The Bifrost threw us into hell.
Omnipolis was burning. But the fire was wrong—black, devouring light instead of giving it. Necro-flame licked the walls of the temples, and wherever it touched stone, only a void remained.
We landed in the plaza before the central sanctuary. Thor, Sif, myself—and two Einherjar whom Odin had sent at the last moment. Reinforcements that were unlikely to help.
"Spread out!" Thor was already running toward the nearest building, where screams were coming from. "Find survivors!"
Sif bolted in the opposite direction, the Einherjar following her. I remained in the plaza, looking around.
The city was beautiful. Probably. Now, that beauty was hard to discern behind the bodies and blood.
The architecture of Omnipolis differed from Asgard—crystalline spires shimmering with every color of the spectrum. Bridges of pure light connected the towers. Fountains gushed not with water, but with liquid silver.
All of it was dying.
The crystals were cracking, losing their color. The light bridges flickered and died. The silver in the fountains blackened, turning into tar.
A scream from the right. A woman's.
I ran toward the sound.
Around the corner, a street opened up—narrow, situated between two temples. And on it—a battle.
A goddess in white robes was fighting off three creatures. Humanoid figures of pure blackness, without faces, without features. They moved in jerks, unnaturally, like puppets with severed strings.
Berserkers. Gorr's necro-constructs.
The goddess was wounded—her left arm hung limp, drenched in golden blood. Her sword traced arcs, keeping the beasts at a distance, but she was weakening. Every movement was harder than the last.
Cold surged from me in a wave. My Jotun essence, which the runes on my clothing could not block. The ground beneath my feet covered in frost. The air grew thick.
An ice spike erupted from my palm and pierced the nearest Berserker through.
The beast did not fall. It turned to me—slowly, as if only just noticing me. The hole in its chest was closing with a black substance. It had no eyes, but I felt its gaze—hungry, empty.
"They regenerate," the goddess shouted. "They cannot be killed!"
"They can."
I remembered Falligar. The text in the library. Necro-matter fears primordial cold—the kind that existed before the stars.
Blueness crept over my hands. Patterns appeared on my skin. Jotun form—full, without the mask.
The temperature around me plummeted.
The Berserker I had pierced froze. Its body covered in frost—not from the outside, but from within. The blackness froze, losing its mobility.
I struck.
An ice blade, formed from the air, descended upon the beast from above. The frozen body shattered into shards—and the shards did not fuse back together. They couldn't. The cold had killed the very ability to regenerate.
The two other Berserkers turned to me. And attacked.
Fast. Incredibly fast. Two black silhouettes merged into blurred streaks, and I barely managed to raise an ice shield.
The blow threw me back. The shield cracked, but held.
A second blow. Cracks raced across the ice.
"Run!" I shouted to the goddess. "To the Bifrost!"
She didn't argue. She bolted away, clutching her wound.
A third strike—and the shield shattered.
I rolled to the side, evading the black claws that ripped through the stone where I had just been standing. I jumped to my feet. I created two ice blades—one in each hand.
The first Berserker lunged. I went low, letting the beast pass over me, and slashed its legs. The blade went deep, freezing the flesh.
The creature collapsed but continued to crawl toward me, dragging its useless legs.
The second Berserker struck from the side. I managed to parry with a blade, but I lacked the strength—I was thrown against the wall. My back slammed into the stone, the air knocked out of my lungs.
The beast loomed over me. Black hands reached for my throat.
And then lightning struck from the sky.
The Berserker exploded, torn to pieces. Chunks of necro-matter scattered across the street, smoking.
"Brother!"
Thor landed beside me, hammer in hand. His eyes were burning—literally, blue sparks danced in his pupils.
"Are you injured?"
"I'll live."
I stood up, grabbing the wall. My ribs ached, but nothing was broken. I think.
The first Berserker was still crawling toward me. Thor carelessly struck with his hammer—the creature was slammed into the stone and moved no more.
"Are there many of them?" I asked.
"Dozens. Maybe hundreds. They are everywhere," Thor looked around. "Sif is holding the western sector with the Einherjar. But we aren't keeping up. The gods are dying faster than we can kill these things."
"And Gorr?"
"I haven't seen him. But he is here. Somewhere."
The cold inside me pulsed—strange, uneven. The Necrosword was close. I felt it like a black hole at the edge of my perception.
"The Central Temple," I said. "He is there."
"How do you know?"
"I feel it."
Thor didn't argue. We ran.
The streets of Omnipolis had turned into a battlefield.
Bodies lay everywhere—gods, priests, ordinary mortals. Blood, golden and red mixed together, flowed across the marble. Berserkers roamed among the corpses, finishing off the wounded.
We fought our way to the center.
Thor used his hammer like a scythe—every strike sent the beasts into walls, into the sky, into nowhere. Lightning lashed around him, incinerating necro-constructs by the dozens.
I followed, finishing off those who survived the lightning. Ice blades sank into frozen flesh, and the creatures crumbled into shards.
We found Sif at the bridge over the silver canal—the canal was now black, poisoned. She was fighting five Berserkers, and one of the Einherjar lay at her feet. Dead.
"Hold on!" Thor brought lightning down on the beasts.
Three flared up and fell apart. Sif cut down the remaining two herself—fiercely, accurately.
"The second one?" Thor asked, looking at the Einherjar's body.
"Dead," Sif spat out blood. Not hers—the beasts'. "They ripped out his throat before I could reach him."
"How many survivors did you find?"
"Three. Sent them to the Bifrost. Heimdall should have taken them."
Three. From an entire pantheon—three.
"Gorr is in the central temple," I said. "We need to go there."
"Why on earth should I believe..."
"Sif," Thor interrupted her. "Later. Now—war."
She clenched her teeth but nodded.
We moved toward the temple.
The Central Temple was majestic even now, engulfed in black flame. The crystalline dome had cracked down the middle, and through the crack, a pale glow beat—the fading power of the gods.
The entrance was guarded by Berserkers. Many. I counted twelve before I lost track.
"Together," Thor raised his hammer.
We attacked.
Lightning and ice hit the creatures simultaneously. Thor crushed them with his hammer; I froze and finished them. Sif covered the flanks, her sword singing in the air.
Thirty seconds. Maybe less. Twelve Berserkers became black shards on the steps.
"Inside," Thor was the first to enter the temple.
Inside the temple, it was cold.
Not my cold—something else. The cold of the void, the cold of absence. The Necrosword was here, and its presence was freezing space itself.
A corridor led deep inside to the main hall. Bodies lined the walls—priests, guards. Killed cleanly, each with a single blow.
Light ahead. Pale, sickly.
We entered the main hall.
Gorr stood in the center, his back to us.
He was exactly as I had seen him in the vision. Gray skin covered in scars. A body entwined with living blackness—necro-matter moved, pulsed, breathed along with him. In his hand was the Necrosword, the blade that devours light.
Before him was a body. A goddess in golden robes, with silver hair. Dead.
The last one.
"You are late, Son of Odin," Gorr did not turn. "They are all dead."
"Then you will answer for every one of them," Thor gripped his hammer.
"Answer?" now Gorr turned. His eyes—burnt out, empty—slid over us. "To whom? To you? To your liar of a father?"
His gaze stopped on me.
"Now this is interesting. A Jotun in Asgardian skin."
"Loki," I replied. "Prince of Asgard."
"I know who you are. The one who attacked Earth. The one the gods betrayed just as they betray everyone," Gorr tilted his head. "You understand."
"Understand what?"
"Everything. The lies they feed the mortals. The promises they don't keep. The prayers they hear but ignore."
He took a step toward us. Thor tensed, but I raised a hand—wait.
"Your family," I said. "They died while you prayed."
Gorr froze.
"Yes. My wife. Two children. One after another. From hunger, from disease, from thirst. While the gods of my world feasted in their temples, accepting sacrifices we could not afford."
"And you decided that all gods must die."
"I decided that the universe deserves better than parasites who call themselves gods."
Thor stepped forward:
"We are not parasites. We protect..."
"What?" Gorr turned sharply toward him. "What do you protect? Your palaces? Your feasts? Your eternal lives? While mortals die in the dirt, you sit on golden thrones and take their worship as your due."
"Not all gods are like that," I said.
"All of them. Without exception. Even those who consider themselves good—they could have done more. They could always have done more. But they didn't. Because they don't care."
He looked at me again.
"You know I am right. Odin stole you from your people. Raised you as a tool. Discarded you when you were no longer useful. And you are still protecting him?"
"I am not protecting Odin."
"Then what are you doing here?"
A good question. I searched for an answer—and found it.
"Protecting those you will kill on the way to him."
Gorr smiled. A terrifying smile, broken, wrong.
"Sacrifices are inevitable."
"That is what all tyrants say."
The smile vanished.
"You call me a tyrant?"
"You decide who lives, who dies. You don't ask, you don't listen. You just kill. How are you any different from the gods you hate?"
"I..."
"You have become what you hate," I continued. "A god. A god of death who does not hear prayers. Who kills without distinguishing between the guilty and the innocent."
Gorr flinched. The necro-matter on his body agitated, stirred.
"No. I am not a god. I am their end."
"You speak like a god. You think like a god. You kill like a god. The only difference is—you call yourself something else."
"SILENCE!"
The Necrosword soared into the air.
"Thor!" I jumped back.
Lightning met the blade. An impact—and the world shuddered. The shockwave threw me against the wall.
Thor and Gorr clashed in battle.
It was... terrifying. Hammer against sword, lightning against darkness. Thor struck with strength that shattered columns, but Gorr evaded—faster than the eye could follow. The Necrosword left cuts on Thor's armor, and every cut smoked black.
Sif rushed to help—and was sent flying by a careless blow. Her body slammed into the wall. She did not get up.
I tried to attack from behind—ice spikes surged toward Gorr. He didn't even turn. Necro-matter detached from his body, formed a shield, and absorbed the ice.
"Weak," Gorr said, continuing to fight Thor. "Your cold is a pathetic echo of the primordial darkness."
A strike. Thor flew back, crashing into a column. He rose, staggering.
Another strike. The hammer was knocked from his hand, flying into the corner of the hall.
The Necrosword slashed his chest—deep, to the bone. Thor fell to his knees. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds—real, red blood. The necro-matter ate into the flesh, preventing the wounds from closing.
"You are strong, Son of Odin," Gorr walked toward him, taking his time. "Stronger than many. But it is not enough."
Thor tried to stand. His legs wouldn't hold him.
"Nothing is enough against me. Your father will understand this when I come for him."
He raised the Necrosword for the final blow.
"Say hello in Valhalla. If gods even go there."
I didn't think. I lunged forward, forming an ice blade as I ran.
Gorr turned—fast, too fast. The Necrosword met my blade and sliced through it like paper. With a reverse motion, he struck me in the chest—not with the edge, but with the hilt.
Ribs snapped. I flew back, crashing into the altar.
"You are brave, Jotun," Gorr said, returning to Thor. "Stupid, but brave. Perhaps I will kill you last. As a sign of respect."
Thor lay on the floor. His chest barely rose. His eyes were closing.
He was dying.
And I could do nothing.
Or could I?
"Heimdall!" I roared, spitting blood. "BIFROST! NOW!"
A second. Two.
Nothing.
"He won't hear you," Gorr said calmly. "The Necrosword jams the connection to Asgard. No one is coming."
Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Think. Think, damn it.
The Bifrost works through Heimdall. Heimdall sees everything—but the Necrosword creates a blind spot. How to break through the interference?
Cold.
My cold was different—not the magic of Asgard, not the darkness of the Necrosword. Jotun ice was born in the void before the stars, in an era when there was neither light nor darkness—only cold.
Primordial. Neutral. Piercing.
I closed my eyes. I let go of control. I allowed the cold to fill every cell of my body, every thought, every atom.
And I reached out.
Not to Heimdall—to the Bifrost itself. To the rainbow bridge between worlds. It was energy, pure power, and that power had a resonance. A frequency.
I struck that frequency with my cold. Like a tuning fork. Like a scream through a wall.
Gorr felt something. He turned.
"What are you doing?"
The sky above the temple exploded in a rainbow.
The Bifrost crashed down from above—not smoothly, as usual, but jaggedly, chaotically. Colors mixed, sparked, screamed.
I lunged toward Thor. I grabbed his arm—heavy, dead weight. I pulled him toward the pillar of rainbow light.
"NO!" Gorr surged toward us.
The Necrosword sliced the air an inch from my back.
Too late.
The Bifrost snatched us up—me and Thor. I managed to see Sif by the wall—unconscious, but within the beam of light.
A jolt.
Colors.
And the last thing I heard was Gorr's voice, full of rage:
"This is not the end! I will find HER! Hela will answer for the sins of the father!"
Then—only the rainbow and the fall through space.
Asgard.
I lay on the floor of the observatory, and Heimdall's face loomed over me. For the first time, I saw something resembling surprise on it.
"How did you do that?"
"I don't know," I rasped. "Thor..."
"The healers are already here."
Bustle all around. Voices. Someone was hauling Thor onto a stretcher. Sif groaned—which meant she was alive.
Heimdall helped me sit up. My ribs exploded in pain, but I grit my teeth.
"You summoned the Bifrost yourself. Without me. That should not be possible."
"Many things should not be possible."
"How?"
I looked at my hands. The blueness was slowly receding, returning to the normal skin color.
"Jotun cold. Primordial void. It... breaks through the interference. Don't ask for details, I don't understand it myself."
Heimdall looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded—slowly, with something resembling respect.
"You saved them. Thor would have died without your intervention."
"That wouldn't have happened if I hadn't gone and started talking to Gorr."
"Perhaps. But you did. And then—you pulled them out. That is... more than many would have done."
I didn't answer. Everything hurt too much.
The healers were already working on Thor—burning the necro-matter out of his wounds. He was unconscious, pale as death. But alive.
For now.
The infirmary was full.
Thor lay on the table, entwined with glowing threads of spells. Healers bent over him, murmuring something in an ancient tongue. The necro-matter did not want to leave—it clung to the flesh, sinking roots.
"Will he survive?" I asked the head healer.
"If we manage to clean the wounds in time—yes. If not..." she didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Sif sat in the corner, pressing a compress to her head. Concussion, bruises, broken ribs. Nothing fatal, but she looked as if she had been run over by a chariot.
I leaned against the wall. Every breath was like a knife thrust—the broken ribs were making themselves known. But I couldn't lie down. Not now.
The door opened. Odin entered—at a fast pace, without guards. Frigga followed him, pale as a sheet.
She saw Thor—and froze. Then she slowly approached, placing a hand on his forehead. Her lips moved—a prayer or a spell, I couldn't tell.
"Report," Odin said, looking at me.
I told him. Everything—the fight, the Berserkers, the conversation with Gorr, his final words.
When I finished, silence hung over the room.
"He knows," Odin said at last. "He knows about Hela and he is searching for her."
Frigga turned:
"We must..."
"I know what we must," Odin interrupted her. His voice was tired. Old.
Thor groaned on the table. His eyes opened—blurry, but alive. The healers stepped aside.
"Father..."
"Lie still. Do not move."
"Sister..." Thor tried to focus his gaze. "You never told... who she is. Why you imprisoned her."
Silence.
Odin closed his eye.
Frigga turned away.
I stood and waited. This conversation was inevitable.
"Yes," Odin said finally. "Hela. My firstborn. The Goddess of Death."
"Why..." Thor coughed, blood splattered from his mouth. A healer rushed to him. "Why did you never speak of it?"
"Because there are things better forgotten."
"Forgotten?! She is my sister!"
"She is a monster."
The words fell like stones. Heavy, final.
"Hela was my weapon," Odin continued. "When I conquered the Nine Realms, she walked beside me. Every victory, every war, every death—it was her handiwork. We were... invincible."
"What happened?"
"She didn't want to stop. When I decided that the conquests were enough... she did not agree. She wanted everything. Every world, every star, every life. And when I tried to stop her..."
He went silent.
"She almost killed me. Her mother. Half of Asgard. I had to... imprison her. In Helheim, in the realm of death itself."
"And you kept silent about this for thousands of years?" Thor's voice was bitter.
"I tried to forget. To erase her from history. To make it as if she never existed."
"Why?"
"Because I was afraid," Odin said softly. "Afraid that you would become the same. That the lust for war in the blood of the Odinsons would take over. I wanted... a different heir. A different son."
Silence.
Thor looked at his father—and in his eyes was something I hadn't seen before. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Understanding.
"And now Gorr is coming for her," I said, interrupting the moment. "And if he kills her..."
"The Necrosword will become stronger than ever," Odin finished. "Strong enough to threaten even Asgard."
"Then we must stop him," Thor tried to rise. He couldn't. "We must..."
"You must lie there and recover," Frigga gently but firmly laid him back down. "The fight with Gorr can wait."
"It won't wait," I said. "He won't wait for us to gather our strength. He will strike again. Soon."
"Then what do you suggest?" Odin asked.
I looked at him. At Frigga. At Thor.
"Helheim. We need to get there before Gorr. Warn Hela. Or... convince her to help."
"She won't help," Odin shook his head. "She hates me. She hates Asgard. She would sooner help Gorr than us."
"Maybe. But she has a choice: help us or die at Gorr's hand. Sometimes the enemy of my enemy..."
"...is still my enemy," Odin finished.
"But a living enemy is better than a dead trump card in Gorr's hands."
Odin looked at me for a long time. Something was working behind his single eye—calculations, plans, memories.
"You are suggesting going to Helheim," he said at last. "Into the realm of the dead. While alive."
"Yes."
"It is impossible."
"Many things are impossible. Today I summoned the Bifrost without Heimdall. The impossible is just something that no one has done yet."
A pause.
Frigga approached Odin and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"He is right," she said softly. "If there is a chance to stop Gorr before he reaches Hela..."
"I know."
Odin turned toward the exit.
"Rest. Heal. Tomorrow... tomorrow we will discuss how to enter Helheim."
He left. Frigga lingered—casting one last look at Thor, then at me.
"Thank you," she said. "For saving him."
"I didn't..."
"You saved him. Heimdall told us. Without you, he would have died there."
She left.
I remained—leaning against the wall, watching Thor, who had drifted back into unconsciousness.
Tomorrow. Helheim. The Realm of the Dead.
I knew for certain it was a bad idea.
But I had no other ideas.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}