Chapter 145: Scathach's Feverish Temple?
The scattered sparks had found yet another route, and the purpose of the journey was no longer aimless.
Rowe led Skaði into lands where people actually lived.
When he stepped into a Nordic town for the first time, what greeted him was an architectural style completely unlike Greece or Mesopotamia. It was blunt, tall, and unapologetically excessive, as if the very timbers were trying to prove their courage by existing.
Residences, markets, arenas, shrines built for the gods, all of them were built high. Even the most ordinary cattle yards and horse pastures were far broader than they had any right to be.
It was only natural.
On this peninsula, the belief that the progenitor giant Ymir created the world had circulated for ages. Worship of gigantism was a trait shared by gods and humans alike, a local hobby that somehow evolved into a worldview.
Perhaps that was why Odin had chosen to intercept a remnant of a Star Hunter from years past, cultivating it into the World Tree that supported the Nine Realms.
After all, the invader from back then had been called the Giant God, and even its manifested form was impossibly vast.
Rowe led the Heavenly Steed, its divine peculiarities concealed, and walked slowly down a busy street.
Winter had passed. Spring had arrived. The brief warmth of this land finally showed itself.
Skaði, however, looked thoroughly unmotivated. She lay on the horse's back with her hands propping up her chin, cheeks slightly puffed, legs crossed and dangling on one side as they swayed in the air.
Languor painted her face like a spell.
The Snow Mountain Goddess was a deity of winter, so spring was never friendly to her. It was like a beast forced out of its territory. Uncomfortable. Weak. Annoyed at the very concept of sunshine.
"Are we not there yet…?" she mumbled, swaying as she spoke.
Rowe paused and glanced sideways. Fafnir, in the form of a hyena at his feet, wagged his tail and let out a low, wheedling whimper.
A young man in armor and a gorgeously dressed young girl looked, to the locals, like a knight and a princess who had decided the sensible option was to run away together. Their presence drew stares. Rowe ignored it. He had once led a nation. He had learned early that attention was just wind with opinions.
"Where is there?" Rowe asked.
"An inn. A temple. Anywhere." Skaði yawned, as if even the act of speaking offended her. "I am tired. I want to sleep."
Rowe raised an eyebrow. "An inn?"
"Ah… do not misunderstand. I really just want to sleep," Skaði said, blinking slowly.
"I did not misunderstand anything," Rowe replied. "It seems you are genuinely exhausted."
"Mm… every year around this time, I spend it sleeping." For a winter goddess, slumber in spring was natural. "Do not disturb me…"
Her eyelids drooped.
But do not leave me either.
Rowe's gaze shifted to her hand.
Even while pretending she did not care, Skaði's fingers had quietly caught the corner of his cloak.
Fear?
Fear that the gods would come for her again?
The Snow Mountain Goddess was growing more and more accustomed to showing her fragile side in front of him. Worse, she was doing it without even trying to weaponize it. No teasing. No sharp retort. Just fatigue so honest it could not be faked.
"Then we go," Rowe said, tugging the reins. "We rest at the Snow Mountain Goddess's temple."
He had no interest in courting trouble at an inn.
Skaði responded with a soft sound that might have been agreement, or might have been her soul leaving her body for a brief nap.
What the very weary goddess did not know was that Rowe was multitasking.
The wind brought him more and more news.
Across this land, a cult calling itself "Ymir" was spreading recklessly, even daring to borrow Rowe's name as a banner. Rowe knew.
He did not stop them.
He only listened.
He listened to calls from every direction, and used the opportunity to expand his own sparks in reverse, like a fire that learned to feed on other people's kindling.
Someone, chasing an escaping Evil Dragon, reached the edge of a deep secluded valley, only to be intercepted by an old missionary preaching about a supposed subordinate relationship between Ymir and the wild hunt.
Then that missionary was denounced and rejected by the person who had already received Rowe's spark.
Someone crossed the sea at full speed, only to witness a storm giant sweeping forward with gales and torrential rain, devouring everything in its path. Countless souls chased after the giant's silhouette, forming a terrifying vortex of air.
Heroes traveled the world. Legions of the wild hunt scattered through the world. Power accumulated.
At the edge of the world, Jörmungandr roared.
In Niflheim, beneath the World Tree, Nidhogg had already sensed the approach of the Twilight of the Gods.
The curtain of the mythic apocalypse seemed to be lifting. All beings looked back in terror.
To some extent, it was terrifying.
Rowe, however, was calm.
Terror was useful. Terror made people look for something to hold on to.
Inside the Snow Mountain Goddess's temple in the mortal world, within a silver decorated hall, Rowe watched a figure collapse, then flip back up in the same breath.
"Oh, we finally meet."
It was still Skaði's body.
But the expression and the presence were nothing like the pure Snow Mountain Goddess.
Her purple hair fell loose without ornaments. Her delicate frame was outlined by a dark purple bodysuit that emphasized agility rather than elegance. A long spear rested in her hand, its dark red light staining the room. Her lips, crimson and sharp, curved into a smile that looked faint, but felt predatory.
Same vessel.
Different person.
Rowe's eyes narrowed.
"Scathach. Queen of the Land of Shadows."
A transcendent existence from a region adjacent to Northern Europe. Not quite a god, and therefore, in some ways, far more troublesome than one.
Scathach lifted her spear, its point angled toward him.
Rowe looked at it and spoke evenly.
"Are you provoking me?"
"Not provoking," Scathach answered, retreating instead of advancing as her steps rippled without sound. "Just sparring."
She moved like water that had learned to stab.
"I have rarely been this patient," she continued, voice bright with amusement. "I waited for that girl to fall into deep sleep, then took the chance to borrow this goddess's body and meet you."
Her smile widened, carrying a shameless elegance.
"This could even be called a tryst, could it not?"
The spear tip tilted slightly, no longer pointing straight at Rowe. She brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead, expression combining heroism with a mature charm that Skaði could never quite imitate.
If Skaði, no matter how she tried to appear grown, still carried an unavoidable girlishness, then the one before him moved like an older sister who had already decided the world was hers to toy with.
"I have never seen anyone bring a spear to a tryst," Rowe said.
If he were an ordinary young man, he might have panicked.
Rowe did not panic.
He turned the tables.
His hand shot out and cupped her chin. He lifted her face, studying it with a half smile that carried no warmth.
"Or are you truly admiring me?"
Scathach's smile brightened, and in it was something dangerous.
"Indeed, I admire you," she said softly. "So much that I wish I could fight you to the death."
The atmosphere was ambiguous.
The reality was not.
Between them there was only a sharpened confrontation, polished by countless battles and the habit of reading intent through posture rather than words. Neither of them would allow their mind to waver because of a pretty face and a clever line.
Then, in an instant, light flickered.
A dark fissure appeared behind Scathach like an eye opening.
She stepped back into it. Her figure blurred as if she were sinking into water.
"I wonder," she said, voice lilting, "if you would be interested in coming to the Land of Shadows for a meeting, esteemed Sir?"
Interested?
Of course he was.
The Queen of the Land of Shadows was special to Rowe for a reason.
Because, like him, Scathach was a being who chased death.
Of course, she did not possess the same path as Rowe, the power to be inscribed onto the Throne of Heroes. As a transcendent existence, Scathach had crossed the boundary of life and death, yet she had not surpassed the entire world itself. She remained trapped in the layer between worlds, watching time pass like a slow execution.
Given enough time, even a strong will would rot into boredom.
In later generations, she would nurture powerful heroes with a single obsession, hoping to die by the hand of a hero she herself had raised.
But that was the Scathach of later eras.
The current Scathach had existed for less than a thousand years. The Age of Gods was still vibrant and loud, and she had not yet lost her desire to live.
Right now, she was simply a fanatic of combat.
A battle maniac who rejoiced at the sight of challenge.
Rowe understood her invitation for what it was.
A spar.
Scathach wanted to test his strength.
Why would he refuse?
She did not want to die yet.
Rowe, however, had wanted to die for a long time.
With a thought, he stepped forward.
The moment he passed through the mirror door, light and shadow flowed across his vision. Then, in the blink of an eye, he stood in a deep secluded valley.
As far as he could see, there were only rocks and silent towering black shadows.
This was the Land of Shadows.
In Celtic myth it was a realm similar to the underworld. In essence, it was a reflection of the present world, a dimension located outside the world's surface.
There was no wind.
Yet his cloak billowed.
Scathach stood opposite him, her body tensing as if the air itself had become a weapon. The long spear in her hand shimmered.
"Are you ready, Sir Rowe?" she asked.
The knowledge Skaði possessed, Scathach possessed as well. With the Magic Mirror's wisdom, she knew his name.
A clang rang out.
Storm condensed in Rowe's palm, forming the Storm Spear. A cold face guard sealed over his expression. His greatcloak lifted as he raised the spear slightly.
"Do not disappoint me," he said, voice low. "Queen of the Land of Shadows. Scathach."
Scathach blinked, surprised.
"Ah. You actually know who I am?"
"Just as you possess the wisdom of the magic mirror," Rowe replied casually, "is it strange that I possess something similar?"
Scathach took that seriously.
"With your deep cunning, it is not surprising you would have such ability."
"Deep cunning?" Rowe sounded amused. "You could simply say I am insidious."
"Is that not true?" Scathach's smile sharpened. "Otherwise, how could that little girl be so fond of you?"
"Calling another version of yourself a little girl," Rowe replied, "you truly are strange."
"Not as strange as you," Scathach countered, "a god who insists on pretending to be mortal."
It should have been a battle.
Instead, it became a verbal clash.
But both of them understood it at once.
This was not idle conversation.
This was testing.
Scathach already knew the outline of Rowe's strength. To be able to contend with the strongest god of the Norse pantheon meant his raw power was overwhelming.
No caution was excessive.
Rowe, meanwhile, wanted to measure her.
How strong was this Queen of the Land of Shadows in this era, when she had existed for only a thousand years?
Did she already possess the scale of Spirit Origin that would later allow her to descend freely, create vessels, and modify the containers of her power?
The exchange ended.
Spear met spear in an instant.
Scathach twisted her dark purple Gae Bolg with effortless precision. The spear expanded, interwove, then her grip shifted by a hair's breadth and the tip slipped past obstruction, stabbing straight at Rowe.
A faint glow gathered at its point.
Mystery and concept converged together.
The concept of sure hit, sure kill manifested.
This was the effect of a Mystery condensed Noble Phantasm called Gae Bolg, described here as a replica of Odin's great declaration, a spear that decided the result before the strike was even complete.
To open with a killing move, one had to admit it.
Compared to Skaði, Scathach was far more mature.
She understood that a trump card only mattered if it was used.
A move that was never used was a move that did not exist.
Rowe raised his leg.
He did not block with his hands.
He kicked the spear tip.
Air converged around his strike like a hammerhead, rippling as it formed.
The impact slammed into Gae Bolg with a heavy thud.
Wind King's Hammer, unleashed in quick succession.
Like Thor meeting Mjolnir head on, the sure hit concept on Scathach's spear was crushed directly.
After the hammer strike, the airflow at the spear tip condensed to a single point, then pierced forward. Smash turned into stab without pause.
Scathach shifted her grip and stepped back, narrowly dodging. Several inches of her loose purple hair were cut away, falling silently into the black.
In the abyssal Land of Shadows, after a single exchange, Scathach's body tensed and her breathing sharpened.
Rowe's gaze stayed cold.
"Is this all you have?"
Disappointment slipped into his voice, thin but real.
Was it still too forced?
After all, this was only the beginning for Scathach. Even if she had already reached the manifestation of a regional chief god, the distance between her current scenery and Rowe's was still too vast.
She could not break his defense.
Even if she were given another thousand years, she still would not be able to kill him.
There was no reason for this battle to continue.
"It is over," Rowe began.
Then he stopped mid sentence.
Because Scathach did not look discouraged.
Her agile figure, after retreating, became even more excited.
She lifted Gae Bolg, and brilliant dark purple streams of light erupted around her. Invisible ripples spread outward, making the ground vibrate faintly.
From the depths of the dark realm, more spears answered her call.
Gae Bolg after Gae Bolg.
They rose from where they had been embedded, converging above her head like a storm, like a torrent, like a palace forged from spearpoints on a mountain that refused to bow.
Different, yet it gave Rowe a strange and immediate illusion.
That was…
"Ereshkigal's Burning Shrine?"
The words left Rowe before he could stop them.
In the Land of Shadows, Scathach's smile widened as if she had been waiting for that exact reaction.
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