In the marbled halls of Olympus, the shadowed depths of Duat, the bright Takamagahara, and the frost-bitten heights of Asgard, a collective, celestial sigh echoed across the planes. The gods were bored.
It wasn't a lack of power, or even a lack of worshippers—small cults and pockets of faith stubbornly persisted. No, the true affliction was the quality of the era. The Heroic Ages, where mortals wrestled hydras, crossed oceans guided by stars, and prayed with passionate fervor, were long gone. Now, their dominion was replaced by screens, skepticism, and a frustrating dependence on science. Prayers were mumbled requests for better parking or stock tips, not desperate pleas for salvation from a ravenous beast.
"I miss the smell of burning ships," murmured Poseidon, staring at a satellite image of a cruise liner.
"I miss actual human sacrifice," grumbled Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec sun god, finding the modern concept of an 'all-nighter' utterly unsatisfying.
Odin, the All-Father, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, finally spoke, his voice a low rumble of thunder and wisdom. "The weave of fate is dull, brothers and sisters. It needs a thread of fresh blood and true purpose. Let us give them what they refuse to remember."
And so, the greatest collaboration of cosmic power began. Fifteen Pantheons—Norse, Greek, Roman, Japanese, Egyptian, Celtic, Native American (Great Spirit), Chinese, Mayan, Aztec, Hindu, Voodoo, African (Orisha), Polynesian, and Mesopotamian—agreed to co-create a new realm. They called it Aethelgard, the World-Woven-by-Ages.
Aethelgard was vast and fractal, split into zones defined by divine will. The Norse claimed the frozen fjords, volcanic peaks, and endless forests; the Egyptians staked a blazing desert realm dotted with eternal pyramids; the Japanese spirits forged a misty, archipelago of serene islands. Each faction created inhabitants and dangers perfectly tailored to their own myths.
The final act was selection. Each Pantheon reached across the veil of the modern world and chose a single, champion—a soul whose inner core resonated with their forgotten truth.
In a small apartment overlooking the gray sprawl of a European city, Leif was watching a documentary on Iron Age weaponry. His middle-length, wavy brown hair was kept back with a cap, his dark blue eyes were thoughtful, and the stubble on his jaw gave him a look of rugged concentration. He was twenty-five and perhaps the only person in his building who genuinely believed in the spiritual truth of the Nine Worlds.
He took a slow sip of cold coffee, contemplating the historical inaccuracies of the reenactment, when the air around him shimmered. It wasn't a spiritual revelation or a dream; it was a crisp, cyan glow, accompanied by the distinct sound of a digital notification.
A translucent screen, hovering five feet wide directly in front of his television, popped into existence, framed by swirling runes and glowing with an impossible light. The text on the screen was familiar, yet utterly alien, structured like the menu of a vast, complex RPG.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: WELCOME TO AETHELGARD]
Leif dropped his mug. The screen pulsed, and an authority that felt older than the mountains themselves filled his head, speaking in the voice of Odin himself.
["Mortal of the Æsir faith, Leif of Midgard. You have been chosen as the Champion of the Norse Pantheon. The Age of Heroes begins anew, and our favor—or wrath—shall be your guide."]
The screen updated, showing a detailed profile.
[Champion ProfileStatus]
| Name: Leif
| Faction: Norse Pantheon
| Class: Unassigned
| Level: 1
| Blessing: Might of Jötunheim (Tier 1)
| Karma: Neutral (0)
Current Quest: Find the Great Bifrost Spire. |
Below the main profile, a smaller, Norse runes-bordered window appeared, framed by the twin ravens of Odin.
[Norse Faction Approval Rating]
Odin, All-Father:Approves (+1 Favor)
Frigg, Queen of the Æsir:Approves (+1 Favor)
Thor, God of Thunder:Enthusiastically Approves (+2 Favor)
Loki, Trickster God:Disapproves (-1 Favor)
Leif barely had time to register that Loki already hated him before the cyan light intensified, washing out his apartment, the city, and the whole of his mundane world. When the light subsided, the smell of salt spray, pine needles, and fresh ash replaced the sterile scent of drywall and dust. He stood on black volcanic sand, looking up at a sky that was constantly split by shimmering, rainbow lightning—the Great Bifrost Spire, piercing the clouds of the Norse zone. The game had begun.
The air was a brutal, invigorating assault. Cold, charged with ozone from the constant rainbow lightning of the Great Bifrost Spire, and sharp with the scent of brine and pine resin. The black sand of the beach felt coarse and slightly warm against Leif's worn leather boots—boots that, seconds ago, had been scuffed on his apartment carpet, not deposited on the shore of a newly woven world.
His first instinct, the primal shock of displacement, was to panic. His second, ingrained by years spent dissecting fantasy lore, was to check his gear.
He still wore his clothes: thick jeans, a worn navy blue Henley shirt, and the boots. The simple bronze Mjölnir pendant he always wore felt suddenly heavy and cold against his chest. His hands, however, now gripped something new.
It was a battle-axe.
The Gift of the Æsir
He hadn't been carrying a weapon. He didn't even own one—not a functional battle-axe, anyway. The one in his hands was a masterwork. The head was forged from a dark, silvery metal, balanced perfectly, with the blade sweeping back into a wicked point. The handle was wrapped in fresh, supple leather that seemed to conform instantly to his grip.
As he turned it over, the SYSTEM MESSAGE window—the cyan, rune-framed screen—flickered and updated with a new, smaller text box appeared below the profile:
[New Item Acquired: Forgemaster's Axe (Common)]
Description:A simple, yet perfectly balanced weapon imbued with minor divine favor. It will not break.
Effect:+5 Attack Damage.
Class Assigned:The Champion of the Æsir must be able to stand on his own shield. Your focus on historical arms and armor has been acknowledged.
"Warrior," Leif muttered, the word feeling both earned and terrifying. He raised the axe, the weight reassuringly distributed, and ran a thumb over the razor-sharp edge. "Okay. Panic later. Investigate now."
The beach was a narrow strip, backed by a dense, primeval forest of enormous, dark pines, with in the middle, a towering ash tree. Beyond the forest, the land rose sharply into snow-capped, jagged mountains—the kind that didn't just meet the sky, but stabbed it.
But it was the Spire that drew his gaze. It was a pillar of pure, churning light, impossibly massive, a constant, vertical aurora borealis. He couldn't estimate the distance, but he knew the moment he saw it: that was his destination.
Current Quest: Find the Great Bifrost Spire.
The First Encounter
A low, guttural snarl snapped him out of his assessment.
Leif spun, dropping into a stance he had only ever practiced with a broomstick or a training dummy. The sound came from the mouth of the pine forest, where the shadow was deepest.
Two creatures emerged. They were roughly the size of large German Shepherds, but built like pit bulls on steroids. Their coats were patchy and matted, their snouts long and filled with too many teeth, and their eyes glowed a malevolent yellow-red.
They were Garm-Spawn—the minor, ravenous children of the wolf that guards the gate of Helheim.
The System Log, at the corner of his vision, helpfully popped up a warning.
[DANGER IMMINENT]: Lesser Garm-Spawn (Level 3).
Note:Do not attempt to engage two simultaneously at Level 1.
Advice:Flee or utilize the environment.
Leif's blood ran cold, but the Might of Jötunheim Blessing, an invisible surge of primal, icy strength, instantly calmed his nerves and sharpened his focus. He knew he couldn't outrun them in the deep, soft sand. The environment—the forest.
He backed up two steps, placing the black beach sand between him and the trees, forcing the creatures into the open.
The first Garm-Spawn lunged, a snapping maw aimed for his throat.
Leif reacted on instinct, dropping his weight and stepping inside the wide arc of the attack. He didn't swing the axe to cleave; he used the blunt edge of the axe-head like a hammer, smashing it into the creature's exposed ribcage with a grunt of effort.
The impact was shocking. A sickening crunch resonated, and the Garm-Spawn yelped, tumbling away. Leif had expected a fight; he hadn't expected the sheer, brutal power that coursed through his body. The Might of Jötunheim was real.
Before the first creature could recover, the second one attacked, wiser than its mate. It kept low and feinted left, then lunged right, aiming for his leg.
Leif pivoted, bringing the axe down. This time, it was a proper cleave. The silvery blade bit deep into the creature's shoulder, and the SYSTEM MESSAGE flared brilliantly.
[CRITICAL HIT!(Divine Favor Activated)]
Lesser Garm-Spawn (Level 3) defeated! (+5 XP)
The wolf dissolved instantly into a spray of shimmering, dark ash that smelled faintly of sulfur and ozone.
The first Garm-Spawn, staggering back to its feet, saw its packmate vanish. It hesitated—a moment of true, animal fear—before deciding to bolt back into the shadows of the pine trees.
Leif didn't give it the chance. Fueled by adrenaline and the sudden, terrifying realization of his new, divine strength, he sprinted forward, covering the distance in three powerful strides. He brought the axe down, splitting the air with a vicious whoosh and connecting with the creature's neck.
Another spray of dark ash. Silence.
[The First Level]
Leif stood panting, the axe heavy in his hands. He was slick with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he was alive. His clothes were unmarked.
He stared at the spot where the Garm-Spawn had been, then at the axe, then back at the pulsing System Window.
[LEVEL UP!]You have reached Level 2.
Stat Allocation Point (SAP) Acquired: 1
Current Experience: 0/20
He looked around. The beach was empty. The forest was silent. The only thing that made a sound was the ceaseless, ethereal hum of the Bifrost Spire. He was in a land woven by gods, and he had just executed two mythological monsters.
"A stat point…" Leif breathed, the phrase a lifetime of gaming suddenly made real. He had to think, not just react. He needed to be stronger, but also faster.
He willed the System Menu to open the stat page, and it instantly obeyed, showing a detailed breakdown of his starting attributes:
[Base StatsValue]
Strength (STR):10
Dexterity (DEX):8
Stamina (STA):9
Wisdom (WSD):11
Charisma (CHR):7
Note: Starting base stats are determined by core personality and life skills. STR, DEX, and STA directly impact combat. WSD impacts resourcefulness and magical resistance. CHR impacts Faction Favor and interactions with NPCs.
Leif smiled grimly, noting his highest stat was Wisdom—he had always been a thinker, a researcher. But he was a Warrior now. He needed to hit harder and take more punishment.
He tapped the screen next to 'Stamina' with a hesitant finger.
Stamina (STA) increased to 10.
Remaining SAP: 0.
The change was instantaneous. A deep, warm thrum settled into his muscles, and the residual shaking and burning in his limbs vanished. He felt rested, ready.
He sheathed the axe—there was a hidden loop of tough leather on the side of his jeans he hadn't noticed—and looked towards the dark pine forest. It was time to leave the beach.
"Okay, Odin," he murmured, adjusting his Mjölnir pendant. "You wanted a hero? You got a Level 2 guy with a good axe and a decent grasp of survival horror."
He took his first deliberate step towards the trees, the Great Bifrost Spire his only, impossible beacon.