Year 7 + 1 day – The Great Hall of Valhalla
Day 2,556 of the Captivity Calendar – The first day of freedom, and the bloodiest day in the history of the Nine Realms.
The ashes of Fenrir and the eighty elite Einherjar still hung in the air like thick black fog. The stench of burnt blood and hot metal choked the hall.
In the center of the vast space (large enough to swallow a mountain), the Eternal Light Cage had shattered into millions of glittering shards that fell upward like a reverse meteor shower.
In the middle of it all, Zetsumyo Freya knelt on one knee, purple-black blood from countless small wounds pooling beneath her. The severed cock Fenrir had bitten off still twitched on the broken crystal floor, its last nerves desperately trying to live again.
Then her body ignited.
Nine streams of different colored light exploded from the depths of her marrow, from every drop of blood, from the soul that had been imprisoned for seven years. These were the primal powers of the nine goddesses Odin had stolen to create her; now unchained, they roared back, claiming the body that had been stolen from them.
• Freyja's crimson fire wrapped around her breasts and hips like living flame.
• Frigg's cold silver light poured into her eyes and hair.
• Iðunn's golden youth flowed down her spine, regenerating every cell.
• Sif's wheat-gold light shimmered across her skin.
• Gefjon's rich brown earth encased her bare feet.
• Skaði's glacial white coated her hands.
• Snotra's crystal-clear light blazed in her throat and brow.
• Lofn's deep violet (forbidden desire) gathered in her loins.
• And finally, Vár's absolute black (unbreakable oaths) cloaked her entire body like an invisible mantle.
Nine dragons of light roared, collided, fused, and burned away every wound.
Flesh regenerated in an instant (flawless, snow-white as fresh powder on Jötunheim's peaks, not a scar or bruise remaining). Bones cracked and reset perfectly. Vagina and anus closed tight and pink, as untouched as an eighteen-year-old maiden's. Breasts swelled full and firm, nipples blooming fresh pink like spring cherry blossoms.
Platinum hair regrew to her hips, shimmering with all nine colors depending on the light.
And between her legs, the nine goddesses together reshaped the newly grown cock into its perfect divine-warrior form:
Exactly 18 cm when fully erect (the length of a normal adult man, yet flawless in proportion), 4.5 cm thick, polished obsidian purple-black, living blue-green veins writhing like ropes, glans perfectly flared, slit always slightly open, revealing a spinning black rune vortex inside.
The twin testicles shrank to the size of hen's eggs, glossy and taut, nestled beneath the root, swaying gently with every breath, filled with silver semen capable of corroding even Uru steel.
She stood.
Completely naked.
So beautiful that the entire hall of Valhalla (which had witnessed ten thousand battles) fell silent for one endless second.
Every eye (even those of Einherjar dead for millennia) was riveted to her in terror, lust, and despair.
She stepped out of the broken glass.
Each footfall left a purple-black blood print on the cold marble. Every drop of silver fluid that fell from her glans hissed, eating a smoking hole into the stone.
The main gate (one hundred meters tall, carved from primordial oak plated in solid gold and enchanted with Odin's own breath at the dawn of creation, once strong enough to withstand a full blow from Mjölnir) loomed before her.
Freya raised her right hand.
Her 18 cm cock twitched once and fired a fifty-meter blade of purple-black light, sharp as Hel's scythe.
The beam touched the gate.
BOOM!!! CRACK… CRACK… BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!!!
The gate was torn from top to bottom as though ripped by a giant's hand. Chunks of wood the size of dragon-ships and molten gold flew in all directions, raining down as burning fire.
The explosion shook the vaulted roof; thousands of golden torches extinguished at once.
She walked into the main feast hall.
Alone.
Naked.
Cock standing proud at 18 cm, silver fluid dripping "drip… drip…" onto the cold stone, each drop hissing and eating a small hole, black smoke rising.
Fifty thousand immortal Einherjar stood in endless ranks (radiant spears raised, round shields gleaming, golden armor flashing), eyes red with fear and hatred, armor clattering as they trembled.
She raised her head, platinum hair flowing, eyes now only bottomless black voids, and spoke.
Her voice was not loud, yet it thundered to every corner of the Nine Realms like the final judgment of the cosmos:
「Today, Valhalla will be redder than the blood of Niflheim.
I will bathe in your blood,
and then bathe myself again in what remains.」
She took her first step.
Five thousand Einherjar in the front rank charged, spears forming a forest of white light, screaming "KILL IT!!!!!"
Freya did not dodge.
She simply raised her left hand.
A thirty-meter-wide circle of purple-black runes appeared before her. All five thousand spears struck it, and were swallowed silently like stars into a black hole.
Then the circle exploded.
Five thousand spears shot backward ten times faster, impaling their former owners.
Blood sprayed like rain.
Five thousand corpses were nailed to walls, pillars, and ceiling, hanging like broken dolls. Entrails plopped to the floor; bones cracked in a symphony of destruction.
Less than three seconds.
The rest panicked. Some tried to flee, but the gates were already destroyed; there was no escape.
Freya walked on.
With every step, she swung her hand once.
• First swing: a horizontal wave of purple-black sliced three thousand warriors in half from crown to crotch; blood fountained three meters high.
• Second: she snapped her fingers; the air exploded into ten thousand invisible blades that flayed thousands into thin slices that rained like meat confetti.
• Third: she exhaled; her breath carried silver poison. Thousands who inhaled melted from the inside out, leaving only empty golden armor in puddles of red-black sludge.
She strolled through the hall as though walking in her own garden.
Blood splashed across her body, running in beautiful purple-black patterns over snow-white skin, dripping from nipples and glans, mixing with silver fluid into sickeningly gorgeous streaks.
Some fell to their knees and begged. She crushed their skulls beneath her heel; brains splattered.
Some took their own lives with their swords. She smiled softly, dragged the corpses closer with her foot, and licked the blood from her lips.
41 minutes.
Fifty thousand Einherjar.
Not one remained alive.
Only a sea of blood ankle-deep, mountains of corpses, entrails hanging from chandeliers like hellish garlands. The stench was so thick even Odin's ravens Hugin and Munin fled.
Freya stood in the middle of the blood-sea, naked, platinum hair dyed crimson, 18 cm cock still erect, silver fluid dripping into the blood and hissing endlessly.
She looked up at the lofty throne Hliðskjálf.
Odin stood there.
One blue eye blazing with hatred, right hand clutching trembling Gungnir, white cloak already soaked with his own blood.
The next three hours were the most insane battle in the history of the Nine Realms.
Hour One – Gungnir vs the Death Vortex
Odin hurled Gungnir first. The spear became a white lightning bolt that punched through Freya's chest, tore out her back in a ten-meter trail of purple blood.
But the moment it touched her skin, the black runes on her body became billions of tiny writhing serpents that devoured Gungnir, reducing it to light-dust in half a second.
Freya did not slow. She charged up the throne steps, each footfall spider-webbing the stone.
Odin summoned Hugin and Munin; they became two five-meter black swords that attacked from both sides at supersonic speed.
Freya caught them bare-handed (CRACK! CRACK!) and snapped them like twigs, then hurled the broken blades back. They punched through Odin's chest and pinned him to his throne. Black blood sprayed from his mouth.
Odin roared, ripped the blades out, wounds instantly healing. He drew a sword of pure light and unleashed 108 supreme strikes in under five seconds (each one capable of bisecting a planet).
Freya danced through the storm of light.
She twisted, swayed, glided (untouched). Platinum hair flowing, silver fluid dripping from her glans, eating smoking holes in the steps.
Hour Two – Storm vs Semen Black Hole
Odin struck with a punch containing the power of the entire sky, fist blazing with ancient runes.
Freya blocked with her left hand (CRACK CRACK CRACK); Odin's arm bones shattered into fragments. She lifted him one-handed like a sick chicken.
Odin summoned the storm: howling winds, endless lightning, torrents of blood-rain.
Freya smiled coldly. Her 18 cm cock twitched and fired a tiny purple-black hole in front of her. It swallowed wind, lightning, and blood-rain, reducing everything to ash in an instant.
She slammed Odin into the floor three times (BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!). His ribs exploded, organs spilled out.
Hour Three – The All-Father's Despair
Odin crawled on shattered arms, dragging a trail of black blood, roaring as he gathered all remaining power into a hundred-meter sphere of white energy capable of erasing an entire realm.
Freya stepped forward, placed one foot on his chest, and crushed the sphere down to the size of a marble. It popped and vanished with a sad "pfft."
Odin wheezed, left eye bulging, black foam at his lips:
"You… cannot… I am Odin… Father of all…"
Freya bent close and whispered sweetly into his ear:
"Father… today your daughter will show you what real hell feels like."
She flipped him over, forced him to kneel bent over the arm of Hliðskjálf, ass high in the air like a bitch in heat.
His white cloak tore with a long "RRRRRIP," revealing the pale, wrinkled buttocks and terrified, puckered anus of the god who once ruled the Nine Realms.
Freya's 18 cm cock (scalding as Muspelheim's forge, glans flared) pressed against Odin's helpless hole.
No lubrication. No mercy. No warning.
She thrust to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
"GRÀAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!"
Odin's scream shook the ruins of Valhalla. Outside, surviving gods trembled; hundreds came in their armor from pure terror.
Freya began to fuck him.
Slow, deep, merciless strokes.
First thrust: Odin vomited black blood, his left eye popped from its socket.
Third: his skin split in long cracks, purple-black blood seeping.
Fifth: ribs burst outward, lungs hanging like torn meat bags.
Seventh: he was nothing but a trembling pile of living meat, babbling incoherent pleas.
Freya sped up.
The wet slap of flesh echoed rhythmically. Every withdrawal dragged a length of red intestine out; every thrust shoved it back in with her cock.
She seized his white hair, yanked his head back, and whispered:
"Do you feel it, Father? This is what you shoved into me thousands of times.
Now I return it to you, inch by inch."
At minute fifteen she roared; her cock swelled, the black rune vortex spun wildly.
She came.
A torrent of poisonous silver semen blasted deep into Odin's bowels (so much his belly swelled like a ten-month pregnancy in three seconds).
Skin split in a thousand lines.
Purple blood fountained three meters high.
Flesh turned to ash and fell away.
White bone crumbled to dust.
Seventeen minutes after it began, all that remained on the throne Hliðskjálf was a pile of hot ash and a hollow skull with scraps of rotting meat.
Freya stood, cock still hard, silver fluid dripping "hiss hiss" onto the ashes.
She spat a glob of silver saliva onto the remains.
「Father died from his own daughter's cum.
How… fitting.」
That final climax had consumed all nine goddesses' power she had reclaimed.
For exactly four seconds, she was vulnerable.
Heimdall blew Gjallarhorn outside; the horn's call rang across the Nine Realms (the final alarm).
Thor arrived first; Mjölnir struck her head with a red thunderbolt that singed a patch of her hair.
Týr seized her throat from behind with his remaining arm and squeezed.
Bragi, Baldr, Freyr, Ullr, Vidar, Vali, Hœnir, Lodurr, and hundreds of other gods swarmed her.
They bound her with Gleipnir itself (the thread-thin chain that once held Fenrir), wrapping her from neck to ankles until bones cracked.
Mjölnir struck her head again; purple blood ran from her temple. She collapsed to her knees.
Freya did not resist.
She only smiled softly, blood running from her crimson lips.
"You… think you've won?"
They dragged her across the blood-and-ash-covered floor, her 18 cm cock still erect, silver fluid dripping and hissing as it ate into Gleipnir.
They imprisoned her in a new cage (smaller, forged from Ymir's primordial skull and collarbones, drenched in Odin's still-warm blood, enchanted with his dying breath).
But in her eyes (crimson voids without whites) there was no fear.
Only cold anticipation.
She whispered to herself:
"Just one more climax…
and Valhalla will become a true graveyard."
She closed her eyes, pretending to be unconscious.
Her 18 cm cock remained erect between her chained thighs, silver fluid dripping steadily…
Each drop hissed softly as it ate into Ymir's bone, deeper and deeper…
The Day Valhalla Ran Red with Blood had only just begun.
And Zetsumyo Freya, though chained once more, was already almost certain of final victory.
She only had to wait.
Wait until the chains melted.
Wait until she came one last time.
And when that happened, there would not be a single living soul left in Valhalla to tell the tale.