The war had become a slow, grueling battle of attrition, a test of endurance as much as strength. We had fought for years, losing countless warriors to the endless tide of giants, berserkers, and divine champions Odin sent against us. When the Celts pledged their allegiance, I had thought we had finally found the edge we needed. Yet, as the months passed, they began to vanish one by one. It was not the kind of loss that came with battle, where bodies lay broken upon the field. No, they simply disappeared—drifting away into the night without a trace.
At first, there were a few here and there. A warrior who had fought beside me one day was gone the next. A healer tending to the wounded vanished between dusk and dawn. Then it became entire battalions—entire regiments of seasoned fighters slipping away into the void. It unsettled even me. I had known the plan we devised with the Dagda was dangerous, but I had underestimated the extent of his people's willingness to erase themselves from history for the sake of victory.
And yet, their absence was not entirely a loss.
From the shadows, new allies emerged—cloaked figures, their faces hidden behind masks, their movements precise, their blades cutting through Norse ranks with almost unnatural efficiency. They did not speak, did not claim glory or recognition. They struck and disappeared, their presence an eerie whisper across the battlefield. But I knew. I knew who they were.
Odin was no fool; he would figure it out soon enough if he hadn't already. But for now, the masked warriors gave us something we desperately needed—an advantage.
Poseidon had left for Atlantis, retreating to the seas to ensure that our naval stronghold did not fall to the Norse sea gods. It was a necessary decision, though it left a gaping hole in our forces. The rest of us remained, leading what forces we still had, pushing back against the unrelenting onslaught of Asgard's legions and their monstrous allies.
Yet, despite our resilience, despite every strategy we had employed, the war was still not in our favor.
Our victories were hard-won, every inch of ground we reclaimed paid for in the blood of our warriors. The giants still towered over us, their numbers slowly dwindling but never fast enough. The Norse gods had yet to fully commit to the war—Odin himself had yet to take the field, and neither had Thor. That was what unsettled me the most. They were holding back, waiting, biding their time. Why? What were they waiting for?
I clenched my fists as I stared out over the battlefield, my mind racing. We needed to strike harder. We needed something more. Because if we did not find an advantage soon… then Olympus would fall.
Ares was locked in brutal combat with Tyr, the Norse god of war, their weapons clashing with a fury that shook the battlefield. The next, a sickening crack echoed through the chaos, silencing the clamor of battle for just a heartbeat.
Ares' divine sword—his favored weapon, forged by Brontes and Hephestus as a gift to him—shattered into countless fragments, bursting apart like a dying star. The metallic shards caught the dim light of the battlefield, scattering in all directions like embers from a dying forge. I could see the shock in Ares' eyes, the disbelief flickering there for a brief moment before instinct took over and he tried to recover.
But Tyr was faster.
The Norse god barely hesitated. With the cold efficiency of a seasoned warrior, he seized his opening and delivered a devastating backhanded blow that sent Ares hurtling through the sky. The force of the impact was monstrous—far greater than I had anticipated even from Tyr. Ares' body streaked across the battlefield like a comet, smashing through formations of soldiers, toppling banners, and breaking apart the very ground beneath him. And then—he was gone.
Vanished from sight.
But there was no time to grieve. No time to dwell on Ares' fall.
The battlefield was shifting, the tides of war threatening to drown us beneath the unrelenting force of Asgard's might. And before me stood my next opponent, wreathed in a chilling aura of frost and shadow.
Hodr.
The blind god of darkness and winter.
He was motionless, his face void of expression, but his presence alone was suffocating, his power spreading through the air like the creeping fingers of an oncoming blizzard. Frost began to coil along the broken earth between us, a vast nothingness swallowing the dim light that remained. Shadows bled from his very form, twisting and writhing like living things.
And then, a smile—slow, cruel—curled at his lips.
"Hades," he murmured, his voice as empty as the void, a whisper of wind on a frozen tundra. "Silent ruler of the underworld. It is only fitting that you should die in darkness."
I let out a slow breath, watching as the frost crackled against the heat of my presence. "I think not."
Caliburn pulsed in my grasp, the sacred blade gleaming with a golden, inner light, its radiance cutting through the thick veil of shadows that seeped from Hodr's being.
"I am not some lost soul for you to claim, Hodr," I said, my voice even, yet edged with cold fury. "I am death itself."
Then, he moved.
There was no warning—only a sudden, howling gust of wind as the Norse god of winter surged forward with unnatural speed. His blade, wreathed in absolute blackness, crashed against mine, sending an explosion of ice and fire outward, carving deep scars into the battlefield around us.
I barely had a moment to shift my footing before he struck again, relentless and unyielding, his attacks colder than the heart of Niflheim itself. I met him blow for blow, but with every clash of steel, ice spread like a living force, crawling up my legs, threatening to ensnare me.
No.
With a flare of will, I let my primordial flames roar to life, the heat of destruction itself bursting forth from my form. The frost hissed and cracked, melting away in rivulets of steam as I pushed back against his onslaught.
Shadows and embers danced in a deadly waltz, light and dark colliding with enough force to send tremors through the battlefield. Each of my strikes carried the weight of the underworld, the raw, burning wrath of the abyss, but Hodr did not falter.
He fought without hesitation. Without doubt.
Without sight.
And then—he vanished.
The darkness thickened, swirling around me in an impenetrable shroud. It was not the simple absence of light, but something deeper—something consuming. I could no longer see the battlefield, nor hear the cries of war beyond the veil of nothingness.
But I could feel him.
His presence flickered like a phantom, circling, waiting, hunting.
A test.
I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly.
The air shifted. A whisper of movement behind me.
I turned, just in time—Caliburn met his descending blade, the force of his strike shaking the ground beneath me. I did not retreat. Instead, I twisted my weapon, letting the golden flames coil around the steel before releasing a pulse of raw destruction.
The fire struck him squarely, sending him staggering back, his form flickering like a dying shadow. He did not cry out, did not waver—only straightened, his head tilting slightly, as if… amused.
"You are persistent," he murmured.
"And you are delaying the inevitable."
Hodr exhaled, a mist-like breath curling into the frozen air. "Perhaps."
Then the ground beneath me shattered.
Ice spears erupted from below, jagged and wicked, seeking to impale me where I stood. I twisted, dodging narrowly as another storm of darkness surged forward, swallowing everything in its path.
Enough of this.
I thrust my hand forward, and the battlefield trembled as the underworld answered my call. The ground split apart, a chasm of endless blackness yawning beneath us. From its depths, spectral hands emerged—wailing, screaming, grasping. The lost souls of the dead, bound to me, bound to my dominion.
Hodr stepped back for the first time.
I did not waste the opportunity.
With one final, decisive motion, I surged forward, Caliburn's fire burning brighter than ever, slicing through the veil of darkness that had cloaked us.
The blade pierced his chest.
A sharp intake of breath. His lips parted—silent, disbelieving.
For the first time, I saw something flicker across his expression. Not pain. Not fear.
Relief.
The shadows unraveled. The ice cracked.
Hodr's form wavered, his body unraveling like mist caught in the wind, vanishing as though he had never existed at all. The battlefield grew still for a fraction of a second—just enough time for me to take a single breath.
Then, a whisper of movement—so fast, so precise that even my divine senses barely registered it.
A sudden, piercing whistle cut through the frigid air.
Instinct screamed at me to move.
I twisted, Caliburn flashing up just in time to deflect the incoming projectile. The force behind it sent vibrations through my arm, and the divine arrow ricocheted off my blade, embedding itself into the frozen ground with an impact that sent cracks spider webbing across the earth.
I barely had a moment to process before another came. Then another. Then another.
A storm of arrows rained down upon me, each one shimmering with divine power, their deadly tips crackling with raw energy. They weren't simple projectiles—they were crafted to pierce through gods.
I moved, my form blurring through the battlefield, weaving between them with the precision of a specter. Fire and shadow coiled around me, burning some from existence before they could reach me. But Ullr—Asgard's god of the hunt—was no ordinary archer.
A sharp sting flared across my shoulder as one of his arrows found its mark, slicing through the edge of my armor, embedding itself in my flesh. Pain flared, hot and immediate.
I tore the arrow free, golden ichor staining the snow beneath me.
A chuckle echoed from the high ground.
Ullr stood atop a crumbled outcrop, bow already drawn, his fingers steady against the taut string. His piercing eyes locked onto me, calculating, assessing—not with hatred, but with the cold, efficient gaze of a hunter who had marked his prey.
"Impressive," I admitted, rolling my shoulders despite the lingering pain. My grip on Caliburn tightened. "But it won't be enough."
Ullr only smirked, the barest quirk of his lips. "It never is."
Then he fired.
This time, there was no time to dodge.
The arrow streaked forward, but I met it head-on, slashing mid-flight with Caliburn. The sheer force sent a shockwave outward, but Ullr was already moving, vanishing into the thick veil of mist rolling over the battlefield.
Tch. A hunter through and through.
I steadied myself, senses sharpened, searching for the faintest disturbance in the air. Ullr was swift, silent—a predator that thrived in the unseen spaces between battle and stillness.
Then, without warning—
A dagger flew from the mist, aimed straight for my throat.
I barely had time to tilt my head before he was upon me.
Ullr moved like the wind, abandoning his bow in favor of close combat. His blade slashed toward my side, but I parried, forcing him back. He pivoted smoothly, his next strike aimed at my ribs. I blocked again, but this time, his boot slammed into my chest, sending me skidding backward.
The moment my feet touched the ground, another arrow was already loose.
I swiped my sword through the air, a wave of divine fire roaring to life, incinerating the projectile before it could reach me. The heat surged outward, melting the ice in its path, but Ullr had already vanished again, using the shifting battlefield to his advantage.
A chill ran down my spine.
He was circling me.
Stalking.
Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
But I would not be hunted.
I closed my eyes, exhaling. Then, in a single, fluid motion, I drove Caliburn into the ground.
A pulse of pure destruction erupted from the blade. The battlefield trembled as cracks spread outward in jagged lines, splitting open beneath Ullr's feet. He leapt back, but I was already in motion.
I moved faster than sight, closing the distance between us in a breath. My fist slammed into his ribs, a sickening crunch ringing through the air as he was hurled across the battlefield. He crashed into a frozen embankment, snow and ice exploding around him.
But even wounded, even cornered—he refused to fall.
He pushed himself up, blood trickling from his mouth, yet his grip on his bow remained firm. His chest heaved with exertion, but his eyes… his eyes still burned with the unwavering resolve of a hunter who refused to let his prey escape.
"Not bad," he rasped, spitting golden ichor onto the snow.
"Stay down," I warned. "You know how this ends."
Ullr exhaled, shoulders rising and falling. Then, slowly, he lifted his bow once more, pulling back the string with a final, glowing arrow knocked in place. The air trembled, the very energy of the world bending to the divine force gathering at his fingertips.
I sighed.
"Very well."
I raised Caliburn.
Then, in the blink of an eye, I was upon him.
Faster than his arrow could fly.
The golden blade plunged into his chest, piercing straight through.
His breath hitched. His grip loosened. The arrow faded from existence before it could be lost.
He shuddered, then exhaled softly, his strength leaving him.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—his lips curled into a tired smirk.
"Hah… looks like you win."
I held his gaze, watching as the light began to fade from his eyes. And then, like Hodr before him, his form wavered—fading into the cold wind, dissolving into nothingness.
A presence descended upon the battlefield, vast and unshakable, as though the weight of the cosmos itself had settled upon my shoulders.
Vidar.
The god of vengeance. The god of silence. The god of space and, for reasons beyond my understanding, the god of footwear.
He did not rush toward me like a frenzied warrior, nor did he circle me like a hunter waiting for an opening. He simply stood there, his massive frame still as a mountain, his gaze unwavering. An immovable force, untouched by the chaos surrounding us.
The pressure of his presence alone pressed against my very being, an invisible force that made the air thick and heavy. It was not the frenzied rage of vengeance that I expected. It was colder than that. Calculated. Absolute.
He said nothing.
There were no taunts, no declarations of battle. No smug remarks or warnings.
Only silence.
And then he moved.
The ground beneath him cracked, space itself distorting in the wake of his step. His great sword—a weapon forged from the very fabric of the cosmos—gleamed with the weight of a thousand stars.
I had only seconds to react before his blade came crashing down.
I raised Caliburn, meeting his strike head-on. The impact was cataclysmic. A shockwave exploded outward, ripping through the battlefield, shattering ice and stone alike. The very air trembled under the weight of our clash.
Vidar did not falter.
His attacks came in relentless succession, each strike more precise, more devastating than the last. He wielded his sword with a patience unlike any warrior I had ever faced—there was no wasted movement, no unnecessary aggression. He fought not with anger, but with purpose.
He is a vengeance incarnate.
I countered with a surge of primordial flame, my fire roaring to life, eager to consume him. But Vidar was not like the others.
With a flick of his sword, the space between us bent, and my fire was swallowed into the void.
I barely had time to comprehend before he was upon me again, his blade cutting through the air with terrifying speed. I dodged, the cosmic edge missing me by a hair's breadth, but even the sheer force of his swing sent me hurtling backward.
I crashed into the ruins of what had once been a temple, the ancient stone crumbling beneath my impact.
Before I could rise, the stars themselves seemed to shift—no, not stars. Vidar.
He was already above me, descending like a meteor.
I rolled aside just as his sword struck the ground, and in an instant, the earth beneath us buckled and collapsed. Space warped, entire sections of reality twisting in unnatural angles from the sheer force of his attack.
He was trying to erase me.
I shot forward, Caliburn wreathed in black flame, slashing toward his side. He parried with unnatural ease, our weapons colliding once more. The battlefield around us trembled with each strike, as though the very fabric of existence was struggling to withstand our fight.
Vidar remained silent.
Not once did he grunt in exertion, not once did he curse in frustration.
He simply fought.
And in that silence, in that unwavering patience, I felt the true weight of his power.
This was not a god who fought out of pride. Not a warrior seeking glory.
He was vengeance itself.
And vengeance did not tire.
My body burned with exhaustion. Wounds from previous battles throbbed with each movement, ichor staining my armor, my limbs growing heavier by the second. I had fought countless foes this day, and Vidar was the final wall standing between me and the true battle that awaited.
I could not fall here.
I would not fall here.
With a roar, I called upon the abyss, my flames surging to their peak. Darkness and fire twisted together, forming a maelstrom of raw destruction that swallowed the sky itself.
Vidar did not flinch.
He raised his blade, prepared to meet my final strike.
I lunged, Caliburn descending in a golden arc. Vidar swung at the same time, and for a single moment, time seemed to freeze.
Then—impact.
A deafening explosion of energy erupted between us, a blinding light consuming the battlefield. Reality cracked, the ground fracturing beneath our feet, the very air trembling with the force of our clash.
And then—
A sharp gasp.
My blade had found its mark.
Caliburn sank into his chest, piercing through cosmic flesh, golden ichor dripping onto the broken earth.
Vidar exhaled, his massive frame finally stilling.
His grip on his sword loosened.
Slowly, he looked at me—not with anger, nor hatred, but with something that almost resembled… respect.
He gave a single, slow nod.
Then his form wavered, unraveling into stardust, vanishing into the silent void from which he came.
The battlefield grew quiet once more.
I stood there, my breath ragged, my body screaming in protest.