Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 975: The darkness of Valhalla

While Overlord led the elite forces of the Xaos Kingdom through the Abyss—burning, consuming, and erasing all in their path—the True Depravitas moved unseen through another battlefield altogether.

They had slipped silently through the boundaries of space, infiltrating Valhalla, the ancestral realm of the Viking race. Yet the moment their feet touched its hallowed soil, an ominous pressure pressed down upon their souls.

The very essence of the world felt wrong.

Freya froze first. Her breath hitched, her eyes wide as her body trembled. Though she had long left this realm, the Totems of Odinvaldr were still carved into her flesh and spirit—living conduits of divine energy that tied her to her origin.

Now those totems felt hollow.

"I... I cannot feel him," she whispered, her voice shaking. "The light of Odinvaldr—it’s gone."

At her words, Vlad, Jormungandr, Fafnir, and Ouroboros exchanged grim looks. The air around them grew colder.

Odinvaldr—the Primordial God of Bloodshed and Battle—was among the oldest and most powerful beings in existence. His light reached all corners of the universe, from the heavenly realms to the darkest pits of creation. Even in places steeped in evil—Hell, the Abyss, and Doomsday Worlds—his followers could pray and receive his power. His reach was infinite.

And yet here, in Valhalla itself, the heart of his faith, his light was dead.

That should be impossible.

Vlad’s expression hardened. "There’s no way Antorus could do this alone," he murmured. "Even with the Vorometallicae’s aid, he lacks the tools or power to suppress a Primordial God’s presence. This reeks of the Alien Powers."

At that, all five True Depravitas fell silent. The Alien Powers—the beings from beyond the edges of reality—were entities so ancient and incomprehensible that even Primordial Gods could fall to their machinations. The presence of the Dream of Mnadess in one of their tombs was proof of that.

The group immediately activated their cloaking protocols. Their auras folded inward until even their shadows vanished. Vlad’s A.I. Chip synchronized with the others, creating an overlapping field that concealed every trace of their existence, masking both physical and psychic presence.

Only when they were certain that not even a Lord could detect them did they proceed.

Their first destination was a small village near the mountains of Yggmorn. Yet when they arrived, they found nothing but silence.

No people. No light. No prayers.

The streets were littered with broken shields and rusted weapons. Houses stood open, their doors swinging in the wind. At the center of the settlement—where once a golden statue of Odinvaldr had stood—there was now only a pit of molten metal, still faintly steaming.

The divine symbols carved into the surrounding stones had been defaced, erased, or melted beyond recognition.

It was not simple destruction—it was eradication. The god’s presence was being systematically wiped from his own world.

Fafnir clenched his jaw. "They’re purging his faith," he muttered. "Completely."

Vlad said nothing. He simply turned toward the horizon, where distant plumes of smoke rose from the capital. Without a word, the group continued forward.

Hours later, another city appeared in the distance—one still alive.

But as they approached, it became clear that something was terribly wrong.

Hundreds of armored soldiers marched through the streets in rigid formations, dragging citizens from their homes and lining them up like prisoners. The cries of women and children filled the air.

Freya’s hands clenched so tightly her nails drew blood. Her eyes blazed with fury, yet she forced herself to remain calm. Emotions could not guide her now.

The soldiers were of Viking descent, their bodies marked with divine Totems—but they were not like her. Freya’s own runes shimmered with warmth and light, radiant like the morning sun. The markings etched across these soldiers, however, pulsed with a dark, venomous glow. They emanated not divinity, but death.

Something had corrupted them—something had twisted the very essence of Odinvaldr’s blessing.

As the True Depravitas watched from the shadows, one of the soldiers emerged from a nearby house, holding something small in his gauntleted hand. He raised it into the light—a simple wooden carving of Odinvaldr, the kind of toy children played with.

To the soldiers, it was not a toy.

It was heresy.

"A sigil of the False God!" one of them bellowed.

Instantly, the others responded with blind rage. The soldiers began to beat the townsfolk mercilessly, breaking bones, dragging them through the mud. The crowd cried out, pleading for mercy—but none came.

Chains clattered as the prisoners were thrown into massive iron cages. Some still clutched at their children, others whispered prayers to the god who could no longer hear them.

Freya’s body shook. Her fury reached the edge of breaking. These were her people—the descendants of her faith—and now they were being dumped like beasts.

But Vlad’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. "Not yet," he whispered. "If we act recklessly, we reveal ourselves. Patience."

Her rage only continued to grow, but her focus and will were stronger.

Moments later, the streets fell silent again. The soldiers began marching out of the city, dragging the cages behind them. Their eyes were lifeless, yet there was a cruel satisfaction in their movements.

They believed utterly in what they were doing.

Whatever had corrupted them had also rewired their faith. They no longer served Odinvaldr—they served his destroyer.

But they did not march far.

Without warning, the air itself screamed.

A flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a wave of fire that tore through the column of soldiers. The blast was instantaneous—one heartbeat they existed, the next they were nothing but scorched ash and torn armor.

Only three managed to survive the initial strike, staggering in confusion—just long enough for an invisible force to knock them unconscious.

The slaughter was so swift, so precise, that no psychic trace could escape. The minds of the dead disintegrated before they could transmit memories or warnings.

The True Depravitas emerged from the smoke like specters.

Vlad glanced at the unconscious soldiers, his eyes cold. Then he turned to Jormungandr. "Their souls," he commanded.

The small yellow cat grinned, his mouth widening far beyond what was natural. He inhaled sharply, and a torrent of spectral light poured from the soldiers’ bodies into his maw. Their souls vanished with a faint scream, leaving behind only empty shells.

After a few seconds, Jormungandr licked his lips and nodded. "I have their memories," he said simply.

"Good," Vlad replied, and then he turned his gaze toward the cages filled with terrified civilians. They stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

They couldn’t be left here—freeing them would draw attention, but abandoning them would be a death sentence.

Vlad already had a solution.

From his storage ring, he pulled forth the massive runic box given to him by Overlord. Setting it on the ground, he channeled his energy into its core.

The runes flared to life, spinning in concentric circles as the air around them vibrated. A field of shimmering light expanded outward, enveloping the cages. The Vikings gasped as their bodies froze—not in pain, but in perfect stillness, before falling unconscious.

They had been placed in stasis and then teleported inside the box.

Vlad closed the box with a quiet hum as the energy field retracted, sealing the innocents safely within.