Chapter 134: King of the Wild Hunt
The sword Rowe drew from the Gate of Babylon was, without question, treasure class.
Dense Mystery clung to it, layered like ancient sediment, condensed from planetary fantasies and the terror that civilizations used to call myth. In this era it was still nameless, a demonic blade that had not yet been defined by later ages, only by the primal fear that birthed it.
Fear of the sun's scorched currents turning into storms.
Fear of blazing heat devouring the horizon until even the sky seemed to burn.
The golden hilt settled into the machina god's steel palm.
The silver white blade flared with cold brilliance, and a crimson fire licked along its edge as if sunlight itself had been forged into a weapon.
Below, the giants roared.
They surged toward the Valkyries who hovered in the air, envoys of the gods on the World Tree, and more specifically, the envoys of Odin.
The Valkyries exchanged glances.
In that instant they understood something was wrong, and their first instinct was not to fight.
It was to leave.
They were not fools. They would not accept Rowe's claim of Skaði's betrayal at face value. Their best option was to withdraw, report everything, and let the gods above decide what judgment should fall.
They made the decision.
They did not get the chance to act on it.
Rowe took the first step.
He leapt straight into the high sky of Jötunheimr. Above him, the dim yellow dome carried an oppressive stillness, like a world that had forgotten how to breathe. The demonic sword in his hand bloomed with crimson flame.
The ruler of the giants ordered the giants to stay.
He went forward alone.
To test the edge of his own blade.
Defense.
Rowe arrived too fast. The Valkyries realized evasion was impossible, so they met him head on.
One Valkyrie tightened his grip on his spear. His black wings beat once, scattering feathers, and a point of starlight gathered at the spear tip.
Great God's Declaration. Gungnir.
A buzzing shriek tore through the air.
The concept of certain hit, certain kill clung to the strike like a curse.
As divine envoys, every Valkyrie carried a weapon, a crude replica of Odin's Meteor Spear, Gungnir. Their specifications were far inferior, and their essence did not compare to the spear in Skaði's hand, yet even these low grade imitations still carried the same concept.
Certain hit.
But it hit, and it did not hit.
Clang.
The sword burning with the sun's fire intercepted the spear. The concept of certain hit was forced down, suppressed beneath a different Mystery. At the same time, another Valkyrie struck from the side, his own certain hit spear pouring in like flowing flame.
Rowe did not dodge.
He did not retreat.
He simply rotated his sword and drew a circle through the air.
Brilliance spilled outward like a blooming sun. The spear that should have pierced him slid along the blade's path, redirected by a rounded force so clean it felt inevitable. The first Valkyrie was pulled forward, dragged by his own attack.
The direction of that collision was unmistakable.
It was the second Valkyrie.
A perfect calculation.
A flawless swing.
Two certain hit spears crashed together midair. The identical concepts shattered on impact, collapsing under their own overlap. Both Valkyries froze for a heartbeat.
Rowe's sword flashed.
He pierced them both in a single stroke.
A choked cry of pain escaped instinctively.
Divine blood sprayed, mixed with countless pale crystals, scattering across the ground like broken frost.
There was no personal grudge.
But Rowe was a dead man, and he was the King of Giants. Against the Norse gods, that alone was enough to make him an enemy.
So he swung without hesitation.
And withdrew the blade without wasting motion.
The two Valkyries, grievously wounded, fell from the sky. The remaining Valkyries snapped into formation, surrounding Rowe from every direction.
One spear after another leveled at him.
The concepts of certain hit, certain kill ignited at once.
"King of the Giants."
"We represent the will of the gods. We will punish you here."
Their roar was not confidence, but necessity. They needed the sound to keep fear from swallowing their throats.
The wind churned.
Rowe rotated the demonic sword in his hand. Divine blood dripped from the edge in slow beads.
He smiled.
"If you can do it, then come and try."
The King raised his sword and met the storm of spears.
Clash.
Collision.
Rowe used one sword to suppress ten spears. He did not display the overbearing radiance of a god king. He did not release a light that could wrestle with the world itself. He only mobilized what he truly possessed, the vast computation of a machina god.
To calculate the greatest outcome with the least strength.
To calculate Victory at the lowest cost.
Wars never repeat.
Neither do battles.
In the past, Rowe relied on force. He encircled. He crushed. He laid a plan that promised inevitability and then turned it into reality with sheer output.
But there were no perfect crushes in the world.
The ability to make one part of strength produce ten parts of effect was necessary.
Rowe parried spear tips one after another, feeling something click into place.
An epiphany.
Martial arts.
Techniques were shadows. The core was always the same, speed, accuracy, ruthlessness. Acting from the heart. Maximizing power until the smallest movement became a killing line.
Yes.
To do as one pleased, and still achieve the greatest result.
Rowe tightened his grip. Ripples spread outward, layer after layer, as magecraft and magecraft collided in midair. A faint crack opened in the void itself.
The exhilaration reached its limit.
It was time to manifest the Noble Phantasm.
The Valkyries drove forward, spearheads screaming. Beneath their steel masks, their faces were grim.
Stop him. They had to stop him.
Because the prana was gathering.
Gathering on Rowe.
Gathering on his sword.
A force that symbolized destruction, the storm of the sun. Something the Valkyries could not contend with.
Red light surged.
The sword tip bloomed.
Too late.
Fire exploded.
At the tip of the demonic blade, a blazing sun ignited, and the primordial storm crushed everything in its path. Like a tidal wave, sky, earth, and flame intertwined, rippling in layers across the dim yellow dome.
The King declared Victory.
And the Valkyries bled.
Roar.
The giants answered with their own thunderous cry, exulting as their King stood unbroken.
The Valkyries were hurled back by fire and storm. Their wings beat desperately to stabilize their bodies, and yet they did not flee. They raised their spears again, wiping the divine blood from their mouths.
Every one of them was severely wounded.
Still they stepped forward.
The warriors chosen by Odin possessed an unquestionable will to fight, and something more. A power within them that grew sharper with every injury, that grew stronger the closer they came to death.
They turned pain into ability.
A characteristic modified from the Star Hunter's civilization shattering nature.
Below, Skaði's face grew rigid.
Rowe had held back against her. She understood now. He had not wanted to kill her.
And she also understood something else.
Even now, he was holding back.
He was not killing a single one.
Not because he was toying with them.
Because he was fusing with something.
Only Skaði could see it.
The Valkyries could not.
They fought with increasing ferocity, hurling themselves forward again and again. Spears thrust. Metal screamed. Their attacks came from every direction, simultaneous, relentless.
Defeat, then advance.
Defeat, then advance.
Rowe crossed his sword with a spear and stepped forward.
The Valkyrie facing him tried to retreat, to switch positions with another, to create an opening.
He could not.
No matter how he moved, he could not avoid this sword.
"This is…"
"Meteor Spear?"
The Valkyrie's mind went cold with disbelief.
"That is right. This is your Meteor Spear."
Rowe laughed as the answer reached them.
This was what he had been fusing with.
A concept stolen from the Valkyries, the concept of the god king's killing weapon.
Certain hit. Certain kill.
A strike like a meteor tearing down from the sky.
The slash flashed through.
Divine blood sprayed again.
The other Valkyries choked, their minds blank with shock.
In this world, aside from Odin himself and them, there should be only one being who could wield the certain hit concept of the Meteor Spear.
"Goddess Skaði… she truly betrayed us!"
"And she gave the power of the spear to this King of the Giants!"
"No. We must report this to the King of the Gods at the Golden Palace…"
Skaði wanted to scream that he had taken it from them.
But she knew they would never believe it, even if it was the truth she had witnessed.
Because it was impossible.
No one could master the god's killing concept in an instant.
The Valkyries were still trying to force words into existence when it happened.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A battle drum, fierce as thunder, cut through their thoughts and shattered their coordination.
A heavy pressure descended on all of Jötunheimr.
Rowe, having completed his fusion, stopped restraining himself.
He laughed, and the magic sword returned to his treasury.
He stood empty handed.
Yet within the intertwining light, something appeared in his palm, a long spear forming as though the world itself had agreed to acknowledge it.
A knight's spear.
A concept made tangible.
From spear to sword, from man to something else, a second deification.
Armor like a mecha unfolded across his body. A silver white mask sealed over his face. A great cloak interwoven with fur draped from his shoulders, and the long spear in his hand rested diagonally toward the ground.
Then death surged.
A flood of dense deathly aura swallowed the world and crashed into the Valkyries.
They froze.
Not because Rowe made no attempt to hide his power.
But because the essence he displayed was disturbingly similar to Odin, the very god who had granted them their strength.
"Valkyries, is that what you are?" Rowe's voice carried, calm and cold. "Go and tell your Great God Odin."
"I, the King of Giants, the King of the Wild Hunt, have arrived."
Stealing the Meteor Spear's power?
No.
Rowe had simply used the machina god's computation to trace the concept back to its source. Using the Meteor Spear as a branch, he extended the logic until it covered its origin.
His true target was not the Valkyries.
It was the Norse chief god himself.
A facet of Odin, the nightmare that commanded the souls of the dead.
Rowe was a corpse given motion.
He carried the essence of a god king.
He had even worn the crown of a Heavenly King in the past.
Achieving this was not difficult.
For Rowe, this journey was about spreading civilization. Seizing the highest seat was, without question, useful.
It would allow him to integrate into the Norse world without being rejected by the World Tree.
It would grant him the possibility of turning from death to life.
So from this moment on, he was the King of the Wild Hunt.
The King of the Dead.
A storm that would sweep across the land.
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