladrie’s hands lifted, shadows unraveling from her form in thick coils. They snaked forward like living chains, wrapping the troll’s arms and throat. He bellowed, straining against the bonds, tearing up chunks of earth as his feet gouged furrows in the moss. Anubis sprang into motion, staff spinning, crescent blade flashing in and out of phase with reality. Each strike cracked against the troll’s limbs and chest, sparks of displaced energy bursting outward with every blow. The beast fought with raw fury. One massive swing shattered a tree into splinters, another tore boulders free from the ground and hurled them blindly into the shadows. But every thrash only tangled him further in Maladrie’s bindings. Each time the troll lurched forward, Anubis was there, staff striking, blade searing through the mist. The struggle dragged on, brutal and unrelenting. The clearing became a ruin of uprooted trees and craters gouged deep into the soil. But slowly the monster’s strength waned. Its roars faltered into ragged growls, its movements slowed beneath the relentless choke of shadows and steel. Finally, with one last convulsive lurch, it collapsed to its knees and then forward, bound completely, its heavy breaths rattling the ground. Only then did silence return to the forest. Anubis stood over the subdued troll, his staff angled at its throat, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. Maladrie’s shadows cinched tight, holding the beast in place, her eyes glimmering faintly in the dim light. The silence lingered until Anubis finally lifted his gaze to the horizon. A faint shimmer still danced where the portal had closed minutes before. “They’re here,” he said, his voice a low growl carrying through the mist. “William and his pack. The scent of their passage lingers.” Maladrie’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she whispered, her voice smooth and cold. “Let them come. Their arrival will be… useful.” The troll snarled weakly, struggling against its bonds, but Maladrie’s shadows only tightened, and the forest once more sank into uneasy stillness—waiting for what would follow. The three of them disappear into a portal in which they came from. The seven of us pressed forward through Draca’s winding dirt roads, our footsteps blending with the gentle rustle of the wind through pine and oak. The air was crisp, carrying the faint aroma of woodsmoke from hearths and cooking fires in the town ahead. Then, the stillness was shattered—an alarm began to wail. It wasn’t a typical siren; its drawn-out, rising howl bore an unsettling resemblance to old-Earth tornado warnings, a sound that somehow reached into the primitive parts of our minds and gripped our instincts in ice-cold fingers. My eyes snapped upward. Above us, high in the upper atmosphere, the Wraith Pillars—those towering, unnatural spires that could tear holes into other realms—were active again. Black shapes like floating monoliths pulsed faintly, their crystalline tips glowing in a sickly red hue. From their apexes, they poured streams of glittering black shungite dust, a fine particulate haze that shimmered like powdered obsidian as it drifted downward. The dust swirled with unnatural patterns, refusing to be carried off by the wind, as though guided by an invisible hand toward the ground below. That was all the confirmation we needed—the Wraith was preparing to breach Draca again. The demons were coming. I exchanged a sharp nod with Serenity, Valrra, and Emily. No words were needed. We powered up our armor, the hum and clack of locking plates and energizing servos echoing in the tense air. Crimson and silver lights flared across our suits, the faint heat of plasma capacitors warming the air around us. Each of us reached for our swords—steel edges bonded with shungite, their surfaces etched with glowing runes designed to channel energy directly into a demon’s body. My own chainsword, Revenge, purred hungrily, its teeth spinning slowly like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. The first tremors of shadow whispered across the soft moss and stone of Draca’s streets, a warning of the approaching Wraith. From every corner of the town, from narrow alleys and open fields beyond the high walls, the Viking and Anglo-Saxon warriors emerged, their armor catching the faint sunlight, polished graphene plates gleaming like black glass with silver knotwork etched into every curve. Animal pelts draped their shoulders, trophies of hunts past, contrasting against the futuristic energy swords in their hands. Heavy axes radiated heat along their edges, shields embossed with spirals and beast motifs braced for impact. The sky above darkened as the Wraith began to materialize. First, faint rips in reality shimmered ahead, quivering like heatwaves. From these rifts, the demons emerged—grotesque, bat-faced warriors with jagged horns curling from their skulls, their exoskeletons orange-red and glinting with molten veins. Flaming swords sparked as they swung, arcs of energy lancing into the air. Slender Demonettes followed, moving with predatory grace, their clawed hands ready to rend flesh and metal alike. I moved forward, chainsword Revenge whirring to life, its shungite runes glowing with a pulsing light. Emily was beside me, her green eyes sharp, her blade tracing arcs of silver crystal in preparation for the onslaught. Serenity adjusted her stance, sword ready, while Haj Tooth crouched low, aiming her energy axe at the advancing Demonettes. Valrra and Deathskull stood back, observing, waiting for the precise moment to intervene. Droid L-84 moved systematically, calculating trajectories, issuing silent commands to the allied warriors. The Demons charged. Their feet struck the ground with the force of small earthquakes, the sound of claws against stone and the hiss of flaming blades filling the air. The Viking and Anglo-Saxon warriors responded immediately, forming disciplined lines. Shields collided, axes swung, and energy swords met their fiery counterparts with sparks and ringing echoes. Every strike carried the weight of desperation and skill. My chainsword shredded through demonic flesh, the runes channeling energy that disrupted their unnatural forms. Emily’s silver arcs erupted from the ground, capturing the smaller Demonettes and holding them long enough to fall beneath our blades. Serenity’s sword sang as she sliced through the air, kinetic trails scattering enemies off balance. Haj Tooth’s red energy axe streaked through the chaos, precision strikes that felled foes before they could reach the walls. The battlefield became a blur of motion and color. Sparks, fire, and shungite energy lit up the dim alleys and open fields, reflections dancing in the clear canals that wound through the town. The Wraith tore at the environment itself, clawing at the streets and buildings as though reality could be bent to their will. Yet the defenders held. The human warriors braced, their shields absorbing the brunt of the attacks, axes and swords striking with disciplined ferocity. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, singed metal, and scorched earth. The sound of running water from the town’s canals mixed with the roar of engines and the clash of steel. Every movement, every swing, every pulse of energy from our weapons pushed back the tide of darkness, even as more demons poured through the shimmering rifts. Emily and I moved together, cutting through the densest clusters, our motions in sync as if instinctively connected. Serenity moved fluidly around Haj Tooth, protecting her from flanking Demonettes. Droid L-84 slashed with precise efficiency, calculating angles faster than any mortal could. Valrra and Deathskull coordinated the strategy from the rear, their presence a stabilizing force amid the chaos. Though the Demons were relentless, our line did not falter. The combined might of Immortals and mortal warriors created a bulwark of steel, shungite, and magic. Every advance by the demons was met with resistance, every attempt to breach the town walls answered with discipline and fury. The first contact of battle had begun in earnest, and Draca’s defenders were determined to stand, no matter the cost. In the chaos, Emily and I fought like cornered beasts. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—only movement, reaction, and the pure animal drive to annihilate what was in front of us. Emily’s blade arced through the air in sweeping, efficient cuts, cleaving through demon torsos as though she were harvesting wheat. Her movement burned with a fierce determination that made even the larger demons hesitate for a fraction of a second—and in battle, a fraction was all it took to die. I was less precise and more brutal, letting Revenge’s motorized teeth bite deep into flesh and armor alike, sending showers of red ichor and sparks in every direction. I didn’t bother with defensive maneuvers; these things had declared war on my people, and I meant to erase every last one in front of me. The shungite dispensers above did their work well—the black dust fell over the battlefield like a cursed snow, eating away at the demons’ unnatural vitality. Their movements grew sluggish, their regeneration slowed to a crawl. It made killing them easier, though no less exhausting. The ground beneath us became slick with the remains of the fallen, each corpse dissolving into ash-like residue once the shungite had fully done its work. Through the chaos of the battlefield, my attention locked on two figures whose presence seemed almost otherworldly. The first, a Viking warrior, moved with a predator’s grace, his dark armor etched with silver filigree and a striking owl motif painted across the visor. Every inch of his body exuded controlled ferocity—the way he lunged through the demon ranks, twisting and spinning mid-air, made it clear that he was no ordinary soldier. His shoulders rolled with each strike, his gauntlets slamming into foes with the precision of a master craftsman, each blow devastating, each recovery flawless. The wounds he took seemed to vanish almost as quickly as they appeared; a slash across his chest healed under a faint veil of shungite dust, the torn flesh knitting itself with a subtle glow that left a faint trail of shimmering particles in the air. Beside him moved a woman clad in dark auburn armor that gleamed like molten copper in the harsh battlefield light. Her visor mirrored his, the same stylized owl insignia marking her as an equal. She wielded a double-headed red energy axe, its blades humming with contained plasma, arcs of faint red lightning crackling along the edges. Each swing was effortless yet lethal, slicing through demon after demon, the kinetic energy sending bodies flying like rag dolls. A spear slammed into her shoulder, embedding itself deep, but she extracted it with one smooth motion, returning the blow with a spinning arc that cleaved a demon in two, sending sparks and ichor into the air. Even her stance carried weight—feet planted with perfect balance, torso twisting just enough to maximize force while minimizing exposure, the flowing rhythm of attack and defense marking her as an Immortal, someone born for battle yet honed through centuries of practice. Cole’s movements were precise yet wildly fluid, almost chaotic to any observer not attuned to his timing. He leapt from debris to debris, spinning in mid-air to land perfectly on an overturned cart, using it as a platform to drive a gauntleted fist into a demon’s jaw, shattering bone. Hanna mirrored his fluidity, their fighting styles perfectly complementary. She advanced like a whirlwind, each swing of her axe releasing bursts of energy that set the ground alight, cutting pathways through the demon hordes while Cole’s strikes anchored the momentum. I watched as Hanna pivoted on one boot, her armor creaking softly under the strain, and then swung her axe with a vertical arc that decapitated two demons at once, the red plasma trailing behind in a glowing smear before snapping back to her grip as if alive. They weren’t merely fighting—they were rewriting the rules of the battlefield. Ordinary laws of physics seemed to bend around their movements. A demon’s claw caught Cole across the shoulder, and yet he spun, flipping backward over its head, landing with knees bent, sword slicing in a clean horizontal line that severed the creature’s arm before it could react. Hanna moved beside him like a shadow twin, her axe carving glowing arcs that left long trails of heat and light in the air, each impact resonating in a way that seemed almost musical. The two of them were a storm, impossible to predict yet mesmerizing in its lethal beauty. Around them, demons fell in droves, but still the battle raged. The air vibrated with the roar of plasma, the clash of energy blades, and the sickly shriek of alien metal tearing. Cole leapt again, landing on the back of a massive horned demon, planting both hands on its shoulders, and drove it into the ground, crushing it with unstoppable force. Hanna followed, spinning her axe through the beast’s chest as she landed gracefully on the rubble-strewn street. The synchronization of their assault was uncanny, as if they could read each other’s thoughts, each strike and counter anticipating the other’s movement by the blink of an eye. I realized then, without any doubt, that these were Immortals, warriors whose skill and power were on a scale beyond anything I had seen. They were the very beings we had come to Draca to find, and yet the battle offered no pause, no opportunity for recognition or greeting. I returned my attention to the horde pressing against us, the chainsword teeth of my Revenge spinning. The demon warrior, massive and jagged-limbed, lunged with a force that nearly sent me skidding across the cobblestones. Its jagged, blackened blade slammed against my helmet with a deafening clang, reverberating up my spine. For a heartbeat, the world spun in chaotic arcs of crimson and shadow, but training and instinct immediately took over. I caught the demon’s weapon mid-swing, feeling the alien vibration pulse up my arm as it struggled against my grip. The weight of its strength was nothing compared to the precision of the Immortal reflexes honed over centuries. With a sharp, brutal twist of my gauntlet, I wrenched the blade from its grasp. The alien metal shrieked as it tore free, and the sound cut through the din of battle like a warning. My fist crushed the demon’s clawed, misshapen fingers, bones snapping like dry branches beneath the reinforced plating. The creature howled in disbelief and rage, a sound warped and inhuman, before I activated Revenge. The chainsword roared to life, the motorized teeth spinning with an almost hungry fury. I swung it in a horizontal arc, the chain biting deep. Red ichor erupted in a molten spray, streaking across the cracked streets as the demon’s head separated cleanly from its shoulders. Its body hit the cobblestones with a wet, final thud, and the vibration ran up my boots, anchoring me in the reality of the fight. For a moment, silence spread across the streets, heavy and complete. The last of the Wraith forces, their forms flickering between corporeal and vapor, disintegrated into fine dust. The shimmering breach seals flickered once and then snapped shut, leaving the streets of Draca eerily still beneath the unbroken, pale sky. Relief began to ripple outward, subtle at first, as the defenders realized the threat had passed. Across Vikingnar, planetary comms confirmed the news: other towns and cities had repelled their attackers, the planetary defenses holding firm against the Wraith incursion. The warriors around us exhaled, lowering their weapons, some in disbelief, others in raw, exhausted triumph. Our planetary defenses worked, and everyone cheered. Emily slammed her armored chest into mine in a triumphant chest bump, the force nearly knocking her back. The red glow from her visor caught mine, the intensity in her eyes magnified by the eerie illumination of her display. I laughed, a deep, genuine laugh that had been absent for far too long. The sound carried across the battered plaza, mixing with the distant cheers of warriors and the soft hiss of dissipating energy. CHAPTER 17: "RISING RISK" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 10: "HEROES RETURN" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" Back at Money Creek, the once-mighty mech stood like a fallen titan, its joints hissing with escaping steam and its outer plating scorched from the battle in the skies. Deep gashes tore through its armor, exposing shattered servos and fried neural wiring. When we tried to activate the auto-repair sequence, the system sputtered and died, its core reactor emitting a faint, irregular pulse—like the last heartbeat of a dying beast. We knew then it wouldn’t walk again. There was no time for salvage. No parts to spare. We left the mech behind, half-submerged in the creek's muddy banks, a broken monument to a battle won by inches. Money Creek was quiet again, as we emerged from the cockpit, and began our descent to the ground. The cicadas hummed, filling the forested riverbank with their steady metallic rhythm. The water murmured along the rocks, oblivious to the battle-worn mech crouched like a titan at the tree line. Its armor panels steamed from residual heat, blackened in some places, scorched in others. A silent giant among suburban serenity. I sat on a moss-covered boulder, my left arm wrapped in a cooling nanogel sleeve. The skin-tissue beneath still throbbed from the overload of the neural feedback system, but it was healing—slowly. The sun filtered through the trees overhead, casting flickering gold over Deathskull as he worked beside the river, his slender fingers manipulating a holotablet that glowed with streams of crimson and green data. “We really left a crater in the Wraith,” I muttered. Deathskull said nothing. He was focused. Eyes behind his bone-gold mask, scanning the probes he’d launched into the atmosphere just minutes ago. Three of them zipped past the clouds in silent arcs, spraying Earth’s surface with scanning pulses. He didn’t look up when the beeping started. I did. The display on his holotablet spiked violently. Red bars rose like towers. Circular glyphs formed at the edges of the screen and began to rotate—counterclockwise. The data streaming across the screen was jagged, inconsistent. Something below the planet’s crust had disrupted the scan. “What the hell is that?” I asked, rising slowly, my boots crunching twigs. “An anomaly,” Deathskull said. His voice was low, more curious than afraid. “A power source. Deep underground. It’s unstable, old, and somehow... waking up.” I leaned over his shoulder. The scan image was fuzzy, distorted by strange feedback loops. The coordinates blinked just west of our location—somewhere beneath the central plains. “You think the Greys had Wraith-related tech?” He hesitated. “Maybe. Or worse.” The air around us seemed to change slightly. Charged. As if the very soil below knew we’d glimpsed something that had remained hidden for eons. But there was no time to investigate. Not now. “We need to return to Vikingnar,” I said. “We’ve got to warn the others.” Deathskull nodded. “The portal we used on the mech is closed. But the drop ship still has enough charge to breach orbit.” We turned toward the clearing, where the drop ship sat like a sleeping hawk—sleek, gunmetal gray, and humming softly in the afternoon light. Its triangular wings caught the sun as we approached. The loading ramp hissed open at our presence, the engines already cycling into pre-launch mode. Honey barked softly from within the ship, poking her head out. The proboscis monkey chattered nervously, still shaken from the recent battle. I climbed the ramp and strapped into the command chair, rotating my injured arm carefully. The ship’s controls recognized my biometrics and began aligning our flight path back to orbit. Deathskull sat beside me, already patching in coordinates for the return to Vikingnar—our fortress star system, our last stand against the tide of corruption flooding the galaxy. The ship’s engines rumbled beneath us. Through the viewport, I watched Earth shrink away as we lifted off. The trees fell below the clouds. The rivers became silver lines across the green. And the anomaly beneath the surface—whatever it was—remained buried in silence. But I had a feeling we hadn’t seen the last of it. We broke through the atmosphere and entered the stars. Back to war. Back to Vikingnar. And whatever waited for us in the cold between worlds. The stars shimmered across the ship’s viewing canopy—slivers of frozen light against the abyss. Inside the cockpit, everything hummed with life. The red instrument lights danced across the metal panels, casting a dim glow on our tired faces. The engines whispered low as they cruised on auto, gliding silently through the folds of space. I sat beside Deathskull, staring out into the void but not really seeing it. My mind wasn’t here. It was somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere simpler. A house in the hills. A girl in the morning light. Green eyes. “Was it a mistake?” I asked, my voice low, barely louder than the ambient thrum of the ship. Deathskull turned slightly, the gold bone of his helmet catching the red light. “Was that a mistake?” “Kissing Serenity,” I said. “Back in the Wraith.” There was a long pause. Then Deathskull let out a low sigh—mechanical and dry. “Yeah,” he said. “It was.” I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, rubbing my temples with one good hand. “She kissed me first,” I muttered, defensive even now. “She did,” Deathskull said with no sympathy. “And you let her.” I bit my tongue. My chest tightened. “Emily wouldn’t be pleased,” he added, “assuming she’s still waiting for you.” That hit me harder than it should have. I stared at the floor of the cockpit, letting the silence wrap around my bones like ice. “What’s wrong with me?” I finally asked. Deathskull didn’t respond right away. He adjusted a control, muting the engine drone in the cabin, then turned to me fully. “She’s gotten into your head,” he said. “Maladrie. The Goddess of Excess. She doesn’t need to conquer you in battle. She only needs you to drown in every craving, every impulse.” I frowned. “So how do I fight that?” Deathskull folded his arms. “You don’t fight it with guilt. That only feeds her. You fight it with purpose.” I stared at him. “How do I stay loyal to Emily... when I’m filled with lust?” “That’s not a question for me,” Deathskull said. “That’s a question for her.” “What do you mean?” He looked at the monitors. They reflected in his golden visor like ghostly glass. “We’ve been gone longer than you think.” My stomach dropped. “How long?” There was another long pause. “Seven years,” he said quietly. The air left my lungs. “No,” I breathed. “No way. We didn’t time-jump that far. We were—Deathskull, we were only gone a few days.” “Time is irrelevant in the Wraith. The deeper we traveled into the hell realm, the more distorted our perception became. On Vikingnar, and Earth... seven full years passed.” I couldn’t speak. The silence pressed down on me. I could feel the blood draining from my face. Emily... waiting, hurting, giving up. Or worse—moving on. Marrying someone else. Raising children I’d never know. I clenched my fists. My injured arm flared with pain, the pilot neural link still healing in ragged pulses beneath the skin. “She’s all I have,” I said through my teeth. I sat back and stared at the void. “Then we go home,” Deathskull said with a nod. He leaned over the console, entering a new sequence. The ship responded with a hum of power, rerouting toward Vikingnar. The star map folded inward as the drive wound up to lightspeed. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said. “You’ll get your answers then.” I didn’t move. Outside the ship, the stars stretched thin, then vanished into streaks as the drop ship ripped through space, chasing a world and a woman I wasn’t sure still remembered who I was. But I had to find my Emily so she could save me from myself. Emily is the only woman I trust, love, and like. The stars outside shimmered like broken glass scattered across a void. Vikingnar was still far ahead, hidden behind a curtain of interstellar gas and fractured light, but my thoughts were lodged firmly in the past—in Earth’s soil, in ancient ruins, in gods that once ruled and fell. I leaned back in my seat, the ship humming as it coasted through warp. “Deathskull,” I said, my voice low, nearly drowned by the engine’s subtle vibrations. “What do you know about Grey's technology? And why the hell was some of it buried on Earth?” Deathskull tilted his masked head slightly, eyeing me from across the glowing interface. His fingers tapped through a few layers of telemetry, then paused. “Not much,” he admitted. “There are fragments of old archives—banned texts, celestial manuscripts. I've seen illustrations. Diagrams. Tools beyond comprehension. Their language was clean, geometric... almost like music carved into glass.” I could see the flicker of concern beneath his hollow eyes. Deathskull wasn’t one to admit uncertainty, but the Grey’s—those ancient architects—were a mystery even to him. “They had a god,” I said slowly. “Or something like it. I saw him. Caged. Weak. Dying… trapped beneath the Hag’s palace. Maladrie—she killed him. Not with brute force. She consumed his meaning. She devoured belief.” Deathskull went still, his posture suddenly rigid. “If the goddess of excess is strong enough to unmake a god of the Greys… then she’s metastasizing. A corruption on the latticework of reality itself. And if the Greys fell under her shadow, there’s no telling what else has.” My breath caught in my throat. “She’s spreading, Deathskull. She’s not just influencing hearts or minds—she’s fracturing civilizations. This isn’t just about Earth, or Vikingnar, or even the Red Dragon Empire.” He nodded grimly. “It’s a cosmic plague. Gluttony in spiritual form. We’ve seen her minions— Wraith-demons, but she’s using them to test the hull of our dimension. Every breach weakens the veil.” I clenched my jaw. “Then tell me. How do we fight Her & The Shark People, all at once?” The air felt heavier. The ship’s lights dimmed slightly as Deathskull tapped into the command terminal. A schematic bloomed across the display—a massive coil-shaped engine once designed as a Wraith filter. We had used a smaller prototype of it before to stabilize portals and keep rogue entities from breaching. But this… this was different. “We supersize it,” Deathskull said quietly. “Convert the Wraith device into black hole. Feed it dark energy. Instead of keeping things out, we turn it into a gateway. A one-way hole. Anything corrupted, infected, or interdimensional gets sucked in. Hive fleets. Shark aberrations. Wraith demons. All of them get sucked into the hell dimension.” He looked up at me. “We bait them. Let them think Earth is still vulnerable. When they descend, we open the maw.” I stared at the schematic. The device’s radius would devour half the planet. Earth’s crust would collapse into its own imploding metaphysical event. Nothing would survive. “It’ll destroy the Earth,” I said flatly. Deathskull didn’t blink. “Yes. But it might save the galaxy.” I leaned forward, gazing into the schematic as if it held my soul. Earth—home, battleground, grave—was a small price to pay for the salvation of trillions. “I’m in,” I said. “But we need to meet with Emily.” I closed my eyes for a moment. I could still feel her presence like a ghost at my side—fierce, calculating, stubborn to the end. She might be the final piece to this puzzle, the variable Maladrie hadn’t accounted for. We had no time to waste. Deathskull was already keying in the coordinates. Signals reached out across quantum currents, searching for Emily’s last known signature. Somewhere out there—maybe in Vikingnar’s dark cities or drifting among Red Dragon satellites—Emily was waiting. Or fighting. Or hiding. The planet of Skaalandr stretched wide beneath a pale blue sky, its jagged cliffs and crystalline trees catching the late morning light. Wind coiled around the mountaintop like a silent sentinel, brushing against Emily’s skin as she climbed higher, carrying a bundle of white-bloomed veyla flowers in her arms—flowers that only grow once a year on the edge of winter. Each step up the stone path was slow, deliberate, as if her soul weighed more than her body. The silence of the ascent mirrored the quiet ache within her, a pain that had no outlet, no clear name. Grief had matured into a hollow calm, but it still clung to her like frost. She reached the summit, a narrow bluff lined with obsidian stones, where Serenity’s grave stood—carved from luminous onyx and inscribed in the ancient tongue of Skaalandr. Emily knelt beside it, placing the veyla flowers at the base, letting her fingers linger against the cold polished surface. Her breath trembled. “I miss you,” she whispered to the stone, voice breaking under the weight of suppressed emotion. “I miss both of you. Every day.” Her eyes fluttered shut as if seeking Serenity’s spirit somewhere in the back of her mind. “Why does everyone I care about vanish, or die, or... change?” Her voice dropped to a murmur, tears lining the corners of her eyes. “Please. Please... just bring him back. Bring William back.” Emily collapsed into a quiet sob, arms folded atop the grave marker, her shoulders shaking in the mounting wind. She hadn’t cried in weeks, holding herself together with sheer resolve, but the emptiness now breached the dam of her strength. She stayed there, motionless, eyes shut. Then a tremor beneath her palms made her flinch. A subtle vibration thrummed through the earth. Emily looked up. The tombstone pulsed with an unnatural glow—silver at first, then a violent burst of iridescent holy light. A shockwave radiated outward, hurling petals and leaves in every direction. The stone cracked down the middle, not with violence but with divine force, the kind that made the air feel heavy and clean. Light spilled from the rupture. Then—emerging as though born from the sun—came Serenity. Her form shimmered like glass catching moonlight, armor plated in gold and white, her eyes glowing with Wraithfire. She hovered inches off the ground as the light slowly ebbed, and Emily backed away in breathless awe. Serenity’s voice was soft but radiant, echoing with subtle power. “Emily... don’t be afraid.” Emily stared, paralyzed. “H-How? You were dead. I buried you myself—how are you—?” Serenity descended, feet gently touching earth. “William and Deathskull brought me back. They gave me a gemstone —made by the Lord of the Wasps—that was capable of restoring souls from Wraith-bondage. It called me back.” Emily looked down, overwhelmed. “So... he’s alive?” “Yes. But not safe.” Serenity walked forward, her boots crunching the stone. “There’s a growing evil in the Wraith. Maladrie’s.” Emily blinked, her face tightening. “I’ve heard of her. I read about her perverted behavior in manuscripts.” “She doesn’t just seek pleasure,” Serenity said gravely. “She thrives on excess—on the surrender of identity through pleasure and indulgence. It’s how she converts people. She can corrupt a man’s loyalty without a sword, make him betray the one he loves without even knowing he’s been unfaithful.” There was a long pause. Serenity looked down. “I kissed him. In the Wraith. Not out of desire... but to test him.” Emily’s heart slowed. Her stomach churned. “What... Did he do it?” “He hesitated,” Serenity admitted, her voice growing quiet. “He didn’t pull away. His memories of you—of Earth—are being unraveled slowly. Maladrie is trying to make him forget why he fights. He’s slipping away from you.” Emily stepped back, her mind spinning. She wanted to scream, to cry, to punch the air. Instead, she whispered, “Why are you telling me this?” “Because it’s not too late,” Serenity replied, placing a hand on Emily’s shoulder. “He’s still himself... but for how long? If we don’t act soon, he’ll be lost forever. You’re the one tether he has left.” Emily turned away, clenching her fists. The wind picked up again, as if the mountain itself was listening. “What do we do?” she asked, voice sharper now. “We prepare,” Serenity said. “They’re coming soon. And we have to be ready... not just for a reunion—but for war.” Back on the drop-ship… Madeline stood before me in the dream, her presence familiar—too familiar. She wore a sleek black dress that shimmered like oil beneath moonlight, its fabric hugging her curves with a confidence that once made her magnetic. Her dark hair framed her face in soft waves, her tan skin glowing gently, and her eyes—deep, dark, bottomless—fixed on me with a gaze that stirred old feelings I didn’t want to admit were still buried in me. Her black leather thigh boots clicked softly on the dream’s unseen floor as she stepped toward me, lips curling into a smirk. Everything about her felt too perfect. Too rehearsed. Too calculated. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing—not with affection, but hunger. The dream shifted around her. The space dimmed. A pressure filled the air, and the soft warmth of the forest glade evaporated into a dry, sulfuric heat. Her body shuddered, and I stepped back. The transformation began slowly. The soft tan of her skin deepened, rippling as if something beneath the surface clawed to be let out. Her once-caucasian complexion flushed into a deep, molten orange, like sun-baked rock. Dark veins surfaced across her shoulders and thighs, pulsing with unholy rhythm. Her eyes—once dark and soulful—became pits of black glass, empty and bottomless. Two thick horns erupted from her forehead, curling back along her skull like a ram’s, ridged and bone-white at the tips. Her smile widened unnaturally, revealing a forked, writhing tongue that flicked at the air like a serpent tasting blood. Then her jaw unhinged. Mandibles slid outward from the sides of her face, spidery and sharp, twitching slightly. Her mouth was now a chasm of jagged, obsidian teeth layered behind the fangs—inhuman, glistening, carnivorous. Her dress dissolved away like ash caught in the wind. Now she stood in a black leather bikini—sinister in design, as if made from the flayed hide of something ancient. It clung to her like armor meant for seduction and slaughter. Her boots remained—black, tall, and gleaming—unchanged, still part of the cruel iconography she now embodied. The glossy leather hugged her muscular legs, every inch of her exuding dominance and decay. She was still humanoid… but only barely. She advanced again, and the world twisted with every step she took—colors bleeding into each other, the sky above darkening with each exhale she made. I tried to move. I couldn’t. I was frozen—caught between who she was and what she had become. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. Madeline was gone. What stood before me now was Maladrie—the Demonette of Excess, the goddess of lust warped into horror. And she had come to haunt me. I tried to step back. I couldn’t move. My heart pounded. My breath was shallow. The air tasted like rust and perfume. The dream turned into a nightmare I couldn't escape. Then—light flashed. Emily appeared from the dark. Her armor glinted like starlight, hair whipping in phantom winds, her expression fierce. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, sword drawn. The blade plunged into Maladrie’s throat, and black ichor sprayed across the scorched glade. The demon shrieked, writhing. Emily ripped the sword free and slashed downward, cleaving open Maladrie’s back, sending tendrils scattering like torn curtains. A final flash of silver, and the demoness dissolved into ash and smoke. The dream faded with her death. The glade melted into darkness. I felt peace return. A quiet hope. Maybe—just maybe—Emily was my anchor. Maybe she always had been. “Wake up.” Deathskull’s voice cut through the haze of sleep like a blade. My eyes shot open. He leaned over me, his skeletal mask lit by the blue glow of the ship’s overhead lights. “You were shaking,” he said plainly. “You okay?” I wiped sweat from my brow and sat upright. “Yeah,” I muttered, voice groggy. “Just a dream... a bad one.” Deathskull didn’t press. He nodded and turned back toward the front of the ship. “We’ve arrived.” The cockpit windows displayed the curvature of Skaalandr below—a tapestry of forests, deserts, and jagged red mountain chains. Twin suns hung on opposite ends of the sky, bathing the planet in dual shadows and shifting light. The clouds shimmered with golden edges, and the winds danced like living currents across the treetops. I stared in silence, heart slowly settling. Despite everything—despite war, Wraiths, demons, and dreams—it was still beautiful. Skaalandr hadn’t changed. We pierced the upper atmosphere, the drop ship rattling slightly as energy shields flared against atmospheric friction. Below, I could see spires of viking cities rising from the cliffs and waterfalls, long bridges of obsidian threading across the landscape like veins of black lightning. Everything was as I remembered—and more. There was something sacred about this world, as if the land itself remembered the blood spilled on its soil, and the legends written across its sky. Deathskull adjusted the console, and our descent became smoother. “We’ll be landing near the hangar,” he said. My stomach knotted. Not from fear—but from something deeper. I hadn’t seen her in what felt like ages. What would she think of me now, after all I’d been through? After what Serenity told her? I looked out the viewport again, trying to calm the whirlwind in my chest. The drop ship soared over rivers and vibrant groves, its shadow a fleeting blur across the peaks. We were almost there. And for the first time in a long time... I didn’t know what kind of reunion awaited me. Thunder grumbled in the distance, low and continuous, like the growl of something ancient disturbed in its sleep. The sky had dimmed unnaturally, shifting from sapphire blue to a moody charcoal, and then—without warning—the rain began. It came hard and fast, sheeting down against the drop ship’s hull, blurring the viewports. Lightning danced between the hills as the vessel touched down near the outskirts of the forested ridge that overlooked one of the river valleys. The place had once been familiar. A serene world under the banners of the Vikingnar civilization. Now, it seemed altered—shrouded in something quiet and ominous. No welcoming party. No patrols. Just the storm. And that’s fine with me. The landing ramp creaked open, hissing as the cool air swept inside. I stepped into the rain, my boots sinking slightly into the saturated soil. The storm hit me like a baptism—cold, cleansing, and merciless. And there she was. Emily stood in the rain, just past the clearing—alone. Motionless. The wind tossed strands of her soaked hair across her face, her dark leather suit clinging to her frame beneath the downpour. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her boots planted firmly in the mud, as if she’d been standing there for hours. I froze. Our eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, everything else—storms, wars, gods, and demons—faded into a low hum behind the sound of rain. Emily didn’t speak. She simply walked forward. No hesitation. No questions. The moment she reached me, she threw her arms around my shoulders and buried her face into the side of my neck. Her body was shaking, but not from the cold. “I knew you’d come back,” she murmured, her voice cracked with emotion. “Nobody believed me.” I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the smell of rain in her black hair and the warmth in her embrace. The weight of every brutal moment I’d endured in the Wraith, every hallucination and false promise, seemed to dissolve in her presence. “I’m here,” I whispered back, my voice raw and tired. “I made it back.” Emily pulled away only enough to look into my face. Her expression was unreadable—part relief, part lingering doubt, but there was no anger. No judgment. Just a hundred unspoken thoughts behind green eyes. “You look like hell,” she said softly. I gave the faintest hint of a smirk. “You should see the other guys.” Her lips tightened into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on,” she said, reaching for my hand. “You and your... friends can come to the house. You need to rest. And we need to talk—somewhere dry.” Deathskull stood still at the top of the ramp, silent and unreadable behind his skeletal helm. He didn’t argue, didn’t object. He simply followed as well as Honey & the Monkey. We turned toward the winding trail through the rain-slick forest path that led to Emily’s homestead. The trees swayed violently in the wind as if whispering warnings in a language older than the soil itself. Even through the dense curtain of water, I could see the glow of her home—faint golden light from the windows, flickering like the last embers of a fire waiting to be stoked again. As we reached the front porch, Emily unlocked the heavy metal door and led us inside. The warmth hit me instantly. The hearth was lit, casting flickering shadows across wood-paneled walls and woven rugs. A pot of something herbal simmered on the stove. Shelves were lined with relics and books, dried flowers, old weaponry, and framed photos that time hadn't managed to erase. The storm outside raged on, but here—it was quiet. Trailing behind us was Honey, the loyal old dog with her shaggy, golden-brown coat, tongue lolling as she panted through the doorway. Right behind her was the Proboscis monkey we’d picked up along the way—a lanky, curious creature with wide amber eyes and a nose too large for its own good. It darted inside with zero hesitation, scampering across the floor, chittering like it owned the place. Emily’s expression was flat the moment the monkey hopped onto the back of the couch and began knocking over a bowl of fruit. “Oh no,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Absolutely not.” Without needing further explanation, Deathskull, ever the efficient one, casually opened the side door that led straight to the jungle canopy. The monkey gave one last bark-like hoot, leapt off the couch, and disappeared into the green wild with zero regret or hesitation. “I already have enough pets,” Emily said dryly as she shut the door. “The dog. And you.” Her words caught me off guard for a moment, but I couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at my lips. Deathskull didn’t react to the joke—he simply knelt beside Honey, methodically stroking her side with a kind of mechanical gentleness that somehow looked perfectly natural. Honey flopped onto her back with a happy grunt, her tail thumping against the hardwood floor. Emily turned toward me as I peeled off my soaked cloak, her expression shifting again. Not softer, but steadier—more resolute. “We’re not out of this yet,” she said, voice low. “You might be back, but whatever’s coming... it’s not done with us.” “I know,” I said, meeting her gaze. “That’s why I came back.” She nodded once, then turned away to prepare the fire for a long night. I looked out the window as lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the dark clouds above Skaalandr. Something was coming. But now… I wasn’t facing it alone. Still in Emily’s house, the gentle hum of the rain outside created a calming rhythm against the windows. The storm hadn’t let up, but inside her home, there was warmth and stillness. Emily led me down the hall into her room. It was neat but lived-in—books stacked beside the bed, a holographic display still paused on some star chart she had been studying. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes watching me carefully. I took a breath, steeling myself before speaking. "What's wrong Willy?" Emily said, as a sweet caring mother. She knew what to expect. About Maladrie. About the Wraith. "That twisted dimension tried to warp me—body and mind. I fear falling in love with you again because I didn’t want to lose control, to become something I hate. I don’t want to betray someone who saw the good in me," I said. Emily didn’t flinch. She listened, her fingers gripping the leather of her jumpsuit tightly. When I finished, she stood and took a step toward me. "Just tell me, you love me," she whispered. At that moment, something shifted. Her presence wasn’t just comforting—it was magnetic. All the feelings I thought had been broken or buried began to rise again, not tainted by the Wraith’s illusions, but fueled by something real. I started to feel desire—not warped or manipulated, but focused, genuine, and grounded in the connection we shared. Emily, dressed in her sleek black-and-white leather jumpsuit and thigh boots, looked sexy. My sexual appetite for Emily's body had risen. My feelings towards her were stronger than I remembered. Her dark hair shimmered under the room’s soft lights, and her green eyes locked with mine, unblinking, unwavering. She moved closer and placed a hand gently on my chest. Her warmth, her presence—it cut through all the noise that Maladrie had forced into my mind. The hunger that witch tried to infect me with faded like fog in sunlight. What I felt now was satisfaction. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, burying my face in her shoulder as I whispered, "I loved you. I always had." Her breath hitched, and she pressed her forehead against mine, whispering something that made me smile. "Finally." We kissed—slow, deep, real. Emily then whispers into my ear, "I can make sure you'll always stay true to me, silly Willy." Emily still looked stunning in her black & white leather Jumpsuit, and black leather thigh boots. I reached down to grab Emily's butt. Her butt which felt nice in my grasp. I playfully lifted her up and laid her onto the bed. It wasn’t frenzied or reckless. Emily tried to crawl away upon landing, but I grabbed her leg, and pulled it back. I started caressing her black leather thigh boots. Emily stuck her butt out, and said, "I guess my leather is sexier than Maladrie's". "You're sexier than that hag, or any other witch that tries to seduce me" I said with urgency, as I undid my pants. I then find a zipper at the back of Emily's butt, unzipped that area of her suit to reveal bare cheeks. I immediately grasped her cheeks which were soft, pliable, and strong. I then got a whiff of her butt, and licked her porcelain skin. I kneel up, I put my cock into Emily's butt, and I humped her for hours. I could hump her for days, years, or forever. Outside, the storm continued to pour, lightning dancing in the distance. But in that moment, inside her room, the war, the gods, the Wraith—it all disappeared. Only we remained. The next day on Skaalandr, the clouds still lingered like a heavy shroud, draping the sky in smothering gray light. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, but a cold mist clung to the air, brushing against my skin like static from an old machine. I could still smell the remnants of ozone and scorched metal from the freak storm that had appeared and vanished without warning. This world didn’t follow the natural rules—it had its own rhythm, strange and unpredictable. Emily walked beside me, her stride strong, shoulders back, head held high. She looked like someone who had survived the collapse of ten worlds and was ready to face ten more. Her black and white leather jumpsuit gleamed in the damp light, the form-fitted armor catching on the filtered sun that broke through the cloud cover. Every time I glanced at her, I felt a strange mixture of comfort and tension—comfort because she was here and real, and tension because I knew how close I’d come to never seeing her again. Deathskull walked just behind us, silent as ever, his movements precise, calculated. The slight hum of his power core was the only sound he made as we moved. He didn’t talk, didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to keep curious onlookers at a distance. As we passed through the streets, I could feel eyes tracking us from every angle. Windows fogged with breath as people watched from inside, some faces wide-eyed with disbelief, others narrowed in fear or awe. No one spoke directly to me, but I caught fragments of whispers, half-hidden in the shifting wind. One voice stood out, a hoarse murmur from a woman clutching a bundle of synth-cloth close to her chest: “He came back from the Wraith.” I kept walking, ignoring the chill that crept up my spine. They didn’t understand. No one did. Coming back from the Wraith wasn’t just about surviving. It had changed me—fundamentally. I wasn’t the same man I’d been when I left. My senses felt sharper. My instincts moved faster than my thoughts. There was something in me now, something that didn’t belong, something I was still trying to define. We approached the capital building, Emily didn’t slow down. Her focus was like a laser—straight toward the mission, straight toward the answers. As we climbed the wide staircase to the main entrance, I noticed a flicker of movement from above—watch drones hovering in near silence, scanning us with red pulses. None of them moved to intercept. They knew who we were. Or maybe they were just waiting to see what would happen next. The grand entrance parted with a low hiss, revealing a corridor bathed in pale red light. The air inside was charged, dense with energy. I could feel it thrumming through the soles of my boots, a deep pulse like the heartbeat of the planet itself. Inside the central chamber, a massive holographic map hovered in the air. Stars spun in measured arcs, systems blinked with coded markers, and thin threads of red drew lines between known conflict zones. But in the middle—there it was. The rift. The place I’d been taken. It had grown. Its edges were fractal now, like a wound tearing deeper with every passing second. Emily moved to the central console, downloading mission briefings, sifting through encrypted communiqués. I could tell by the way her jaw clenched that something was wrong—something worse than before. She didn’t need to say it. I could feel the tension building inside her like pressure in a sealed chamber. Skaalandr wasn’t safe. And the enemy we thought we understood was evolving. Deathskull stood at the far end of the chamber, unmoving, his optical sensors flickering in a slow, rhythmic pattern as he scanned for threats. He was reliable, a fortress of steel and logic. No emotion, no hesitation. I walked toward a wide observation window that overlooked the city. The view was surreal—streets gleaming in the wet light, the buildings shimmering with semi-organic panels that flickered like the skin of a creature dreaming. From this vantage point, everything looked peaceful. But I knew better. Beneath that surface, something was stirring. The Wraith hadn’t just taken me. It had left something behind. A trace. A hum. A frequency that I could feel vibrating just beneath my consciousness. I wasn’t entirely human anymore. Whatever I’d touched, whatever had reached out and reshaped me, it had rewired part of my soul. And I didn’t know if I could ever go back. Then I heard it—a low rumble in the distance, faint but distinct. I looked up and saw the sky fracture into black. A ship descended slowly through the mist, sleek and jagged like a blade, its surface absorbing light instead of reflecting it. No markings. No signal broadcast. It didn’t belong to any faction I knew. The silence stretched until Deathskull noticed it. “That’s one of Cybrawl’s ships,” he said. I turn to Emily in confusion. “Why is there a Cybrawl vessel stationed outside?” “Your Droid L-84 will be joining us for the briefing,” Emily said, as she turned towards the door. She gestured for us to follow, so we did. We continued to walk through the balcony/walkway, and I noticed the skeleton of a dragon was still present, soaring above the lobby floor. I will never view dragons the same way. I got to witness a real flesh & blood dragon in the Wraith. I paused my stride, and I just gazed at the beast's skeleton. Lost in thought. I guess I have been looking too hard. I had no recollection of my surroundings until Emily crept up behind me to hold my hand. “What’s wrong?” “You know, a dragon helped us escape the Wraith,” I said. Not knowing what to speak of next. I could tell there was a sense of urgency in Emily’s eyes. Although, she was still understanding, “Come, we can share stories later.” With that, we walked into the briefing chamber, which was the same briefing room as we left it. There were a few minor adjustments though. A lot of the lights in the room were a warm hue, and holographic screens were once fluorescent ultramarine, now give a crimson glow. In fact, a lot of the lighting in the Capital glows crimson. Same goes for street lights on Skaalandr. I didn’t mind the changes, since I found red to be a pretty color. Although, I had to ask? “What’s with all of the red hun. Seems very festive?” “A lot can change in seven years.” Emily said, as Serenity appeared with Droid L-84 at the door way. She turned her attention towards them. “Good you’re here, please take a seat.” Emily then struts to the panel to activate the holoscreen. While clicking a button, the briefing chambers doors automatically close. I was a bit confused. “Is anyone else coming?” I asked laced with concern. I began to wonder why the love of my life was taking a lead in mission control rather than Joseph. “Where’s Joseph?” “Joseph is dead, Will.” She said, in a calm tone. I was shocked and I didn’t even know what to say. How can a grizzled warrior like Joseph die? I guess I didn’t have a damn clue on how rocky things have gotten during my tribulations in the Wraith! Emily could visibly see the confusion, fear, and shock across my face. “Yep.” Emily continued to speak in a neutral relaxing tone. Although, she escalates the volume of her voice. “He died a few days later after you two left. Joseph was tasked with securing a peace treaty with the Red Dragon Empire. Only to be imprisoned and flayed to death.” Emily was already sitting next to me, although she leaned in to say something valuable. Everyone else was silent. “I was left to continue a war against the Knights. Even after trying to be more open to the Red Dragon’s culture. After re-branding our crest, our banners, our style. Being more welcoming to their citizens meant nothing to their imperial rule. I was left to rule Vikingnar, and lead its people into battle myself. Since I didn’t have a general to lead armies.” The shock went away, I was frustrated. Not with Emily, this whole situation. I was really adamant on making Vikingnar a galactic republic. Although, with a twist of events, my woman was left to her own vices, and thought she could run a galactic civilization on her own. Why? I have no idea. I looked at Emily, and she had that sweet look in her eyes. I just knew that this mess wasn’t on her. Was it on me? Partially maybe. Something happened while I was away. “What happened?” I asked with confusion laced with frustration. “I thought you were going to establish the first galactic constitutional republic. Instead of doing it the outdated way?” Emily sighed, and began to scratch her head. I still pressed her for answers. “Like what happened? And wasn’t Valrra supposed to help you?” I continued, and soon realized Valrra had something to do with my poor Emily being left to handle everything on her own. Emily looked down when I asked, “Where’s Valrra? Deathskull assigned her to help you?” Emily sighed. And with her head down she says, “Valrra is in jail Will.” She looked up at me with innocent eyes. “She’s imprisoned on Cybrawl.” I turned towards the glass table, leaned over to rest my arms, and could feel a migraine rising. I just took a deep breath to ease my anxiety. “Why is she in jail Emily?” Emily points assertively at Droid L-84. Almost aggressively, she says, “Ask him.” If robots had emotions, I would say that Droid L-84 had the posture of a stiff, frightened child. The droid still managed to speak. “I was investigating how I time traveled to Earth through a regular Wraith portal. How we time traveled. All of my leads came back to Valrra, since she’s in charge of containing & maintaining the Immortals in the Vault.” I was struck back by this information, as well as relieved. Since I don’t have to obliterate my favorite droid. Although, I was still apprehensive. Is Droid L-84 explaining what I suspect? “Are you saying she kidnapped me?” “Not only that, she may have been the individual responsible for placing a gift for Emily. The same gift that was in your bag, the first night you stayed at Skaalandr.” Droid L-84 seemed to be confident in his statement. With a look of caution I ask, “So you’re saying Valrra helped the Immortals escape. Staging it as accidents you were blamed for?” Droid L-84 answered right away, “Yes.” I sighed in disgust, anger, and confusion. “Ok?” I said not knowing what to expect. “That would make Valrra a pathological liar. We were all in agreement that Subi placed the extra canister in my suitcase.” I said, as I rested my face on my left hand, leaning over on the table. At that moment I just stared off into space. “Is there anything else I should know about Valrra or the immortals?” I asked as Emily placed her hand on my shoulder. “Yes. From my observations I’ve noticed that every Immortal chooses its host, and will reject anyone who isn’t viable enough to merge with.” Droid L-84 faintly looked at Serenity, everyone did. “That’s probably why the attempt to merge Serenity with an Immortal, failed the first time.” I sighed and I realized we’re going to have to put the mystery of Immortals aside. “Ok, we will deal with this matter later. We still have enemies to face.” The lights inside the conference chamber were dim, casting long shadows across the high-tech glass table that dominated the center of the room. Its surface pulsed faintly with red lines of energy, feeding into a slowly rotating projection of Vikingnar’s star systems, each flicker of light denoting a planet on the brink. The air was heavy, tense—thick with the unspoken weight of recent events and what was still to come. I sat at the head of the table, Emily on one side of me, Serenity on the other. Deathskull and Droid L-84 stood near the entrance, both silent and motionless, their glowing optics scanning the edges of the room. None of us had said anything for a while. We didn’t need to. The silence spoke for us—grief, fatigue, and the pressure of responsibility pressing down like a vice. Emily broke the silence first, her voice quiet but resolute. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers tracing a line on the glowing table. “You asked me how I handled the Shark People and the Knights,” she said, her green eyes distant. “I remembered something you told me… about how sharks respond to sound more than anything else. So I sent out the probes. Lured their fleet away from Vikingnar. Straight toward Red Dragon’s territory.” Her confession settled in the air like dust. I stared at her, reading the quiet guilt in her posture. She wasn’t proud of it—it had been a brutal, calculated act. But it has saved lives. And she’d done it because I wasn’t there. Serenity looked down, her fingers laced tightly in her lap. She was still adjusting to being alive again, and the darkness in her eyes hinted that she remembered far too much from the other side. “They’ll retaliate,” she murmured. “Red Dragon won’t forget this.” “I know,” I said, finally breaking my silence. My voice was low, grounded in something deeper than anger. “That’s why we can’t just sit here and wait.” I reached into my coat and pulled out the chunk of Shungite, setting it on the table. The smooth black stone seemed to drink in the light around it, humming faintly with a hidden energy. “This,” I said, “is going to be the key. Deathskull, I want you and L-84 to head back to Cybrawl. Start replicating this in bulk. We need it to finish the Wraith Device. If we can stabilize it… maybe we can stop the demons from bleeding into our world.” Deathskull gave a subtle nod, and Droid L-84 responded with a soft, electronic chime. They both understood the gravity of what I was asking. I looked at Emily and Serenity, my jaw tight. “While they’re handling that… we’re going to York.” Emily’s brow lifted slightly. Serenity’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need a war,” I continued, “but we need a presence. York is close to Red Dragon’s sector, and it’s an important trade hub. If we can get a foothold there—if we can show strength without declaring open war—they’ll hesitate before trying anything again.” Emily didn’t speak right away. She stared into the holographic stars above the table, her expression unreadable. I could see the weight of the last few months in her eyes. The fear. The waiting. The hope. Finally, she nodded. None of us smiled. There was nothing to celebrate yet. We were all worn down—me from the Wraith, Serenity from death, and Emily from carrying everything alone. But I was back. We were together. And we weren’t going to lose again. The meeting had come to a close, but the energy it left behind buzzed through the corridors like static in the air. Outside the capitol building, the shipyard pulsed with activity. Viking warriors, both human and hybrid, were assembling in the rain-slicked plaza, their boots echoing against the stone as they lined up in precise formations. The storm had passed, leaving the air dense and humid, the sky still bruised with shifting clouds. The scent of ozone lingered. As the warriors prepared for deployment, Emily and I made our way through the long corridors beneath the capital—hallways lined with glowing sigils, steel supports, and traces of ancient Vikingnar craftsmanship embedded into the walls. We slipped into the armory room—a chamber that smelled of steel, gunpowder, and synthetic leather. The lights were low, flickering slightly above racks of advanced weapons and body armor. A long table stretched across the center of the room, cluttered with gear and data tablets. Emily leaned against the edge, pulling back her dark hair into a tie and adjusting the belt above her thighs. Her black and red jumpsuit creaked slightly as she shifted her weight. "I know we’re ready," she said, glancing toward the wall-mounted screen displaying deployment schedules. "But I just wish I didn’t have to leave Honey behind." I nodded, kneeling beside a weapons locker, locking a new plasma cartridge into my sidearm. “Same here. She’s been through a lot too.” Emily looked at me with a hint of concern. “Don’t worry,” she said, slipping a small comm disk into her belt. “I hired a dog sitter I trust. A local from the Skaalandr pet store. She’s trained with wildlife and handled dogs before, back when I was gone for long Raids. She’ll be okay.” I paused, standing up and looking at her—really looking at her. There was a calm steadiness in her that hadn’t been there before. The kind that comes from walking through fire and coming out stronger. “Well, in that case,” I said, reaching into my utility belt, fingers brushing against the pouch I’d kept hidden until now. I pulled it out slowly—a small cloth satchel, slightly burnt around the edges from the Wraith’s touch. “I brought you something. From the other side.” Emily raised an eyebrow, curious. I opened the pouch and poured the gemstones into my gloved palm. The stones were jagged, rough-hewn like volcanic glass, with veins of strange color running through them. Most looked like they belonged in a cave beneath some distant moon. All except one. The pink heart-shaped gemstone seemed... alive. Its soft glow pulsed faintly like a heartbeat, its surface smooth and polished, as if untouched by the chaos of the Wraith. Emily stepped closer, her expression softening. Her breath caught just slightly when she saw it. She reached out and touched the gemstone, and in that moment, something subtle shifted in the air around us. Like a string between two people being pulled taut—and then released. “Beelzebub gave them to me,” I said quietly. “Said to give them to you. I think this one was meant for your heart.” Emily smiled—not the kind of forced smile worn during hard days, but something deeper. Warmer. She pulled me into a sudden, tight bear hug. I felt her breath against my neck, the tension in her shoulders finally giving way, even if just for a moment. “You melted me,” she whispered, half-teasing, half-serious. She slipped the heart gem into her utility belt beside her blade, as if it belonged there all along. The overhead alarm sounded—low and steady. It was time. Emily gave me one last look, nodded, and we both turned to head out. The corridors now swelled with marching feet and flashing indicator lights. Through the arched exit, we could already see our long ship—sleek, dark silver, its hull shaped with runic curves and solar wings folded at its sides. Blue flames pulsed at the engine vents, waiting. The boarding ramp hissed open. I followed Emily across the tarmac, boots striking wet steel, rain still dripping from the overhead rails. She walked with certainty, shoulders back, hair whipping in the wind. I trailed beside her, my mind focused, my hand occasionally brushing the shard of ethereal glass still in my belt. Honey would be safe. The demons will be halted soon. The Red Dragon would soon know we were still here. And this time, we were fighting back. We left Skaalandr to make a statement to the Imperialists. We arrived at York fairly quickly, and everyone was scrambling to the drop pods. The drop pod’s interior was tighter than I remembered. A narrow metal coffin built for atmosphere reentry—cramped, dimly lit, and rumbling beneath our feet as we sealed inside. The walls pulsed with faint blue light from the onboard systems. There were seats, and metallic grips lining the sides. A curved ceiling overhead that made it impossible to stand upright. Emily slid in between Serenity and I as the hatch closed behind us. She didn’t say anything at first, but the tension was obvious. Her hand reached out and steadied herself beside me as the pod began to tremble with the countdown ignition. Then, casually but with steel in her voice, she turned to Serenity. “I don’t want you to kiss my man again.” Serenity didn’t reply. She looked down, her long hair partially covering her face. There was something complex behind her silence—not guilt exactly, but an understanding. A recognition that this wasn’t the time or place to challenge Emily’s claim. I nodded in quiet agreement, not to shame Serenity, but to show Emily she was right to protect what we had. We were already dealing with war, loss, and the encroaching edge of darkness. The last thing we needed was uncertainty between us. The pod jolted violently. Outside, the great doors of the long ship peeled open to the stars. The sky was filled with descending streaks of light—dozens of drop pods launching in perfect formation. We were just another ember falling toward the surface of York. The sound was deafening as we breached the planet’s atmosphere. The outer hull glowed orange from the friction, the pod shuddering and moaning under the pressure. Emily closed her eyes and braced herself. Serenity gripped the side rail tighter, her breath slow and controlled. I just watched the heat ripple across the forward display, already visualizing the terrain below. A flashing red alert indicated our target site was locked in. Ten seconds to impact. The pod leveled out, streaking low over grasslands and thick patches of forest. Through the small viewport, I could see the capital in the distance—a walled city of towering gothic spires and shimmering banners fluttering in the wind. Despite their militaristic legacy, the Red Dragon’s architecture was strangely reverent. Their buildings didn’t crush the landscape—they embraced it. Nature and structure interwoven, as if the city had grown from the soil itself. There was something beautiful about it. And yet, I knew better. Beauty often masked brutality. These were the same people who had torched Vikingnar’s far colonies, who spread imperial doctrine across the stars like wildfire. The pod thudded hard as we hit the ground. Doors hissed open, ramps extended. We stepped out onto a vast field of golden grass, still wet with morning dew. Dozens of other pods landed in staggered patterns around us, hissing steam as warriors emerged—armor glinting, banners raised high, hover cannons already being assembled by our tech crews. The city loomed ahead. Its walls were thick, constructed from blackened concrete and metal alloy. Watchtowers rose along the perimeter, their figures cloaked in red and silver, weapons at the ready—but they did not fire their laser rifles. Designed to penetrate our armor's energy shields. Not yet. There was no open hostility. No attack orders. Only the heavy weight of observation. Emily, her voice crisp through the comm-link. “We hold the field. No moves until the scouts finish the sweep. We’re not here to start a war—we’re here to make them think twice before they try another one.” “Copy that,” I said, tightening the strap on my shoulder guard. “Hover cannon’s coming online.” Serenity remained quiet as she helped unload gear from one of the support pods. Her movements were sharp, methodical. She hadn’t spoken since the drop, but her focus was admirable. We had a history—yes—but right now, there was only the mission. Our warriors began forming a perimeter. Drones zipped overhead, scanning the field and the nearby tree lines. Engineers rolled out the first hover cannon—an angular, hovering platform with a thick energy core in its center. It whirred to life, red pulses lighting up along its targeting array. I looked back at the city, its walls silent, its towers unmoving. There wasn’t much difference between our civilization and theirs. We both lived by strength. We both revered legacy, power, and the dead who brought us this far. The only things that separated us were our beliefs—how we saw the stars, and what we were willing to do to claim them. I felt Emily’s hand brush against mine briefly, a silent reassurance that no matter what came next, we’d face it together. Then I stepped forward, past the hover cannon, toward the high field ridge overlooking the city. They could see us. I watched the Knights emerge from the capital’s walls—row after row of crimson-plated figures, their helmets horned, visors glowing like lit coals. Their formation was slow and deliberate, spreading across the outer corridor like a plague. Emily stood next to me, eyes narrowed, jaw set. “Another peace treaty won’t work,” I told her. “They’ve already made up their minds.” She just exhaled, the sound sharp through her nostrils, and secured the armored disc onto her chest. It magnetized with a metallic click. Thin red lines crawled outward from the center like veins, activating the upgraded nano armor that rapidly expanded across her limbs and torso like a living second skin. The technology was seamless. Familiar. Her silhouette became angular, almost predatory—shoulders reinforced, joints plated, helm wrapping around her face like a silver skull. The visor snapped into place, casting an ominous crimson glow from the slanted eyes. Her entire ensemble—jet black and blood red—merged perfectly with the leather jumpsuit she wore beneath. She looked like a storm given form. We didn’t hesitate. Beyond the lush fields and defensive line, the city gates had opened just wide enough to allow a battalion of Knights to march forward, their forms gleaming beneath the rising light. Their armor was heavier than ours, plated and baroque—draped in red tabards and insignias from a thousand battles past. Energy spears glowed at their sides, and their helmets bore vertical slits like the teeth of some great beast. They charged. They advanced with discipline, knowing their numbers gave them confidence. But numbers wouldn’t be enough. Not today. Emily and I surged forward alongside the first wave of our warriors. The field that once shimmered peacefully in the morning haze now trembled with thunderous footfalls. The air thickened with kinetic pulses, the screech of laser rifles and the charged hum of hover blades clashing against powered shields. The horizon fractured into chaos. I didn’t wait for the enemy to come to us. I plunged into the tide of armored bodies with controlled brutality. My blade, forged from celestial alloy and tuned to my genetic imprint, cracked through even the thickest plating. And pierced chainmail with ease. I was faster than them. Smarter. I didn’t just fight—I hunted. I broke formations, slipped past shields, left confusion and torn metal in my wake. My strikes were precise, my motion constant, and every time their lines tried to reform. I was already within them, turning in order to panic with my chainsword. Emily fought close to me—not behind, but just off my shoulder. Her movements were more fluid than mine. Elegant, even. Her strikes didn’t rely on brute force but perfect timing. Where I shattered skulls and armor, she slipped her blade into joints and neck seams with ruthless efficiency. Her combat style was a dance, beautiful and terrible. Anyone who tried to flank her didn’t last more than a few seconds. No one touched her. I made sure of that. Our target was the plasma shield—an enormous, humming wall of red light that sealed the inner gate to the capital. It shimmered like a liquid forcefield stretched thin across a steel skeleton. At its base, the hover cannon hovered inches above the ground, escorted by a dozen of our warriors in a circular phalanx formation. They formed an unbreakable ring around the machine, shielded by overlapping hard-light barriers and sharpened polearms that rotated in shifting patterns. We stayed close to that formation, anchoring its forward drive. Knights tried to breach the circle, but the moment they crossed the invisible threshold, Emily and I were there—swords meeting them with vicious finality. Blood and circuitry burst into the air. Limbs dropped. Armor folded under kinetic shock. And still the cannon advanced. The field around us turned to a war zone of heat and fury. Explosions dotted the hills behind, where drop pods continued to offload supplies and reinforcements. Overhead, small fighters screamed past, exchanging laser fire with Red Dragon drones. The sky pulsed with burn lines and smoke trails, yet through it all, we kept our pace forward. We reached the shield. The hover cannon activated, its base unfolding like a blooming mechanical flower. Long plasma coils emerged, rotating and locking into place with deep, vibrating tones that shook the air. The weapon charged. Energy collected in the forward lens—a deep orange light that began to distort the atmosphere with its growing heat signature. Enemy troops threw themselves at us in a desperate last stand. They knew what was about to happen. But their desperation only made them reckless. I broke two helmets in quick succession with my chainsword, then rolled beneath a halberd swipe to drive my blade into the gut of another. Emily twisted between two incoming soldiers, leaving trails of black smoke as her magic cleaved open their reinforced chests. Then, the cannon fired. A colossal red beam erupted from the weapon’s core—an uninterrupted stream of incandescent fury. It struck the plasma shield with a sound like ripping thunder, and the barrier screamed in protest. It convulsed, pulsed, then finally cracked—spiderwebs of dying energy crawling across its surface before the whole thing collapsed in on itself with a whiplash of red lightning. The gate was open. Emily and I didn’t wait. We stormed inside with a dozen warriors at our backs. The first line of defense—the outer courtyard—was already being evacuated by civilians. They screamed and scattered at the sight of us, their cloaks and clothes flapping behind them as they fled deeper into the city. The architecture up close was breathtaking: gothic spires of iron and obsidian, lined with living ivy and glowing sigils. Massive statues loomed above us, their eyes lit with energy, their spears pointed skyward. But this wasn’t a sightseeing tour. We pushed through the inner gate into the residential quarter, and that’s when the heavy response came. Dozens of Red Dragon Knights awaited us—this time in elite formation. They were taller, thicker, wearing ceremonial armor plated in black steel with crimson trim. Their weapons crackled with energy—war hammers. These weren’t foot soldiers. These were their best. The moment our boots touched the marble of the inner yard, they attacked without warning. They didn’t shout. They didn’t posture. They moved like ghosts wrapped in thunder, crashing into us with the force of titans. The battle shifted instantly. What had been chaos in the fields became something more savage, more personal, in the narrow confines of the inner city. Every step forward was earned in blood. Every swing of my sword deflected another death. I could barely track Emily in the flurry of violence, but I knew she was near. Her nano-visor pulsed red every time her blades made contact. Her armor was scratched, scorched—but never broken. I fought through the storm with fury in my heart. Fury for the lives we’d lost. Fury for the lies we’d been fed. Fury for the endless push and pull of peace that never came. We weren’t here to conquer. We were here to make sure they never underestimated us again. And the walls of York would remember it. Meanwhile, lightyears away from the blood-soaked plains of York, a different kind of storm brewed in the mechanical heart of Cybrawl. The golden sheen of Deathskull and Droid L-84’s skeletal frames shimmered under the crimson light as they passed through the docking corridor of the main pyramidal structure—an enormous obsidian-black fortress veined with shimmering gold alloys and glowing red seams that pulsed like a mechanical heartbeat. The entranceway opened wide like the maw of some ancient machine god, carved with glyphs of forgotten wars and lit by flickering, vertical lights that descended the walls like blood. Inside, the air hummed with power—raw, technological, ancient. Droids of every class marched in rigid formations across polished floors of dark metal, their footsteps synchronized in a metallic cadence that echoed endlessly. Above them, aerial drones hovered through vertical shafts, and mechanical sentries rotated on rails embedded in the high walls, scanning the halls with red optic sensors. Deathskull paused as he entered the central hall, gaze rising toward the towering atrium ahead. “I see the lights match our new style,” he said dryly, eye sockets glowing brighter. “Nice.” L-84, trailing just behind, chuckled in his own synthetic way—a glitchy, stuttering reverberation of sound that mimicked laughter. “Dramatic, yes. Intimidating? Absolutely.” Droids of various types turned their heads and waved or saluted as they passed. “Welcome home, Commander Deathskull,” several said in unison, their voices modulated and hollow. Others stood at rigid attention, reverent in posture, like mechanical monks awaiting holy guidance. But the momentary serenity was shattered when a frantic, limping droid—clearly battered and scorched—came sprinting from a side corridor, limbs twitching as sparks trailed behind its damaged servos. “Master Deathskull! L-84!” it gasped in panic. “Come quickly! Valrra has escaped and left the vault in ruins!” Deathskull’s eye sockets flared. Without hesitation, he and L-84 pivoted and followed the panicked droid down the winding corridor at high speed. Their feet clicked sharply against the metal floor, heels clanging like war drums. As they descended into the lower levels of the pyramid, the red lighting deepened into a harsher, more alarmed hue—an emergency pulse that bathed everything in a warning glow. The jail area was a twisted mess. The reinforced security doors to Valrra’s holding cell had been torn apart—blasted outward with internal force. The walls were scorched with a strange black residue that pulsed ever so faintly, like some kind of ethereal contamination. Shards of high-density alloy and broken restraint coils littered the floor. The cell, once the most secure within Cybrawl, was completely hollow. “She’s gone,” L-84 stated, scanning the residual energy signature. “Residual radiation is non-elemental. This was an ethereal phase shift—not a mechanical breach.” Deathskull didn’t answer. He only turned and stormed toward the vault chambers deeper in the substructure. As they approached, warning klaxons pulsed across the ceiling. Laser grids flickered uselessly across broken doorways. Two patrol drones lay smoking in the hallway, their chassis warped and sparking, still twitching from the attack. Then they entered the Vault. It had once been a sacred room—protected by dimensional locks, frequency-tuned energy fields, and arcane containment rings powered by the highest concentration of dark matter in the system. Now, it looked like the aftermath of a localized apocalypse. The chamber was massive, circular, and hollow in its center, its obsidian walls etched with containment glyphs and neural interlace panels. But now, all of it lay in ruin. The once-pristine containment canisters, each suspended in anti-grav fields and sealed with quantum keys, were shattered—glass and alloy scattered across the floor like the bones of fallen titans. Some floated, suspended in erratic gravity pulses. Others flickered in and out of phase, torn between physical and ethereal states. And the worst of it—every canister was empty. All of the Immortals were gone. Vapor trails of energy hung in the air, like afterimages of the creatures who once dwelled inside. These were not physical entities—they were ancient ethereal beings, older than the stars, beings of raw time, space, and entropy. Some were barely comprehensible, their forms barely seen by organic eyes. Now… they were free. Deathskull stepped forward slowly, the red glow of his eyes intensifying as he surveyed the devastation. L-84’s voice, usually steady, now quivered with dissonant modulation. “This… is a catastrophic breach. The Vault was never supposed to fail.” Deathskull’s fists clenched. “I guess you had every right to be suspicious of Valrra.” He said coldly. Back on the planet York, within the twisted, labyrinthine streets of the capital city, chaos reigned under a sky bathed in smoke and plasma fire. The brutal clang of metal against metal echoed between towering gothic structures—stone spires interlaced with synth-metal architecture that jutted into the crimson sky like blades. Red banners of the Red Dragon Empire were torn and flapping violently in the wind as flames licked the sides of the walls and fallen hovercrafts lay overturned in the bloodstained streets. The scent of scorched ozone and burning flesh saturated the air. Beneath the thundering clouds, I was a blur of movement, my chainsword roaring like an enraged beast with every sweep. Its vibrating teeth chewed through Death Hammer knight armor with vicious efficiency, sending up showers of sparks and arterial spray. I weaved through the front lines like a storm of steel, flanked tightly by Emily whose acrobatics and ruthless precision mirrored mine. Her blade shimmered with nano-reactive light as she danced through the chaos, black and red armor burning with kinetic energy, visor glowing menacingly over her focused eyes. But the knights were unrelenting. These were not conscripts or rookies—these were the elite. Death hammer. Each Death Hammer knight stood nearly seven feet tall in reinforced armor laced with biomech enhancements. Their halberds were integrated with pulse cores, delivering deadly bursts of energy with each strike. Their shields emitted shockwaves on impact, knocking back even the strongest of our Vikingnar warriors. The battle was evenly matched, even with our technology. The cobblestone plaza near the capitol-building became a blood arena. Laser bolts arced between shattered columns, and the ground trembled with each artillery blast from distant skirmishes. Our warriors pressed forward, forming defensive perimeters behind fallen hover-wagons and crumbled statues. Emily and I surged through the vanguard, our objective clear—get to the capital doors and break the resistance. Then came the traps. Small metal spheres dropped from the balconies above—compact, high-frequency EMP shock grenades. They detonated with invisible force, releasing rippling pulses of kinetic energy and electromagnetic shock. Several of our warriors were hurled into the air like ragdolls, slamming against walls and debris, armor cracking upon impact. The noise was blinding—soundwaves distorted as the energy tore through the ground like invisible tsunamis. Serenity, trying to take cover behind a broken pillar, was caught directly in the blast radius. The explosion knocked her off her feet, and she crashed into a broken metallic column. Her armor cracked, steam hissing from its joints. She lay motionless, her chestplate scorched and sparking. For a moment, the battle seemed to pause around her fallen body. A sudden quietness in the noise. That’s when the storm began. Reality bent. A humming, almost organic vibration flooded the air. The sky twisted, folding into itself like a wounded dream. A rift tore through the dimension above the battlefield—a jagged slit glowing with an impossible blue, lined with chaotic fractals and flowing ether. From within it, a formless shape descended—an Immortal, raw and unshaped by time, composed of layered energy and thought. Its mass swirled like a storm of soul-light, shifting constantly, taking on brief, abstract impressions of limbs and wings before collapsing back into flowing radiance. It descended upon Serenity. The ethereal entity hovered above her broken form for only a heartbeat—and then it plunged into her body like liquid lightning. A shockwave exploded from the fusion, rippling across the field. Blue fire erupted from her chest as the being merged with her soul and spine. Her body arched violently, suspended in air by invisible forces. The cracks in her armor widened as arcs of light surged through every plate. Serenity manages to deactivate her armor completely. Glowing sigils, alien in language, formed across her arms and collarbones as her jumpsuit shimmered into prominence—white leather now glowing with a celestial blue hue, as if lit from within by stars. Her hair flowed upward as if underwater, black strands suspended in glowing gravity. Her eyes blazed like twin supernovae, pure blue and depthless. Heat emanated from her like solar radiation, burning the edges of nearby stone. Her breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling with the strain of containing what was now inside her. Her arms lifted. Then the storm unleashed. Wind descended from above—massive and divine—summoned from the fractured skies. It wasn’t natural. It carried the voice of the Immortal inside her. The heavens darkened with spiraling cloud formations, concentric vortexes lit by pulses of blue-white lightning. Within seconds, a violent tornado formed directly over Serenity, tendrils of wind swirling around her body like a vortex crown. The enemy knights hesitated. Then they screamed. The vortex dropped down like a judgment. Enemy forces were lifted into the air by an unseen, divine force—their bodies spinning rapidly, torn from the ground. Some slammed into buildings. Others collided mid-air, their limbs dislocating as the wind fractured bones and twisted joints. Armor plates ripped free like leaves. Helmets were peeled off by centrifugal force. Some knights were thrown hundreds of feet into the sky only to fall like shattered statues. Blood rained. Red mist cascaded down like paint spilled from the stars, painting the capital’s ruins in crimson. Limbs, weapons, and fragments of armor clattered down among the debris. The sky was chaos incarnate—no longer a battleground, but a god’s fury unleashed. We watched, stunned and still, as the storm consumed our enemies. And then, silence. The wind collapsed in on itself. The vortex disintegrated into streams of fading energy that fell like glitter through the air. Serenity’s body slowly descended to the ground, weightless at first, then heavy. Her knees buckled. Her arms trembled. Her face was slack from exhaustion, and the glow in her eyes dimmed. She fell. Emily ran toward her. I followed. But Serenity was still breathing—barely. Her body trembled as the last of the Immortal energy faded into her bloodstream, now dormant. The celestial glow on her jumpsuit flickered, stabilizing into soft pulses. She had survived. But she was spent. And now… forever changed. Around us, the city was still. The capital gates were breached. The defenders were gone—torn by the divine winds. Fires crackled in silence. Smoke drifted lazily in the now-calm air. Distant sounds of battle still echoed from other sectors, but here, at the heart of the city, the war had ended in blood and wonder. Above, the rift in the sky sealed itself, the last trace of the Immortal’s arrival disappearing like a fading scar in the atmosphere. We stood victorious. But what came next… no one could have predicted. Because when an Immortal chooses a host… the universe always takes notice. CHAPTER 10: "HEROES RETURN" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"