Form a crew.
The words lodged in Daniel's skull like splinters. No matter how hard he tried to ignore them, they pulsed behind his eyes, over and over, like a war drum.
Ragnar had said it with such certainty. Not as a suggestion, not as a passing thought, but as a decree. If you want revenge, if you want to topple Valhalla, you will need others.
Daniel sat in silence, staring at the cracked wooden floor of the cabin. The air still smelled of ash and blood from the earlier fight, and Ragnar's quiet grunts as he tightened his bandages only deepened the weight of the room.
He hated it.
The very idea scraped against his bones.
A crew? Allies? Companions to trust?
Daniel had dragged himself through death alone. In his past life, he had fought, bled, and died without anyone to stand beside him. He had learned the hard way that people could betray, falter, or be taken from you in an instant. Strength was the only thing that didn't abandon you.
And yet…
He couldn't deny Ragnar's words. Adrian wasn't someone he could just run at with a blade and kill. Not yet. And Valhalla wasn't just Adrian. It was a fortress of power, a hierarchy carved in stone. Even the strongest would crumble if they tried to challenge it alone.
His fists tightened, his nails digging into his palms.
If I try alone… I'll end up like Ragnar. Broken. Bleeding. Barely standing.
The thought made his chest twist.
And then—
A spark.
A memory.
A name.
Odin.
Daniel's eyes widened. The name struck him like a bolt of lightning. He hadn't thought of that name in years, not since his first life, but now it burned in his mind as if carved there.
He remembered it vividly. Odin wasn't just a fighter—he was a phantom. A monster cloaked in human skin.
Silver hair that shone even in the darkest nights.
Eyes the color of blood, sharp enough to cut through bone with just a glance.
A presence that never seemed real, like smoke and shadow moving across a battlefield.
In his past life, Daniel had seen all kinds of horrors under Valhalla's reign. Beasts in human form, men who styled themselves as gods. But Odin was different. No one ever truly knew him. He appeared, destroyed, vanished. Sometimes he fought alongside Valhalla's ranks, other times he seemed to act on his own, leaving trails of corpses without allegiance.
To the world, Odin was a mystery. To Daniel, he had been an obsession.
And now, a detail he had once dismissed as meaningless came crawling back into his mind.
Odin had been nearby.
Not hidden away in some secret chamber of Valhalla. Not locked in a distant fortress. He had gone to school. Just a few districts away.
Zenith Academy.
Daniel's heart pounded. His mouth went dry. It sounded absurd, insane even, but it fit. If Odin was still there—still in his youth, still untethered to Valhalla's machine—then maybe… just maybe, he could be reached.
Ragnar's words echoed again. Form a crew.
Daniel ran a hand down his face, groaning. A crew. He despised the thought, but if he was forced to entertain it, then he wouldn't settle for anyone ordinary. No weaklings. No dead weight. No one who could stab him in the back.
Odin wasn't ordinary.
Odin was a storm.
The very idea of recruiting him made Daniel uneasy. Odin wasn't someone you commanded—he was someone you unleashed. Bringing him into a crew would be like inviting a wildfire into your home, never knowing if it would warm you or burn everything you had to ashes.
And yet, Daniel found himself smirking. "Yeah… sounds like the kind of bastard I'd need."
The smirk faded quickly, replaced by a long, steady breath. If Odin was at Zenith, then Daniel's next move had just been carved into stone.
But the thought spiraled deeper, pulling his mind into the lore he knew all too well: the Generations.
The strongest fighters weren't just recognized by skill—they were marked by the eras they belonged to.
The First Generation. Known as the Demigods. Men and women who had risen when the world was still raw, who carved their power into history like myths. They had been the foundation, the untouchable, the ones whose legends still echoed.
The Second Generation. The Divine Kings. Fighters who didn't just rise above—they ruled. Their power had been so overwhelming they stood as monarchs of their time, commanding fear and reverence. Ragnar had fought in that era, standing just beneath the one who had clashed with the Divine King himself.
And then came Daniel's era. The Third Generation. Still unnamed, still climbing. The world called them District Kings for now, placeholders, children who hadn't yet proven themselves. But Daniel knew better. This generation wouldn't stay nameless forever.
The weight of it pressed against him as he clenched his fists. If Odin could be recruited, if Daniel found others like him… maybe the Third would finally earn a name worth bleeding for.
He looked toward Ragnar, who had finally tied off the last of his bandages and slumped against the wall with a tired sigh.
Ragnar's words repeated one last time. A crew can make you strong. But it can break you faster than it builds you.
Daniel ignored the warning. His path had already shifted. Zenith Academy was waiting, and somewhere inside it, the phantom called Odin.
And when he found him… the first piece of his revenge would fall into place.