Dimensional Gap
In the ever-shifting tapestry of colors that made up the Dimensional Gap—the vast nothingness between worlds—a blur of red light streaked through the realm with impossible speed. A colossal dragon, radiant and terrifying in his majesty, tore through the fabric of space like a comet of wrath.
This was the Dragon of Dreams—Great Red.
So immense was his power, so overwhelming his presence, that no being could truly comprehend what they were seeing. Reality itself rippled and twisted in his wake. Space—normally immutable even within the Gap—folded and bent under his mere presence.
Under normal circumstances, such chaos would never manifest. Great Red was not a beast of mindless destruction. He wielded absolute control over his domain.
But not now.
Now, he was angry.
His fury seeped into the very core of the Dimensional Gap. And in that rage, he had let go of his control.
The chaos would have continued—unchecked devastation tearing through dimensions—if not for a lone figure who stood firmly in his path.
A man.
Emiya.
He didn't move. He didn't flinch. Even as the great dragon loomed over him, his presence threatening to erase the very concept of existence, Emiya stared straight into his eyes.
"Stop your tantrum, Red," he said, his voice calm and resolute.
The words struck like a blade.
Great Red's eyes narrowed. His rage flared higher, sending reality-shredding energy spiraling outward like supernovae. Dimensional rifts crackled. Space screamed.
But still, Emiya stood untouched.
Not a speck of dust moved around him. Not a single flicker of anxiety crossed his face.
For a long moment, the two glared at each other, neither willing to yield.
Then, slowly, the dragon's massive brow furrowed. His lizard-like face twisted in displeasure—like someone forced to swallow something bitter. With a low growl, he began to pull his power back, drawing the rampant energy back into his being.
"Are you in the mood to talk now?" Emiya asked, a faint edge of conviction in his voice.
Great Red rumbled deeply.
"What do you want, Emiya?"
"I came to stop your tantrum. Your power was on the verge of breaching the world."
At those words, a flicker of guilt—just a flicker—passed over Great Red's face. But his voice betrayed none of it.
"It was just a fraction. That much wouldn't have harmed anything... if it even reached the surface." His tone carried irritation—perhaps more at himself than anyone else.
Emiya didn't waver.
"Even a fraction of your power could spark chaos. It would have caused mass panic... or worse, a war. We can't risk misunderstandings on that scale."
His words were sharp and matter-of-fact. And deep down, Great Red knew there was truth in them.
He didn't argue.
Instead, he shifted the conversation, eager to move away from his own outburst.
"So... the otherworlder who took over Issei's body. What are we going to do with him?" he asked, voice quieter now.
Emiya's answer was immediate.
"We do nothing. Ddraig will handle it. He's already begun the soul-merging process."
There was a heavy pause.
Then, Great Red's voice rumbled again, cautious.
**"That's a risky move. One of our strongest future defenders could become a gateway to something worse—an anchor for the Outer Gods."
Emiya's gaze remained steady.
"I've seen his mind. He's not tainted. He's not a vessel for them—not yet. Ddraig believes in him, and I trust Ddraig's judgment. If we interfere now, we risk breaking the delicate balance."
Great Red let out a low exhale of cosmic breath, space rippling around his snout.
"And if Ddraig fails?" he asked, voice soft.
"Then I'll handle it." Emiya's words were absolute. "I'll erase him myself."
Another silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of unspoken responsibilities.
At last, Great Red nodded.
"Fine. But I'll be watching."
"I expect nothing less," Emiya replied.
The tension between them ebbed, though it never fully vanished. In the Dimensional Gap, even peace was a fragile thing.
And far beyond their watchful eyes, deep inside the Sacred Gear, a transformation had begun—one that would shake the foundations of their world.
Asgard
Baldur sat slouched on the throne of Asgard, one hand pressed to his forehead, trying to ease the persistent headache that throbbed behind his temples.
Ever since Odin had passed the throne to him, his life had become more stressful than he could have ever imagined.
He had once dreamed of this seat with pride and hope—when Odin first offered him the throne, he had accepted with excitement, believing he could reshape the fate of the Norse pantheon. He had truly believed he could stop Ragnarok.
But now, seated upon the throne of gods and burdened by the weight of leadership, Baldur had come to understand the bitter truth: preventing Ragnarok was far more difficult than any prophecy had warned.
Loki, ever the schemer, was constantly at work in the shadows—manipulating, whispering, sowing seeds of division among the gods. His every move seemed calculated to isolate Asgard from the other pantheons, ensuring that when Ragnarok finally came, they would face it alone.
Baldur fought every day to counter his uncle's schemes, to keep the world from plunging into destruction. But even then, the balance among the divine factions remained volatile. Every pantheon, in one way or another, tested the strength of the others.
Baldur himself had ordered raids—subtle strikes against Egyptian and Sumerian outposts—not out of malice, but because he understood the harsh truth: strength must be demonstrated to avoid being swallowed by the tides of divine power.
Ever since the cataclysmic war—where only the Hindu pantheon had remained untouched—every other divine faction had done whatever it could to assert and expand its influence in the mortal world.
Baldur reflection was interrupted by a cheerful, booming voice that echoed across the throne room.
He turned toward the sound, eyes narrowing slightly.
It was Odin, dressed in regal robes, striding into the hall with the casual air of a man who carried no burdens. But Baldur knew better—if one looked closely enough, past the carefree smile, the wisdom of the ages shimmered behind those one-eyed gazes.
Odin approached the throne without pause and settled into the seat across from his son. With that same ever-knowing grin, he said, "You look frustrated, son."
Baldur let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening on the armrest.
He looked into his father's eye—not for comfort, but for guidance.
The world had changed.
And he needed the wisdom of the man who had once ruled it.
Baldur looked toward his father, helplessness bleeding into his voice as he finally spoke, "Father… I need your help. I want you to assist me—with your guidance, and perhaps… with your alliances."
Odin studied his son with a mix of empathy and amusement, a faint smile playing at his lips. "It seems ruling hasn't been as glorious as you once imagined. You look like a man who's truly seen battle—not with swords, but with politics."
Baldur didn't even attempt to deny the truth in his father's words. This wasn't the time to be prideful or stubborn.
He simply nodded once and answered with quiet honesty. "Yes."
Seeing his son cast aside pride and pretense, Odin felt a rare sense of approval. Baldur wasn't thinking of himself—he was acting in the best interest of Asgard. And for a ruler, that mattered more than strength.
"Before I offer you any of my alliances," Odin said with a measured tone, "I need to know who you have in mind. We can't afford to forge new bonds without considering the old ones still binding us."
He leaned back slightly, his one eye gleaming with ancient wisdom.
"Tell me everything. What's happened in Asgard since I left with Rossweisse?"
Baldur began to speak, his voice steady but burdened. He recounted the past ten years in vivid detail—the relentless skirmishes at Asgard's blood-soaked borders, the endless probing attacks from rival pantheons seeking weakness. And, of course, Asgard had responded in kind. Baldur himself had sanctioned counterattacks against factions like the Egyptians and Sumerians, not out of bloodlust, but necessity.
He spoke too of Loki—always scheming, always stirring unrest. Alongside a handful of minor gods, Loki had repeatedly attempted to undermine Baldur's rule, seeking to drag Asgard back toward the path of Ragnarok.
Odin listened in silence.
The more he heard, the more he understood the delicate balance Asgard now stood upon.
From Odin's perspective, the realm was in a precarious state—neither flourishing nor falling. Not quite weak, yet far from strong. A fragile balance, where even a small misstep could tip them toward ruin—or opportunity.
After some thought, Odin finally spoke. "Here's what I understand," he said, his voice calm and weighty. "We are not doing exceptionally well… nor are we faring terribly. But if anything were to go wrong at this moment—if just one card fell out of place—we would quickly find ourselves in a position of extreme disadvantage."
Baldur nodded grimly. He saw it too. The reality was painfully clear.
Without wasting another moment, Odin closed his remaining eye and fell into a meditative trance. It lasted only seconds—but to those who knew him, that was enough. Baldur had seen this countless times.
Odin had sacrificed one of his eyes long ago to drink from the Well of Wisdom. Now, where that eye had once been, there remained only a deep void—a place that held ancient, unfathomable knowledge. A place that allowed him to see beyond mortal understanding.
And when he opened his eye again, Baldur knew that his father had already know what to do.
"We cannot form any alliances with the European or Middle Eastern pantheons," Baldur said, his tone thoughtful, eyes narrowed in concentration. "We've already allied ourselves with their rivals. That bridge has long been burned. The American pantheon, on the other hand… they're far too isolationist. They'll likely reject any offer we make outright."
"That leaves us with the Asian, African, and Australian factions," Odin concluded, nodding slowly. "Most of them are mid to low-tier factions, though a few have high-tier potential. We need to choose the most suitable allies among them—ones that would strengthen us without dragging us into another war."
Baldur understood Odin's intent. His father was trying to create a safety net—a buffer for Asgard in case the current power struggle among the pantheons turned violent. A defensive alliance to soften the blow if the tides turned against them.
"What do you think of the plan?" Odin asked, watching his son carefully. "Or is there another faction you're considering allying with?"
Odin knew his place. He was no longer king—he had passed that mantle on to Baldur years ago. It was the young king's duty to lead now. As a former ruler, Odin could offer advice, wisdom, and experience—but the decisions were no longer his to make.
Without much hesitation, Baldur responded, "I've been considering an alliance with the Biblical factions."
At those words, Odin's expression darkened. Even he, with all his age and wisdom, didn't hide his unease.
"You know what that means," Odin said gravely. "If you ally with one of the three factions—Heaven, Grigori, or the Underworld—you make enemies of the other two. That's why most pantheons never form permanent alliances with them."
"I understand that," Baldur said firmly. "But I've received reports—my spies embedded among them have informed me that the three Biblical factions are already in talks about forming a grand alliance among themselves."
Odin raised a skeptical brow. "How reliable is this information?"
"I'd bet my life on it," Baldur answered without pause.
Odin studied his son's face for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Very well. I will trust in your decision." He shifted slightly on the throne, his posture straightening. "Now, regarding my plan—"
"I want you to proceed with it," Baldur said, cutting in respectfully. "You are the wisest man I know, Father. And take Rossweisse with you. She needs to see the world, learn how other factions operate. She's the future queen of Asgard. My successor must understand politics as well as she does battle, by the way can you tell me how her training has gone."
Odin's lips curled into an amused smile at the sudden topic shift. "Her training has gone well. The witche have taught her everything she knows."
Baldur looked pleased. "How much longer until she reaches the top ten?"
"That depends on her environment," Odin said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "She's already learned all we can teach her. What she lacks now is real combat experience—and that can only come with time and war. Taking that into account… I'd say she needs thirty more years. Perhaps twenty, if fate is kind."
To most, the idea of someone entering the top ten of the divine rankings in just two or three decades would seem absurd—laughable even. But Baldur knew better. He had witnessed her talent firsthand. Rossweisse was the most gifted Valkyrie Asgard had ever produced.
She was a storm waiting to be unleashed.