Clutching my hand, I tore a strip from my tunic and wrapped it around the wound, tightening it as much as I could. Blood kept leaking through. The sting was bad, but the real problem was deeper — that thing's poison. My hand was already turning darker, black veins crawling up my arm. Necrotic rot. If it reached my chest, I was done.
Dying to a low-class draugr? Me? Goddess of Death? Pathetic.
I tied another strip higher up, near my shoulder, to slow the spread. My clothes were in tatters now, almost completely gone. Not like I had anyone around to care. Still, I wasn't expecting to end up half-naked, wounded, and alone in the middle of Helheim.
I groaned, trying to breathe through the pain, and pulled open my system again. Maybe there was something I missed in my skillset.
[Skill: Necro Magic]Decay Touch – Inflicts necrotic rot (yeah, just like what I'm suffering from).Wither Limb – Cripples a target's body part.Soul Snare – Binds the soul of a weakened enemy.Dark Bloom – Corrupts the ground around you, creating a decay zone.Corpse Speak (Locked) – Extracts memories from corpses.Raise Draugr (Locked) – Reanimates lesser undead servants.
No healing. Nothing even close. Of course, it's all about hurting others, not saving myself. Typical. I knew how to kill — not how to survive.
If I still had divine energy, this wouldn't even scratch me. But I wasn't in Asgard anymore. And my body — this half-mortal thing — was already giving out. My mana was drained. No backup, no allies. I had to keep moving, but every step was worse than the last.
I leaned on the spear I'd made earlier. Crude, but it had helped me survive the fight. My legs shook. My breath was getting shorter.
I couldn't help but think about him. My father. How easily he cast me aside. Like I was some broken tool, not even worth fixing. His expression that day — cold, final.
Now look at me. Shivering in the dirt. Forgotten. Just another soul wandering Helheim.
My knees gave out. I collapsed into the cold, wet earth, the mist creeping closer around me. My vision blurred.
So this is how it ends? After everything?
Damn.
[Change POV]
Perched atop a jagged outcrop of blackened stone, two silent figures watched the lone woman stumble across the cursed plains of Hel. Their feathered wings were folded close to their armored backs, camouflaged in ash and shadow. One had bright silver feathers dulled by time and grime; the other bore bronze-streaked wings, torn at the tips — remnants of a battle centuries old.
"Well that's a spirited gal. Sad. She'll die in minutes," said the bronze one in a sagely, almost bored tone.
"You are such an emo, you know that, Zorelle? She's a witch. Clearly she can heal herself—wait, nope, she just fell down. She's dead, I think," said the white-winged one.
"Well, let's loot her and get out of here before she becomes a zombie and tries to kill us. Today's your turn, so get going. I'll keep watch," the bronze-winged angel said before flying up to a higher ledge.
Violet — pink-haired and white-feathered — flew down toward the new arrival. Or rather, the newly dead. When they had first arrived in Hel after their deaths, they were stripped of weapons and armor. Survival against the undead horde demanded creativity — and ruthlessness. They'd learned to take what they needed from corpses, dead or undead. Looting wasn't just habit anymore. It was survival.
Landing near the pale body, Violet took in the scene. The tattered tunic barely covered her, strips of cloth were tied tight around one arm, and a crude spear was gripped tight in the other. Her face was cut, bruised — but unmistakably beautiful.
A mortal? In Helheim?
Maybe she was a crazy witch and something went wrong in her experiment. Violet reached for the spear, surprised by how tight the woman's grip still was. But she was stronger. She could pry it loose—
"Help me…" came a whisper. Weak, shaky, but alive.
[Change POV]
From her perch above, Zorelle sighed and squinted down. Typical Violet. Said she'd loot and bounce — now she was crouched like a kicked puppy next to a half-dead mortal.
"She's talking, isn't she?" Zorelle muttered to herself, crossing her arms. "Of course she's talking. That's how it always starts."
Still, curiosity gnawed at her. Mortals didn't just walk into Helheim. Even the dumb ones knew better. This one? She'd fought a draugr. And won — sort of. Well... survived. Barely. Still impressive for someone clearly out of her league.
"Violet?" Zorelle called down, gliding toward her partner with a lazy flap of her wings. "Tell me you're not trying to adopt a dead mortal."
Violet looked up, still crouched, spear in hand. "She asked for help, Zee."
Zorelle raised a brow. "And what exactly do you expect us to do with a half-dead, zombie-bait mortal? Throw her a tea party?"
"She's not cursed. I checked," Violet said, brushing a lock of bright pink hair back. "And she's not dead, obviously. Also? She fought a draugr."
Zorelle eyed the bandaged, necrotic arm and made a face. "That's not fighting. That's... aggressively decaying."
The mortal groaned again. Her face, under all the blood and dirt, was defiant. Stubborn. Strangely noble. Full of rage.
Zorelle exhaled slowly. "Fine. We'll take her."
Violet blinked. "Really?"
She crouched and gently pulled the girl's good arm over her shoulder. "You owe us," she muttered.
"Help... me…" the mortal whispered again, barely audible.
"Yeah, yeah, I got you," Zorelle mumbled. "Let's just hope you're not the worst decision I've made this week."
Violet grinned. "We're angels. Our standards are already in the dirt."
And with that, the two winged warriors took off across the ash-blown wastes, carrying with them a mortal who had no business surviving — and yet somehow, still had a story left to tell.