Chapter 31: The Three Beasts

There are moments when the world seems to hold its breath.
Instants when history stops… not because of peace, but because of the promise of an imminent tragedy.
In the most forgotten corners of the nine worlds, ice cracks, lava wakes, and shadows tremble as if they know what is coming. Ancient chains break not only physically, but spiritually as well. Because the true weight of freedom is not what it frees… but what it unleashes.
The proud gods on their thrones have forgotten something fundamental: everything that is imprisoned will one day escape. And everything that is feared will, sooner or later, return.
Today, the balance tilts.
Today, the names once told as legends… walk again.
Because there are beasts that do not bow to time, nor to gods.
And when those three rise together, it is not a simple roar that echoes…
…it is the prelude to the end.

Screams carried from afar, sharp and prolonged, as if pain itself had taken shape. In the gloom of the cave, Loki’s body convulsed with each drop of venom that fell slowly on his skin, burning more than flesh: burning dignity.

“That filthy Jötun is a real burden,” one of the guards grumbled, arms crossed at the entrance. “Why didn’t they just kill him already? At least they pay me well to endure him.”

From the shadows, a trembling voice broke the silence.
“Loki… Loki…”

He opened his eyes with difficulty. His vision, blurred by pain, made out the silhouette approaching in the dark.
“Sigyn…? What are you doing here?”

Another drop fell and made him writhe. His breath was a thread.
“My dear… I’ve come to help you,” she whispered, kneeling at his side with a bowl in her hands.
“You must leave. If they catch you… they’ll punish you.”
“I don’t care,” she answered firmly. “I can’t let you keep suffering.”

Gently, Sigyn held the bowl over her husband, catching the venom before it touched his skin. Her hands trembled, but her resolve was steady.
“I have to figure out how to get you out of here.”
“It’s impossible…” Loki replied in a dull voice. “These chains were forged with a very powerful spell. No outsider can break them.”
“There has to be a way…” she insisted.

He lowered his gaze, eyes heavy with guilt.
“I’m sorry, Sigyn.”
“Why?”
“I was never a good father… our son died because of me. I…”

Before he could continue, Sigyn’s lips pressed against his.
“Our son’s death was not your fault,” she said softly. “The only guilty one is Odin. He killed him. He… and no one else.”
“Sigyn…”

She rose, frowning, and began to strike the chains that bound him. One, two, three times… but the metal didn’t budge. The magic repelled her.
“I must get you out of here,” she murmured through clenched teeth.

A silver flash cut the air. A blade pierced her chest. Blood spattered Loki’s face.
“Guests are not allowed here,” the guard said coldly, withdrawing his weapon.
“Sigyn!”

His wife’s body fell beside him—wounded, bleeding, but still conscious. Loki ground his teeth.
What else do you want from me, God? What else will you take? Why must I suffer this? Why? Why?!

The guard crouched, taking Sigyn’s face between his fingers.
“What a waste… Such a beautiful woman, ending up with scum like you,” he spat at Loki.

With her last strength, Sigyn slapped him.
“Don’t… say… that… about… my… husband,” she whispered weakly.

The guard beat her. Several times. As if he could not stop. Loki watched it all. In silence. Inside, something cracked.
Ah… I see. So that is my fate. To become the villain. Is that it, God?

The guard spat on Sigyn’s face.
“In the end, trash finishes with more trash.”

The ground began to tremble.
“What the hell is happening?” the guard backed away.

The chains creaked. Loki lifted his head.
“I will kill them… I will kill them all. Every one of them!”

A chain snapped with a dry crack. Then another. And another.
“No… this can’t be…” the guard stammered. “I have to warn—”

He didn’t get to move. His arm flew through the air with a dry sound. Loki’s gaze was hollow. Empty. Cold.
“Shut up,” he whispered.

He ripped out the guard’s tongue in a single motion. The guard fell on his back, trembling, begging without the ability to speak.
“Does it hurt?” Loki asked, approaching with a crooked smile. “Does it hurt a lot? I’m glad.”

With a yank, he tore off a foot. The guard screamed. Loki watched without emotion, driven only by a hunger for justice—or vengeance.
“I like that look. Keep… keep suffering.”

He thrust a sword into the man’s abdomen. The man convulsed.
“You will not treat anyone like that again. Not you. Nor any like you.” And with a precise blow, Loki ripped out his heart.

Sigyn’s body lay limp on the rock. Loki, still on his knees, approached her slowly, as if he couldn’t accept that each second was real. Carefully, he lifted her head and settled it in his lap.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he whispered over and over, caressing her face with trembling hands. “I’m sorry…”

His fingers clumsily wiped the blood from her wounds as if that could mend what was already broken. He smoothed her hair, kissed her brow, and gently tried to straighten her dress. The poison, the punishment, the pain… all of it slipped from his mind. Only she existed.
“Forgive me…” he murmured between sobs. “I’m sorry…”

Then Loki broke down. A cry Helheim had never heard—deep, shredding—the wail of a god who had finally lost everything.

Moments earlier, in some remote region of the Nine Worlds, the earth began to shake violently.
“What the hell is happening?” one of the guards shouted, trying to stay on his feet. “Why is it shaking like this?”

The sound of chains breaking cut the air like a funeral bell. When the guard turned, he saw enormous links of magical steel snapped on the ground.
“It’s not…,” he stammered, eyes wide. “Where is it?”

A thick drop of saliva fell from above, right onto his shoulder. When he looked up he only saw an open jaw.
The wolf bit him in two with a single snap.
“It feels so good to eat after so long…” Fenrir said, licking his monstrous tongue.

His eyes narrowed as he took in the horizon.
“Looks like my children did a fine job with those pesky gods… Now it’s my turn.”

Soldiers began to arrive by the dozens, then by the hundreds, surrounding the place.
“They react fast,” the giant wolf thought, baring his fangs with satisfaction. “Not bad.”
“Come… I’m hungry.”

Fenrir launched with inhuman speed. His claws shredded bodies like paper. He bit, crushed, tore without mercy. The snow ran red. Screams were swallowed by his roar.

When silence returned, only one soldier was left alive, trembling among the corpses.
“Please… God… save me…” he whispered, kneeling in the blood.

Fenrir opened his jaws.
But a buzz sounded in his mind.
Bad time to call me, father, the wolf thought, clicking his tongue.

From the top of a mountain, Loki watched him. His silhouette cut against the red sky.
“Don’t complain, Fenrir. The hour has come. The battlefield awaits us.”

Fenrir bowed his head in obedience.
“Received. I’ll go at once.”

He turned to the trembling soldier, who still didn’t understand why he had been spared.
“You’re lucky, human,” the wolf growled. “I hope you make use of this second chance.”

And with that, he vanished into the mist, leaving the man kneeling, mouth agape.
“I’m safe…” the soldier whispered through tears. “I’m safe!”

A boulder, dislodged from a cliff by the tremor, fell at that instant and crushed him.

On the frozen coasts of Nork, the sea began to churn violently. The ice creaked. Something in the depths was waking.
Slangemorder, the Viking captain, lifted his gaze.
“What… is happening?”
From the darkness of the ocean, a red eye opened like an omen.

Back in the cave where Loki had been imprisoned, Odin’s figure stopped when he saw the guard’s corpse on the floor. The chains… broken.
“This can’t be…”
Rage swept through him. A wave of dark energy rose from his body.
“Damn it!” he roared, and the air grew heavy as death.
He thrust his spear into the void.
“It’s time to finish all of this once and for all.”

In the distance, Jörmungandr’s eyes widened. Fenrir roared. Loki descended the mountain with the wind at his back.
War… was about to begin.

Inside a small wooden cabin, cracked by time and cold, a dozen people sought refuge from the outside world. The walls creaked with the wind, and the candles barely managed to push back the darkness. Among them, Slangemorder, the Viking captain, spoke firmly.
“It’s time to go out. We’ve gone too long without food.”

One of the men, his beard tangled and eyes weary, nodded slowly.
“If we don’t do something today… it’ll be impossible to keep the group alive.”

Slangemorder stepped closer and gave him a light tap on the chest with a forced smile.
“Trust me. We’ll keep these people alive no matter what. We won’t let anyone hurt them. They’re the future of humanity.”
“Captain…” the man whispered, moved.

Slangemorder turned toward the door.
“We’ll go look for something. Stay here. Don’t come out until we’re back.”

A young voice rose from the farthest corner.
“Captain! I want to go with you!”

It was Dan, the youngest of the group — thin, his face still marked by adolescence, but his eyes steady.
“Impossible,” Slangemorder denied without hesitation. “It’s too dangerous outside. You’re just a boy.”
Dan took a step forward, never breaking eye contact with his captain.
“I’ve already turned fifteen. If the world were normal, today would be my first mission. I don’t want to just sit here doing nothing.”
“Exactly. The world isn’t normal anymore,” Slangemorder shot back harshly. “That’s why it’s more dangerous than ever.”
“I promise I won’t get in the way. If I do anything that slows you down, you can leave me here forever.”

“Captain,” another warrior interjected, “maybe the boy deserves a chance. He’s shown guts.”
Slangemorder sighed deeply. He looked at Dan once more, with that mixture of severity and resignation only leaders who’ve seen too much loss can have.
“…Alright. You’ll come with us.”
“Yes!” the boy shouted, unable to hide his grin.

The captain pointed to three nearby men.
“You three stay here. Protect the others until we return.”
“Yes, captain,” they replied in unison.

The group set off, pushing through the blizzard. Covered head to toe in furs and blankets, they trudged heavily through the thick snow. The cold was merciless.
“This is impossible to endure,” one of the men grumbled, rubbing his hands.
“It’s the first time in over fifty years I’ve felt anything like this,” said another. “And it’s always dark… the sun never rises anymore.”
Slangemorder said nothing. He just clenched his teeth.
“I don’t even know what day it is anymore,” he finally admitted. “Feels like months since I last saw the light.”

After a long silence, they finally reached the coast. The sea—if it could still be called that—was a wasteland of ice. Hundreds of ships, trapped between white plates, covered the surface.
The captain struck the ice with his spear. He felt it give slightly.
Good, he thought. There’s still water underneath. Maybe… there’s still food.

One of the men called from a ship half-buried in snow.
“Captain… you have to see this.”

Slangemorder approached. Inside the vessel, he found the body of a Viking completely frozen in ice. His expression was calm.
“So this is what happened to most of them…” murmured the captain, kneeling beside the corpse.
“He doesn’t look like he suffered,” said the other Viking. “It must’ve been quick.”
Slangemorder looked away, trying not to think about the chill biting into his bones.
Why was I the one who survived?

“Captain,” another voice called from outside, “there’s no supplies in this ship. It’s empty.”
“So they were returning when they fell,” Slangemorder deduced.
“Yes. They were out searching for provisions,” the man confirmed.
“How about the other ships?”
“No luck… nothing.”

The captain clenched his fist.
“Damn it…”

And then, the ground began to shake.
“What…?” He looked around in every direction. “Everyone, get on the ships! Now!”

The ice beneath their feet groaned as something colossal moved beneath the surface.

The ground shook with unnatural force. The ice cracked as if the world itself were about to split in two. Slangemorder clenched his teeth as he felt the tremors beneath his boots.
“Damn it…” he muttered, his brow furrowed. “What the hell is happening now?”

A reddish glow flared beneath the frozen surface. The captain’s eyes widened the instant he realized what he was seeing — a massive, bloodshot eye opening from the depths.
“Captain!” shouted Dan, pointing toward the ice. “Look at that!”

Slangemorder turned just in time to witness a horrifying sight. Hundreds of marine corpses slammed against the ice from below, as if the ocean itself were vomiting its own decay.
“What in the hell…?” he whispered.

There was no time to think. The surface shattered in a deafening explosion, and from it emerged a titanic figure.
The World Serpent, Jörmungandr, tore through the ice as if it were paper, dragging one of the ships — and everyone aboard — down with it.

The roar that followed rattled their bones. Even the sky seemed to contract in fear.
“What the hell is that?” cried one of the Vikings, paralyzed with terror.
Without taking his eyes off the monstrous shape before them, Slangemorder answered in a steady voice:
“That… is Jörmungandr. The Serpent of the End.”
“The one from the legends? I thought it was just a story to scare children!”
“If it were,” said the captain with a bitter half-smile, “then tell me — what the hell are we looking at right now?”

The ice beneath them groaned dangerously. Slangemorder closed his eyes for a second, weighing every option, every possible escape — but there weren’t many.
If we all try to run at once… the ice won’t hold. We’ll die trying.

“Men…” he said, meeting each of their eyes. “I know this isn’t fair. I know this isn’t what any of you imagined. But… would you fight one last time by my side?”

The first to respond was the oldest Viking, nodding without hesitation.
“Yes, Captain.”

Slangemorder turned to Dan.
“Not you. Go back to the base. This isn’t your fight.”
But the boy shook his head.
“No. A true Viking doesn’t flee from danger. I’m staying.”
“You’re not a Viking!” the captain roared. “You’re still just a child!”
“Dan,” another warrior intervened, “listen to him. If you want to be one of us, you must know when to obey.”

Dan lowered his head, though his fists remained clenched.

From one of the nearby ships, a Viking leapt onto the ice and began to run.
“It’s impossible! We can’t fight that thing! It’s suicide!”
“Idiot!” another shouted after him.
“Come on! We have to run!” yelled another.
“Yes!” echoed one more, panic spreading through the ranks.

“Damn fools…” growled the second-in-command.
Slangemorder raised a hand to stop him.
“Leave them. They just want to protect their families. I don’t blame them for that.”
“Captain…”

The screams grew louder. Jörmungandr, as if savoring their despair, turned its massive head toward the deserters. Its jaws curved into a monstrous grin.
“What is it planning…?” muttered Slangemorder, frozen in place.

The ice exploded beneath the deserters’ feet. One by one, they fell into the freezing waters — but it wasn’t the cold that killed them.
A greenish liquid seeped from the serpent’s body, dissolving their flesh on contact. Their screams were unbearable. Flesh melted away, bones laid bare. The remaining Vikings vomited at the sight.

Slangemorder clenched his jaw in fury. With deliberate movements, he began to fasten his armor. His sword gleamed faintly through the mist of poison.
“Seems our battle will be one for the sagas, Serpent of the End,” he murmured with a dark smile.

Jörmungandr seemed to understand. Its eyes locked onto the captain — and it smiled.
The men still standing trembled. The monster’s presence was overwhelming.

One of them looked at the captain and thought, though he didn’t dare say it aloud:
What is it that keeps you standing, Slangemorder?

The roar of Jörmungandr echoed like a divine sentence — a primal thunder that tore through the sky and froze every last fiber of the men still clinging to life.
Slangemorder gripped the hilt of his sword. The trembling in his legs wasn’t just from the cold… it was something deeper, born from the marrow of fear itself.

Is it even possible to touch it? he wondered, staring at his weapon. A sword forged from gold and scales… and still, can it wound a creature like that?

He turned to his men, voice firm.
“Avoid its venom! Even a drop will be our end!”

Jörmungandr didn’t wait. Its colossal body lunged toward the group, fangs as long as spears descending at terrifying speed. Slangemorder reacted on instinct, deflecting the strike with his sword. The beast recoiled with a low, mocking laugh — but the damage was done.

“Ahh!” The captain stumbled back instantly. His left hand — the one that had brushed against the venom — was already burned to the bone.

There was no time to mourn. The serpent continued its macabre dance, slamming and striking without pause. The Vikings fought back with all their strength, but their weapons barely chipped away a single scale.
One by one, their bodies weakened. Shoulders slumped, arms trembled — exhaustion consuming them whole.

“Damn serpent…” gasped one of the warriors. “Nothing hurts it…”

Slangemorder watched, helpless.
How can we possibly harm it?
He found no answer. And then, the inevitable happened.

A drop of venom shot from Jörmungandr’s mouth — a faint green glimmer — and when it struck one of his men’s chests, the result was horrifying.
The Viking screamed only once before melting away. His skin, flesh, and bones vanished in seconds — as if he had never existed.

“This… this can’t be…” Slangemorder whispered, his throat tight.

Another warrior, driven by fury, charged the serpent with a battle cry. His sword managed to slice its head — but only slightly. In response, Jörmungandr crushed him effortlessly beneath a massive claw. Then it lowered its snout, licked the blood from the ground… and smiled.

“Insignificant humans,” hissed the beast.

The words — deep, mocking — froze the Vikings where they stood. It was the first time they had heard their enemy speak… and that made it even more terrifying.

I can’t move, thought Slangemorder, paralyzed. Is this… fear?

Jörmungandr raised its head, its forked tongue gleaming with venom.
“You disappoint me. Not one human comes close to the one with the hammer. But… I look forward to seeing you again.”

Its tail rose, and with a single sweeping motion, it wiped out the entire field. The screams merged into a hellish chorus. Bodies shattered and flew like rag dolls; blood and snow filled the air.

Slangemorder stood alone.
“What can I do against this?” he whispered, trembling. “Can I truly defeat it?”

“Captain!” The voice reached him like a fragile thread of hope.
Slangemorder turned. Dan was running toward him.
“Captain!”

But Jörmungandr had seen him too.
“How boring…” muttered the serpent, preparing the final strike.

Its massive body launched forward — a living spear, straight at the captain.

And then… it happened.
Dan threw himself forward, shoving Slangemorder out of the way with all his strength. The young body was flung aside by the impact. The monster passed through, indifferent.

When Slangemorder rose, his vision blurred.
“What… what just…?” His voice broke.

On the ground, Dan lay in two halves. His blood spread across the snow — still warm.
“No… no, it can’t be…”

The boy’s eyes still shimmered faintly.
“Captain…” he whispered weakly.
“Dan! No! I was supposed to protect you… not the other way around!”

Dan smiled faintly, struggling to breathe.
“It’s okay… the people are waiting for your return…”
“You still have a life ahead of you… you can’t—”

The boy’s hand rested on his captain’s shoulder.
“It’s all right, Captain… I died in battle… like a true warrior. I’m happy… thank you…”

And then… his breathing stopped.

“Dan!” Slangemorder screamed, clutching him tightly — the desperate cry of a man who had just lost his last brother.

They say that in ancient legends, when a Viking warrior reached the edge of his humanity, something would awaken within him.
It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t a divine gift.
It was fury. Pure, primal, sacred.
That state which separated man from monster.
They called it… Berserker.

Slangemorder roared from the depths of his soul—
and with him, the earth roared back.

A wave of dark, savage energy burst from his body, stirring the frozen sea.
The clouds split apart. The sky trembled.

From atop the cracked ice, Jörmungandr narrowed its crimson eyes.
“So, you were hiding something interesting after all, Viking…” the beast thought, a wicked grin spreading across its face.

“I’ll kill you! I swear I’ll kill you!”
Slangemorder’s voice thundered, more beast than man.

His body became sheathed in a pitch-black armor, as if the night itself had taken form upon his skin. His eyes turned hollow—no iris, no pupil—only an endless void.

“Come then, human,” laughed Jörmungandr, baring its fangs.

But just as it was about to strike, an invisible hum tore through the air. The serpent froze, frowning.
“No… it can’t be,” it muttered. “Not now…”

From the peak of a distant mountain, a voice echoed—commanding, inevitable.
“Jörmungandr! It’s time.”

“Father…? You’ve got to be kidding me—right when I was starting to have fun…” the monster growled. “I found a new toy…”

“I don’t care,” Loki’s cold tone cut through the air. “You will go to the battlefield. Now.”

The serpent sighed, clearly irritated.
“Fine… I’m going.”

Jörmungandr turned back to Slangemorder.
“Sorry, human. We’ll have to postpone our little fight.”

But the Viking refused to let it go.
“You’re not going anywhere, bastard!”

In a blur, Slangemorder appeared on the creature’s back. His sword came down with furious force—only to be caught between Jörmungandr’s colossal fangs.

“Not bad,” the serpent admitted.

With a sudden sweep of its tail, it sent the Viking flying. Slangemorder crashed violently against the shore.

“I hope we meet again, human,” the monster said, giving one last glance before sinking into the sea.

Slangemorder struggled to his feet, panting, his eyes blood-red.
“Damn you! Come back here! I’m not done with you! Come back, you bastard! You have to pay for everything you took from me! COME BACK!”

And then—a bolt of lightning fell from the sky. The thunder shook the coast to its core.

In the center of the light, a figure appeared. Tall. Imposing. A hammer hanging at his waist, his hair whipping in the crackling air.

“Damn it…” muttered Thor, surveying the carnage. “Looks like I didn’t make it in time.”

Slangemorder stared at him warily.
“Who… are you?”

So there’s a survivor, thought Thor, examining the battered Viking.

“How did you get here?” the man demanded.

Thor noticed the black eyes, the burning aura.
“That explains it… a Berserker.”

“Nice to meet you, Viking blessed by the gods. My name is Thor, god of thunder.”

The warrior’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Thor? A god?”

“Yes. I suppose you don’t believe me.”

Slangemorder let out a dry, tired laugh.
“After what I just saw… an ant could walk in and tell me anything, and I’d believe it.”

Thor turned toward the sea, filled with floating corpses of sea beasts.
“This is total chaos… an unprecedented massacre.”

“Please… help me kill Jörmungandr,” the Viking begged, falling to his knees. “I want revenge… for everything it’s done.”

Thor remained silent for a moment. Then, solemnly, he extended his hand.
“Easy. That was already my plan. But now… you’ve just given me one more reason.”

Slangemorder grasped his hand, eyes glistening.
“Thank you…”

“Are you the only one left?”

“No. There are people… in a cabin nearby.”

Thor pulled out his Ether Mirror. Its surface shimmered with blue light.
“What’s the situation, Father?” asked Nai from the other side.

“We’ve got survivors in a nearby village. I’m sending the location now.”
“Understood. We’ll dispatch men immediately.”

Thor stored the mirror away.
“You don’t have to worry about them anymore. They’ll be safe. You and I, however… we have another matter to handle.”

Slangemorder rose to his feet, still covered in blood and mud.
“Yes…”

A new bolt of lightning struck the ground, enveloping them both—
and in a flash, they were gone.

Far away, in a realm consumed by fire and ash, the footsteps of giants echoed.

“My love… the army is ready to march,” said Sinmore, her voice rumbling like a volcanic storm.

Surtr, the king of the fire Jötnar, opened his blazing eyes from a throne of molten rock. He stood over fifty meters tall, his skin dark as burning night, his breath pure flame.

“Understood,” he rumbled.

And his gaze burned—
with the promise of imminent destruction.