Chapter 35: Ragnarök

The earth trembles.
The sky bleeds.
And the echoes of ancient prophecies resound through the pillars of fate.

The gods gaze toward the horizon—eyes empty of hope, yet burning with determination.
For centuries they had prepared for a day like this, though deep within their immortal souls they knew: no training would ever be enough.
Because Ragnarök is not merely a battle… it is the end of an era.

Oaths unravel. Alliances shatter.
And amid it all, truth pierces through like an old wound that never healed:
even gods can know fear.

Time itself seems to halt as the hosts march toward the abyss.
The songs of war do not celebrate victory, but mourn those who once dreamed of peace.
For no matter how strong the warrior, nor how radiant the armor—
all bleed the same when standing before the judgment of fate.

The Bifröst, that bridge uniting worlds, now stands as the threshold between life and death.
And the names that fall upon it will be remembered… or buried in oblivion.

Some will fight for vengeance.
Others, for duty.
And a few, for love.
But all—without exception—will do so knowing that the world they knew will never be the same again.

Because Ragnarök has begun.
And no one is safe.

Týr stood upon Asgard’s walls, brow furrowed, fists clenched.
In the distance, an endless tide of Jötnar stretched like a living plague, blackening the horizon.

“This can’t be real…” he muttered under his breath.
“If they keep coming, the walls won’t hold… and those bastards will storm Asgard.”

Inside the palace, Odin stood before Frigg—the queen who had shared countless centuries of battles and silences beside him.
The air between them was heavier than the armor they wore.

“What did you just say?” Frigg asked, disbelief and dread in her voice.

“Loki has escaped his punishment,” answered the Allfather without hesitation.

Thor, who had just arrived, clenched his fists upon hearing it.
“That’s impossible…”

“And that’s not all,” the thunder god continued grimly.
“Jörmungandr has also awakened from his eternal sleep.”

Odin turned away, his voice faltering for the first time.
“No… that can’t be true…”

“There’s more,” Thor pressed on.
“Fenrir has broken free from his chains as well. This battle has surpassed every imaginable boundary.”

The Allfather’s expression darkened. When he spoke again, his tone was cold and resolute.
“Then there is no turning back.
We will declare total war upon the Nine Realms.
May the gods forgive us.”

“Are you certain?” Frigg asked, a sliver of hope trembling in her words.
“Isn’t there another way?”

“If there were, I would take it without hesitation. But the time for words is over.”
He turned toward the great hall.
“It’s time to open the gates of Valhalla.”

At the heart of the palace stood the legendary golden gates of Valhalla—immense, solemn, sealed since the dawn of time.
Odin walked beside Bragi, god of poetry and music, whose fingers trembled as they brushed against his harp—half in nostalgia, half in fear.

“All my life I’ve awaited this moment,” Bragi murmured, eyes downcast.
“But now… I wish it had never come.”

“You’re the only one who can do it,” Odin reminded him.
“If you don’t open these gates, no one can.”

Bragi nodded.
The sound of his harp began to fill the grand hall—a gentle melody that swelled with each passing second, summoning hundreds of Valkyries who lined up like a choir of shadowed angels.
Every note seemed to resonate through the kingdom’s foundations, shaking the walls, the earth, the very soul of Asgard.

The gates gleamed. A deep crack resounded.
And then—Valhalla opened.

From within emerged thousands of warriors clad in white and gold armor, faces solemn, weapons drawn—heroes who had once died with honor and now returned to face the end of the world.

Odin greeted them with a voice that shook the heavens.
“Welcome, brave ones. Here lies your eternal reward, your endless feast, your glory among the fallen.
But today… today is the reason you were brought back.
Today is Ragnarök.”

A thunderous war cry erupted among the undead of honor.
Shields clashed, spears gleamed, and the fallen prepared to write the final page of their legend.

Odin turned to Thor.
“No matter what happens… you must end them all. Even if I fall, you must win.”

Thor nodded.
“I understand, Father.”

Elsewhere, Frigg readied herself in silence.
As she fastened the last clasp of her armor, a hooded figure slipped behind her.
She had no time to react.
Blood splattered across the marble floor.

From the shadows, an unknown figure watched, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.
“One piece off the board,” he whispered, playing with the threads that held the grotesquely deformed corpse of Höðr like a puppet.
“How fun it is to play with new toys.”

A breathless guard rushed to Odin’s side, whispered a few words.
The god nodded without changing expression.
Inside, however, his world quaked.

“Thank you for the report,” he murmured.
“You may go.”

“What happened?” Thor asked, seeing the hardened look in his father’s eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Odin lied.
“The time has come to march.”

Thor did not press further.

Mounted upon his steed, helmet fastened, the Allfather muttered to himself as the columns of light from the Bifröst rose before him:

“I will kill them… all of them.”

And then, the army of Asgard rode forth—charging furiously toward the battlefield…
toward the end.

The armies had arrived.

From the depths of Muspelheim, Surt led the fire Jötun with his colossal black sword on his shoulder, walking at the forefront like a living torch. From Niflheim, Thrym commanded the frost Jötun, whose very presence froze the air around them. And from the darkness of the forgotten fields, Loki advanced with the corrupted Einherjar, moving to the rhythm of a sinister calm. Opposite them, Odin’s celestial legion unfolded in unbreakable formation.

The four great leaders stood there: Surt, Thrym, Loki, and Odin. The fate of the Nine Worlds hung from their choices.

Odin watched his foes, brow furrowed, fingers closing hard around the shaft of his spear.
“I will kill them all… damned,” he thought, as his gaze met Loki’s.

The god of lies smiled with a sick serenity.
“This will be fun,” he murmured, never taking his eyes off his once-adoptive father.

Beside him, Thrym raised his arms proudly and proclaimed,
“The time has come for the Jötun to rule the Nine Worlds! Just as our father Ymir did!”

The earth trembled to the cadence of his frost army’s march, and at the front Surt murmured to himself,
“I will fulfill your last wish… rival.”

Meanwhile, each faction took its positions across the field. The armies stretched like a sea of steel, fire, ice, and shadow. High above the Bifröst, Heimdall observed the apocalyptic tableau with a grave face. He gripped the horn Gjallarhorn and, without hesitation, blew.

The blast of the horn echoed across all realms, waking beasts, shaking mountains, and freezing hearts.

“What was that?” Eden asked, lifting his head with unease.

“Damn it…” Iss muttered, barely containing her tension. “We’re in a very, very bad situation.”

Nai, face pale, spoke the words no one wanted to hear:
“Ragnarök… has begun.”

As if the horn had been the final signal, the battle erupted into a frantic, chaotic choreography of death. In slow-motion fury, warriors hurled themselves at one another: swords, spears, teeth and flame collided without mercy. Blood stained the ground even before the first orders were shouted.

Among them, Fenrir leapt straight for Odin with jaws wide.

“Father!” Thor shouted, charging in from the flank.

“Yes, we must finish him,” the All-Father replied.

“I will stand by your side, together we will be mo—”

(The original text cuts off here; the last line ends mid-phrase in the source you provided, so the translation likewise stops at that point.)

But the sentence remained unfinished when Jörmungandr, the world-ending serpent, burst from the sky like living thunder and swept Thor away with its titanic coils. The god of thunder was flung off into the chaos, his silhouette swallowed by the maelstrom.

Odin snorted.
“Well… it seems you’re smarter than I thought,” he murmured as he dismounted Sleipnir and planted his feet on the ground.

Before him, Fenrir grinned. Then, without warning, the wolf’s claws and the god’s spear collided with a force capable of splitting continents.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Asgard’s walls trembled. Massive boulders rained down like meteors, hurled by the Jötnar from the surrounding hills.

Týr frowned as he watched the devastation unfold.
“This is going badly… very badly.”

“We have no choice but to fight,” Ull said, already ready with his bow.

“Yes, but… even though we are gods, they are too many.”

“Are you afraid? I never thought I’d hear that from you, Týr.”

“It’s not fear,” Týr replied, his voice steady. “It’s that we’re no longer risking only our own lives. If they break through… everyone inside Asgard will die.”

“I know,” Ull admitted. “And I don’t think we can hold them alone against so many bastards.”

A titanic shadow crossed the sky. Jörmungandr’s tail carved through the clouds and fell like a divine whip.

“What the—?!” they shouted in unison.

From above, Thor fell like a falling star, smashing into the Bifröst with a thunder that shook the walls.

“Thor?” Týr exclaimed.

“Lucky us,” Ull added. “If he’s here, we might not be completely screwed.”

Týr shook his head.
“I don’t think he’s fit to fight…”

“What do you mean? He’s only wounded. He can handle it.”

“It’s not that,” Týr whispered, his expression grave. “They’ve broken him… from the inside. Jörmungandr has shredded his soul.”

Ull fell silent. Heavy footsteps approached; several Jötnar already circled Thor.

“This doesn’t look good,” Týr admitted. “If we want Thor back in the fight, we’ll have to risk our necks for him.”

“Are you serious?”

“There’s no other choice.”

“Damn it,” Ull growled. “They don’t pay me enough for this…”

Both gods roared and unleashed their power, ready to fight even if it was the last thing they did.

The end of the world had begun.

Týr was the first to move.

With a roar that shook the air, the god of war threw himself at the Jötnar closest to the wall, his single arm swinging the sword with brutal precision. Beside him, Ull released his power like an icy lightning, and together they began to cut through the enemy horde with a synchrony born of centuries of training.

“What are these damned things made of?” Týr thought as he buried his blade in another giant’s chest. “They won’t fall for anything!”

Then the ground trembled. A gigantic axe fell into the heart of the battlefield, raising a cloud of dust and fire. Ull looked up.

“You’re late, bastard,” he growled with a smile.

From the sky descended Víðarr, like a divine meteor.

“Your daddy’s here, bitches,” he shouted contemptuously before crashing into the chaos.

And indeed, Odin’s silent son began to raze everything. Every blow shattered bones; every step made the field quake. The Jötnar fell like insects under the wrath of a god.

“Is that it? They’re weaker than I remembered,” Víðarr mocked between strikes.

But arrogance has its price. A particularly massive Jötun landed a blow that sent him flying into Asgard’s wall, embedding him in stone. Spitting blood, Víðarr snarled.

And then he arrived.

Through the burning bodies and smoke advanced Braanpil, a colossally sized fire Jötun, dragging behind him a whip wreathed in flames that sparked with infernal energy.

“I’m sick of you arrogant gods,” he spat in a rasping voice. “You talk, you talk, you talk… now I’ll show you what true strength is.”

Týr watched, incredulous.
“How the hell can a Jötun be this strong?”

Braanpil’s whip hissed through the air, passing by Týr’s face and striking the wall with brutal force, cracking it into pieces.

“Shit…” Ull muttered.
“How is that possible? That strike… it’s monstrous. It doesn’t matter now. He’s made a breach. If they get in there… everyone dies,” Týr thought, his heart racing.

“Týr,” Ull said firmly, “we have to get Thor back into the fight. Now.”

“I know. Nobody here can beat that bastard.”

Braanpil cracked his whip and roared:
“Come on, gods! Show me if there’s anything fun left in this war!”

“Víðarr,” Týr called in a grave tone. “You still alive?”

The wounded god stirred among the rubble.
“Yeah, yeah… I was just taking a nap.”

“Good to hear,” Týr said sarcastically. “Thought you were crying over that Jötun’s beating.”

“Shut up, cripple. What do you want?” Víðarr snapped.

“Deal with all those Jötnar. You can do it, right?”

Víðarr smiled with a bloody grin.
“Are you kidding? Those giants will be my bitches.”

“That’s good to hear,” Týr replied, smiling.

Víðarr emerged from the wall, planted himself before the breach and bellowed:
“Come on, you bastards! I’m waiting right here!”

The Jötnar answered his call and threw themselves at him, but Víðarr stopped them one by one, his unleashed fury like a typhoon of steel.

Meanwhile Týr and Ull turned toward Braanpil.

“Now it’s our turn,” Týr said.

“Yes, I know,” Ull nodded, drawing his bow.

Braanpil met them with an arrogant sneer.
“Finally you dare. Show me what you’re made of.”

Týr charged headlong while Ull stayed back, loosing precise arrows into the gaps of combat. The duel between god and monster was brutal—a constant clash of steel and flame.

One of Ull’s arrows grazed Braanpil’s cheek, leaving a thin wound. The Jötun turned, enraged.

“You damned—!” he shouted, whipping his lash with fury.

Flame cut the air and appeared right behind Ull. Before he could react, the whip coiled around his leg, burning it with devastating intensity.

“Arghhh!” Ull cried, collapsing to the ground.

“Ull!” Týr roared, lunging at Braanpil to force him to drop the whip.

The blow worked, but at a high cost. The whip changed direction and tore into Týr’s side with violence.

“Arghh…!” he gasped, falling to his knees.

“You okay?” Ull asked, rising with effort.

“Yes… yes, I can still fight…” Týr murmured, bleeding.

“Never get distracted on the battlefield,” Braanpil laughed, spinning his whip again.

Meanwhile Víðarr, covered in blood and sweat, breathed with difficulty. He had annihilated hundreds of Jötnar, but exhaustion was beginning to show. A sudden blow sent him to the ground. They surrounded him. They kicked. They crushed.

“Grrraaaaahhh!” Víðarr growled through clenched teeth, resisting.

Thor, from afar, heard his comrade’s screams.
“Why…? Why did this have to be like this?” he muttered. “This is not the world you wanted, Loki…”

The cries continued. Fate ran its course.

“I curse you, destiny… and I’ll keep cursing you,” he said, lifting his gaze.

A lightning bolt descended like divine judgment. Every Jötun around Víðarr was struck dead.

Thor appeared in the sky as a living storm, his body wrapped in electricity.

“Thor…” Týr breathed with relief.

The thunder god descended slowly, his face shadowed and his eyes sparking.

“Hey, little flame… how many seconds do you think it’ll take me to beat you?” he taunted.

Braanpil turned, incredulous.
“You talk to me, thunder-boy?”

“Yes, you, bastard.”

“Even if you had a thousand years, you couldn’t beat me.”

Thor smiled fiercely.
“You look very confident.”

And in an instant, without warning, he was in front of Braanpil, seizing the whip with a single hand.

“What—?!” Braanpil thought, stunned by the speed.

“Give me thirty seconds. I won’t need more.”

“Do you really think you can defeat me, Thor?” Braanpil growled, his voice booming like thunder. “You’re nothing but an overblown myth. The legend of the thunder god who once terrified the Jötnar is nothing more than that… a cheap legend.”

The Norse god let out a slow laugh, as if he had been waiting a long time to hear those words.

“Tell me… do you believe in God?”

“God?” Braanpil sneered with contempt. “I believe in nothing.”

Thor tilted his head, his eyes sparking with raw electricity.
“Perfect. Then I’ll send you to meet Him.”

In the blink of an eye, Mjölnir crashed into the Jötun’s body, launching him into the air like a blazing torch. Braanpil’s body flew over his fellow giants, spewing blood as he soared.

“GRAHHH!” he roared as he slammed into the ground, losing one of his arms from the impact.

What the hell was that…? he thought, his face twisted in pain. If that blow had hit me dead on, I’d be dead right now…

Thor walked toward him slowly, crushing stones beneath his boots with each step.

“Well… I thought that hit would kill you. You’re tougher than average, I’ll give you that,” he said dryly.

“Bastard!” Braanpil roared, raising his remaining arm to the sky.

From above, dozens of incandescent rocks began to fall, wrapped in fire and volcanic energy. The sky turned crimson.

“That should leave you with no options,” the Jötun muttered between gasps.

But just as he turned to make sure his enemy was gone, a spark crackled behind him.

“Where do you think you’re looking?” Thor’s voice said from behind, completely unscathed, his cape whipping through the storm of lightning.

“No… it can’t be,” Braanpil murmured—before being struck by a brutal blow that sent him crashing straight into Asgard’s walls. The impact tore through not only the outer wall but several houses behind it, leaving a trail of devastation.

What’s happening…? I can barely move… the giant thought, covered in blood and rubble.

Again, Thor appeared before him.
“You’re too weak,” he said in a tone as cold as Niflheim itself.

Braanpil, out of his mind, roared with every ounce of breath. A burst of energy erupted from his body, twisting his form. His skin darkened, his size increased, his face stretched with veins and fire… he had become monstrous—hellish.

“SHUT UP! I AM STRONG!” he screamed, unleashing unbearable heat across the battlefield.

“Impressive evolution,” Thor murmured with a grin. “Though… you’re even uglier than before.”

“DAMN YOU!”

Braanpil lunged like a raging beast. Blow after blow rained down upon Thor like an infernal storm. The flaming whip coiled around the god’s ankle, hurling him into the air and smashing him again against the wall.

From afar, Ull clenched his teeth.
“Shouldn’t we help him?”

“Right now, we’d just get in the way,” Týr replied, watching the fight intently. “None of us can take that Jötun…”

His voice faltered for a moment as he glanced at his mutilated arm.
“If only I still had my arm…”

Thor, now standing again, examined his ankle in irritation. The burn from the whip was deep—the fire of Braanpil was devouring even him.

“Damn it… I forgot about that damned whip,” he thought.

The Norse god closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“I can’t go on like this. If he hits me with that thing again, I’ll lose my leg… Worse, I can feel the energy of thousands of Jötnar approaching… There’s no time.”

Braanpil reached him again with a kick, but this time Thor dodged it by a hair’s breadth.

“Where are you running, you coward?!” Braanpil roared.

The thunder god didn’t answer. He simply sighed… and closed his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Jötun growled. “Do you really think you can be that confident before my immense power?”

Silence.

“STOP UNDERESTIMATING ME!”

Braanpil charged forward at full speed, determined to tear him apart.

And then Thor spoke.
“Die.”

A tiny spark flickered at the tip of his finger.

And then—thunder.

A lightning bolt, impossibly condensed, faster than any thought, struck Braanpil head-on and tore apart the entire right side of his torso.

The giant crashed to the ground, howling in agony.

“AHHHH! IT HURTS! IT HURTS SO MUCH!” he screamed, writhing on the scorched earth as his body burned uncontrollably.

From the distance, Ull, Vidar, and Týr watched with their mouths agape.

“What… what was that?” Ull whispered, breathless.

Thor walked toward the fallen colossus, his body crackling with lightning, his gaze as cold as a winter storm.

Braanpil, utterly disfigured, began crawling backward in terror.
“Stay away! Get away from me! Leave me alone! I surrender! I SURRENDER!”

Thor said nothing.

“I beg you! I swear I’ll leave and never come back! Just let me live!”

The god stopped in front of him, looked down for a few seconds… and sighed.
“Do as you please. I doubt you’ll live long with that wound anyway.”

He turned his back and began to walk away.

“What are you doing?!” Týr shouted. “You’re just going to let him go?!”

“I’m a warrior,” Thor replied without turning around. “I’ve already defeated him. There’s no need to kill him. It’s not worth it.”

“You say that after slaughtering countless Jötnar without mercy?! Now you talk about honor?!”

“You want to know why I killed all those Jötnar, Týr? Why they were out there in the open? Why they were exiled by their own kind?”

Thor stopped, turning slightly.
“Do you really think you know everything behind this?”

Týr said nothing.

“I see… you know nothing.”

“WATCH OUT!” Ull screamed.

Braanpil’s whip, with the last of his strength, cracked through the air—
and plunged straight into Thor’s chest.

The giant let out a weak, delirious laugh.
“I GOT HIM!”

But a second later, his smile vanished.
Thor’s image was still there—untouched.

“Where do you think you aimed?” Thor whispered.

Braanpil froze.

“You’ve wasted your only chance.”

An immense surge of energy erupted from Thor’s body. His hammer glowed with fierce intensity as the skies darkened above.

Týr grabbed Ull by the arm and shouted,
“We’re getting the hell out of here—NOW!”

The heavens roared.

Waves of lightning rained down upon the Bifröst as Thor floated upward, his divine aura completely unleashed.

“Kōsen.”

A final bolt—colossal, absolute—descended like the judgment of the heavens, obliterating the bridge and dragging every nearby Jötun into its fury.

From the battlefield below, all who still stood looked up…
and saw hell itself falling from the sky.

Týr watched from the trembling battlements, still shaking from the last thunderbolt. His body was bleeding, but his mind couldn’t let go of a single thought.
“Is there really anyone who can stop him…?” he wondered, staring at Thor’s figure rising among the clouds. “I never imagined I’d see someone on Odin’s level… until now.”

Thor’s body floated in the sky, wrapped in a mantle of crackling sparks that refused to fade. Every inch of his skin channeled the wrath of the heavens—a living storm in human form.
He was no longer a warrior.
He was a cataclysm.

In the distance, Slangemorder—the Dragon Slayer—stood motionless. Hidden among corpses and dust, he gazed in silent awe.
“So this… is what it means to be a god?” he whispered, a shiver running down his spine. “This… is terrifying.”

High above, Thor closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath as the air around him grew thick with electricity. Lightning was part of him now.
He no longer fought as a god.
He fought as the last bastion of the heavens.

“I have to destroy it… even if it costs me my life,” he thought, his resolve absolute.

His eyes opened—and fixed upon a single target.

There, upon the charred and blood-soaked earth, the most feared beast in existence slithered forward: Jörmungandr.

The colossal serpent moved through the remains of the battlefield, shrouded in mist and smoke. Each shift of its massive body made the ground quake. Its breath was poison. Its gaze, death.
Even from afar, the armies parted before it, as though the Jötnar themselves dared not brush against its scales.

The son of Loki had awakened.
And with him—the end.

Thor descended a few meters, hovering above the battlefield. He looked at the monster calmly. With resentment. And with respect.

“Jörmungandr…”

A thunderclap roared in answer, as if the earth itself had responded to the god of thunder’s call.

The two titans faced each other. The distance between them meant nothing.
One was the serpent that encircled the world.
The other, the lightning destined to split it apart.

The sky darkened once more. The air thickened.
And somewhere, in silence, fate wrote its final prophecy.