"Life or Oblivion, no inbetween"
The skies above Regalia were streaked with orange. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over a broken world.
Svarthofnir Thegn sat by the fire, silent among a ring of warriors. Men and women clad in mismatched furs and battered steel — survivors, champions, witnesses. Each had come for the same reason.
The duel.
The war had dragged on. The Southern Kingdoms lay in ruin, their armies scattered, their remaining forces committed to evacuating civilians and guarding columns of refugees. Only the Northern realms — Hralgorn and Kriegsarm — still stood. Their legions bled daily against Kaosbron warbands, locked in a brutal, joyless stalemate.
But the Kaosbron… the Kaosbron believed the war was already won.
They paraded through the ruins of conquered cities, hosted feasts atop the bones of kings, and now — insult of insults — they hosted events. Fights. Exhibitions. Duels.
And tonight, one such duel had drawn warriors from across the front.
Svarthofnir, son of Frixnar, High General of Hralgorn, had answered the challenge.
Not to prove his worth.
Not to rally morale.
But to face the one waiting on the other side of the firelight.
The God of War.
"If we all jump him at once, he won't stand a chance," muttered one of the warriors, fidgeting with the tip of his knife. He was young. Too young.
Svarthofnir didn't look at him. His eyes were on the horizon, on the silhouette of Regalia's blackened spires beyond the haze.
"If we all attack at once," he said, voice low, "what's stopping his Legionnaires from joining in?"
A few heads turned toward him.
"It won't be eight against one," he continued. "It'll be a hundred against eight. And even if we do beat him… and the Legion… that's just one of his Legions. There are a dozen more, and they won't let us get far."
Silence fell. The knife-fidgeter swallowed.
Svarthofnir leaned forward and stirred the coals.
"You want to strike at a god," he muttered. "Then pray your first blow kills him."
The rhythmic beat of war drums began, steady and unyielding. Bonfires blazed to life, their flickering light casting long shadows across the bloodied earth.
Svarthofnir rose, resting his greatsword heavy upon his shoulder — heavier than it had ever felt.
"I will go first," he said, voice low but firm. "Good luck to you, if I fail."
As he strode toward the Pit, Svarthofnir's mind churned like a storm. If he could take Kain off the board, Hralgorn might finally break the stalemate. The chaos of losing their greatest warrior would rip through the Kaosbron ranks along the Hralgorn border — fracturing their lines, shattering their morale.
That disruption could ignite a counterattack.
A counterattack that might snowball into reclaiming lost lands.
A momentum that could push the Kaosbron from the Easterlands for good.
Lost in thought, Svarthofnir barely noticed when he reached the Pit. It was exactly what the name promised: a roughly dug circle in the earth, about twenty feet wide and ten feet deep. The sand was stained dark with blood—remnants of Kain's previous "challengers," if they could even be called that.
Svarthofnir had heard stories of these duels. They were less a contest of honor, more an execution disguised as sport.
The Pit echoed with the heavy THUNK of Svarthofnir's landing, the weight of his armour creaking faintly with the motion. Rising, he tightened his gear, muscles coiling beneath steel plates worn from countless battles.
A shadow fell across his face as a figure stepped before the bonfire's glow.
Kain.
An imposing titan, towering eight feet tall. His armour was a masterwork of bronze and silver iron, runes etched deep into the metal, whispering of ancient power. His helm, fashioned from a dragon's maw, swallowed his face — save for the cruel line of his mouth.
In his right hand, a spear: its blade stretched longer than a common man's sword, the metal blackened and warped, as if forged in a fire hotter than any mortal flame.
Kain's descent into the pit was thunderous, landing as if stepping off the final stair of a grand hall. The earth beneath him seemed to shudder.
"You look familiar, young Jotun," Kain's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Have I fought you before?"
Svarthofnir's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his greatsword.
"Never head on," he replied coldly, "but I've seen you on the battlefield. Usually only your back, though."
Kain laughed—a cruel, metallic sound that echoed off the stone walls. He spun his spear expertly, a flash of deadly grace meant to intimidate.
"You're one of the Thegns' boys, huh?"
"Svarthofnir," came the firm correction.
"I do not care," Kain sneered. "I have others waiting to feel the burn of Soulbrun. So, let's get started."
Svarthofnir rolled his shoulder, trying to crack his neck, then advanced with his greatsword outstretched.
Kain sidestepped the first blow, the second caught deftly on the shaft of his spear.
Svarthofnir stepped back, raised his blade for a crushing overhead strike—but again, Kain slipped aside, casual as a man dodging rain.
Svarthofnir turned the swing into a shoulder charge, slamming into the God of War's chest. Kain shifted, half-staggered. There was a sound—almost a chuckle.
It wasn't enough.
Svarthofnir rebalanced and lifted his sword again, this time defensively. Kain lunged forward, his spear jabbing low toward the abdomen. Svarthofnir caught it with a clumsy parry, the edge of his blade ringing against the spear's shaft.
Too slow. Too heavy.
Idiot, he thought. He brought a sword made for war to a duel. Too caught up in the symbolism—his father's blade, the legacy, the kill—not the win.
Kain sensed the hesitation.
He lunged greedily for Svarthofnir's throat, but the blade was raised just in time to block—until Kain feinted, pulling back and sweeping low.
Pain bloomed white-hot as his knee gave way, ligaments severed. Svarthofnir dropped, sword raised in a faltering guard.
But Kain was already behind him.
A savage kick drove Svarthofnir to the dirt. He scrambled to rise—but then a sharp, blinding pain ripped through his back and out his chest.
He looked down. The blackened tip of Kain's spear jutted from his ribs, pinning him to the earth like a trophy.
Svarthofnir reached for his fallen sword, fingers trembling—But Kain already held it.
"Your father was a great warrior," the God of War said, admiring the blade. "One of the best I've ever seen. If he were here, I'd be eating sand and begging for mercy before I even scratched his armor."
He leveled the sword just above Svarthofnir's neck.
"So I will thank Kaos every day... that they sent you instead."
Svarthofnir opened his mouth to scream, to curse—
But the darkness came faster.
His world went black.