The eighth year after the incomplete Ragnarok.
The sky of Asgard still bore long, unhealed scars like open wounds.
Valhalla, once the golden palace of the Aesir gods, was now nothing but a desolate ruin.
Half the great hall had collapsed; the once-mighty golden pillars lay broken and leaning like the ribs of some ancient dead beast.
Icy winds from Niflheim howled through the shattered vault, carrying the mingled scent of frost and the ashes of fallen gods.
The marble floor was cracked and buried under dust, shards of shields, and the remnants of feasts that would never resume.
The few remaining magical torches flickered weakly, casting pale light on the sacred reliefs carved into the walls.
Deep beneath Valhalla, in the dungeon that once held Loki, the great deceiver, there was only darkness, dampness, and a silence that made the skin crawl.
The air was thick as dried blood; every breath tasted of rot and time.
In the center of that chamber, upon a throne forged from the black dragon-bone of Níðhöggr, the root-gnawer of Yggdrasil, sat Baldr.
He was motionless as a statue of ice.
His once-pure white cloak, symbol of light and innocence, now glowed from the radiance of his own body, highlighting the silver-semen-shaped scar that glistened on his left cheek.
The scar would never heal; it was an eternal curse reminding him of the day Zetsumyo Freya raped his father Odin to death before his very eyes.
His golden hair still shone like summer sun, falling to his shoulders and across his brow.
His eyes were clear sky-blue, like frozen lakes in Jötunheim, but the gaze was so cold the air itself seemed to shrink, as if a prolonged stare would freeze everything solid.
Baldr spoke slowly, his voice soft as a passing breeze, yet each syllable cut like an ice dagger:
"I do not wish to kill her."
He paused, long pale fingers tracing the dragon-bone armrest, the black spines glinting beneath his own light.
"Killing her would be mercy.
I want her to live.
Live forever.
And know nothing but pleasure… until her soul dissolves into nothingness."
Before the throne knelt the last four surviving dwarf smiths of Nidavellir, trembling on the cold stone.
• Brokkr: skin black as thousand-year forge-coal, muscles knotted, hands scarred from burns, eyes red from sleeplessness.
• Sindri: silver-white hair, face wrinkled yet eyes sharp as blades, hands shaking with age.
• Eitri: squat and broad as a beer barrel, black beard to his chest, still pretending to puff a long-dead pipe.
• Dvalinn: the only one who still carried dwarven pride, cold emerald eyes, lips bloodless, fists clenched around a small hammer as if trying to crush it.
Baldr leaned forward and dropped a piece of petrified Yggdrasil bark onto the floor: grey, ancient, heavy as a curse.
"Find me the last seed."
His voice was calm, but every word hammered into their skulls like nails.
"The seed that fell from the branch when Fenrir severed Yggdrasil's root on the day of Ragnarok.
Find it, and you are free.
Fail…"
Baldr smiled.
A smile so beautiful it made one forget it belonged to death itself: perfect white teeth, rosy lips, but the eyes did not smile.
"I will throw all four of you into the plain Vigridr, to keep eternal company with the screaming cursed souls below."
The dwarves dared not raise their heads.
They only nodded hard and vanished like four shadows into the ruined corridors.
The quest for Yggdrasil's final seed lasted exactly 77 sleepless days and nights: a journey so horrific that even the hardiest dwarves would later refuse to speak of it without shaking.
Days 1–20: The Well of Mímir
They dove into Mímir's well, where wisdom once cost Odin an eye.
The water was now black as ink and bone-chilling. Ghostly hands clutched at their legs; whispering souls tried to drag them down.
Brokkr shattered a giant water-demon born from his own deepest fear with hammer blows that echoed through the abyss.
They dug through soul-mud at the bottom for twenty days, fingers bleeding, nails torn backward, eyes bloodshot.
Sindri screamed as a spirit latched onto his neck and drank his life-force.
They found only dead black root fragments: no seed.
Days 21–40: The Broken Bifrost and Midgard
They crossed the shattered Bifrost: floating shards of razor glass that could slice a leg off with one misstep.
Heimdall was long dead; no warning horn sounded.
They reached Midgard, the frozen lands of Norway where Yggdrasil's trunk once touched the sky.
Now there was only a bottomless black pit exhaling deathly cold.
They dug with hands, hammers, and teeth when strength failed.
Sindri's arm bones snapped in three places from overexertion. Blood froze on the ground the instant it fell.
Eitri wept (the first time in his life) when he unearthed a piece of bark carved with ancient runes, yet still no seed.
Days 41–60: Niflheim and Níðhöggr
They descended into Niflheim: fog so thick they could not see their own fingers.
Níðhöggr lay coiled around the last root, miles long, scales like black glass, eyes twin hell-suns.
Its drool stank of rot.
Brokkr opened the keg of divine ale they had carried since the beginning and poured it out.
The dragon grew drunk on the scent.
It opened its sword-filled maw and vomited a piece of bark covered in black, foul saliva.
In a tiny crack on that bark lay a seed: faint, but pulsing.
Dvalinn nearly went mad with joy and roared like a beast.
Days 61–77: The Rift Between Worlds
They became lost in the crack between worlds: time flowing backward, space twisted like crumpled ribbon.
They saw themselves entering on day one and leaving on the final day with hair turned white from terror.
They nearly lost their minds.
Sindri screamed as he watched himself die and revive thousands of times in a single instant.
Dvalinn was the first to see the true seed: floating in the void, tiny as a little-finger tip, black shot through with violet, red veins pulsing inside like a fetal heart.
It burned in his palm, beating hard as if trying to break free.
They clutched the seed and ran back to Asgard: feet numb, mouths full of blood, eyes rolled white from exhaustion.
77 days without sleep or food, surviving only on tears and their own blood.
Baldr took the seed in his flawless white palm.
He smiled: the first true smile in eight years, so beautiful the four kneeling dwarves shuddered.
"Prepare the cage," he said, voice soft as a lullaby.
"I wish to throw her in myself."
The cage of Ymir's bones still stood, half-rotted, cracked and stained.
In its center, Zetsumyo Freya hung suspended by unbreakable Gleipnir: completely naked, as she had been for seven years.
Hair black as night reaching her knees, wet and matted against flawless porcelain skin.
Eyes once golden now dull and empty, staring into nothingness like the living dead.
Her face remained heartbreakingly beautiful: high nose, full rose-petal lips (though she had not spoken in seven years), delicate chin, sharp cheekbones.
Her body was a masterpiece of desire and destruction: breasts full and round as divine peaches, nipples always slightly hard from the cold; waist so narrow Baldr could span it with both hands; hips and ass perfectly curved; endlessly long legs, slender yet powerful.
And between her thighs, the "reconstructed" cock now exactly 18 cm when erect: exquisitely sculpted like jade, pale pink shaft, purple-pink glans always slightly parted as if inviting.
Baldr stepped close and held the seed before her face.
The scent of sun and ice from his body filled the air.
"Remember me, my love?" he whispered, voice sweet as poisoned honey.
"That day you raped my father to death.
Now I return the favor… drop by drop."
He dropped the seed to the cold stone floor.
It struck.
BOOM.
A storm of purple-black exploded.
Ymir's bones melted like wax.
Space warped and stretched infinitely.
Ceiling and walls vanished.
Only an endless pale purple-black void remained: no gravity, no direction, no time. No up, down, left, right.
Only Freya floating in the nothingness… and millions of tentacles sprouting from the void.
Every tentacle lived.
Every tentacle had its own consciousness.
Every tentacle was starving.
And they saw Freya.
She opened her mouth: not to moan, but to laugh, hoarse, clear, mocking.
"So you finally decided to play big, Baldr?"
Baldr had vanished from the space.
He now stood outside the barrier, watching through a finger-sized crack, blue eyes gleaming with savage satisfaction.
The tentacles began to move.
They were not rough.
They were terrifyingly gentle.
First came thousands of tiny tentacles no thicker than a pinky, glossy purple-black, surfaces covered in millions of microscopic sucking mouths.
They crawled over her like erotic worms, caressing every centimeter of her porcelain skin.
Tiny wet "smack smack smack" sounds as the mouths kissed her flesh, leaving faint pink love-marks.
A wrist-thick tentacle coiled around her throat like a living choker, its tip blooming into a flower filled with hundreds of soft, wet tongues that secreted sweet, drug-like mucus.
They licked her throat: "kiss… kiss…" then slid down her collarbones, leaving glistening trails.
Freya shivered slightly but kept smiling.
Two arm-thick tentacles wrapped her tiny waist (still leaving room to spare), gently lifting and lowering her body in a slow, obscene cradle.
Each rise and fall made her full breasts bounce softly, nipples brushing the cold void.
Four thinner tentacles (three centimeters thick but endlessly long) delicately parted her legs.
They did not penetrate.
They caressed. They kissed.
The first touched her closed, pink cunt (still virgin-tight despite seven years of rape).
It did not enter.
It only used its tiny tongues to circle her outer lips slowly, again and again, savoring her like the finest dessert.
Sweet mucus made her lips swell and glisten.
The wet "slurp… slurp…" was steady and hypnotic.
"Mm…" Freya's brow furrowed; she bit her lip.
A second tentacle joined, sliding inside only one knuckle deep, then swirling slowly, patiently widening her millimeter by millimeter.
Inside she was burning hot; its mucus mixed with her own juices, producing soft "squish… squish…" sounds with every turn.
A third approached her asshole and did the same: licking circles, then easing in, expanding and contracting with her breathing like a slow waltz inside her bowels.
Tiny "pfft… pfft…" as it pumped a little mucus deep inside.
The fourth lay between her labia, pressing gently on her tiny clit, then vibrating: very softly, like butterfly wings.
Her clit swelled instantly, red and throbbing.
Freya bit her lip until it bled, trying to suppress her reaction.
Across her breasts, hundreds of smaller tentacles swarmed like erotic ants.
They latched onto her pink nipples, sucking gently, tiny tongues circling the tips, then sucking again.
The endless soft "kiss… kiss… kiss…" sounded like hundreds of babies nursing at once.
One special tentacle (the largest, its tip blooming into a gigantic flower) approached her cock.
The 18 cm shaft was already hard without her noticing: pale pink, purple-pink glans glossy, urethral slit slightly open as if begging.
The flower opened.
Thousands of soft tongues licked from base to tip, tip to base, never missing a millimeter.
One special hair-thin tongue slipped into her urethral slit: only a centimeter, then swirled slowly, withdrew, entered again, teasing the tiny hole it loved most.
Endless wet "kiss kiss kiss" sounds.
"Hn… ah…!"
Freya let out the first moan of the eighth year: hoarse, trembling.
The only sounds in the warped space were endless "kiss… slurp… kiss… slurp…" like millions of mouths making love without pause, occasionally broken by Freya's choked moans and the tiny "pfft… pfft…" as tentacles pumped creamy nutrient fluid into her womb, stomach, and bowels.
The first day passed like that.
They had infinite time, and they knew it.
From day two to day thirty, they remained gentle as lovers taking a goddess for the first time.
Tens of thousands of tiny tentacles crawled over her skin like lust-spiders, each microscopic mouth kissing a pore, sucking gently, releasing, sucking again, leaving a constellation of faint pink marks on her snow-white body.
They never bruised her. Only endless aroused pink.
The largest flower-tentacle belonged exclusively to her cock.
It never swallowed her whole.
It only opened its bloom so thousands of soft tongues could lap her 18 cm shaft from root to glans, glans to root, endlessly.
The hair-thin tongue always returned to her urethral slit: slipping in one centimeter, swirling, withdrawing, entering again, playing hide-and-seek with the tiny hole it adored.
Each withdrawal coaxed a drop of precum that the other tongues instantly licked clean, never stopping the wet "kiss kiss kiss."
Her cunt and asshole were claimed by two special tentacles.
The one inside her cunt was wrist-thick but soft as a giant eel.
It did not thrust.
It simply lay inside and pulsed: swelling, shrinking, swelling, matching her heartbeat.
Each swell pressed every sensitive spot at once: G, A, cervix, walls.
Her womb clenched endlessly, trying to milk something that was never given.
Some days it filled her womb with thick white tentacle-cum, then sealed her entrance so not a drop escaped.
Freya felt the hot, heavy weight pooling inside her lower belly, making her moan silently.
The one in her ass was crueler.
It was endless and loved depth.
Some days it slid through her entire colon and into her stomach, then pumped hot fluid directly inside.
She dry-heaved, but what came out was sweet white cum, immediately sucked away by another tentacle sealing her mouth.
Her breasts never rested.
Hundreds of tentacles completely covered her full globes.
They didn't just suck the nipples; they sucked the entire breast.
Each tiny mouth latched, pulled the skin taut, released, sucked again, producing endless soft "pop… pop… pop…" sounds.
Her nipples were stretched to three centimeters, dark red, constantly wet.
Sometimes they secreted a fluid that reactivated her milk ducts though she had never borne a child.
White breast milk leaked; tentacles drank it greedily, then stimulated her to produce more.
Freya felt like an immortal dairy cow milked 24/7.
By day two hundred, Freya's body belonged completely to the tentacles.
She no longer begged.
She only moaned, endlessly.
Her voice was ruined: sometimes high and broken like crying, sometimes low and guttural like a beast in heat.
She climaxed an average of 350 times a day: whole-body convulsions, eyes rolled white, mouth gaping, tongue lolling, drool flowing, cock shooting endlessly, cunt squirting like a fountain, asshole spasming wildly.
But the tentacles never stopped.
They only slowed, caressed her tenderly, then resumed.
Her skin remained flawless porcelain.
Not a bruise, not a scratch.
They healed every injury instantly.
They wanted her forever beautiful, forever sensitive, forever the perfect toy.
Then one day the tentacles changed.
They became brutal.
The one in her cunt suddenly slammed to her cervix, withdrew, slammed again, relentlessly, mercilessly.
The one in her ass did the same: tearing her open from the inside.
The flower around her cock squeezed hard and jerked violently, trying to milk her dry.
Tens of thousands of tiny tentacles bit her skin, leaving stinging pink marks.
Freya screamed.
Not from pain.
From pleasure.
She came 72 times in ten minutes.
Then passed out: the first time in eight years.
When she woke, they were gentle again.
But she knew they had let her taste the heaven of brutality.
And she wanted more.
She began to beg: not with words (she had forgotten speech long ago), but by thrusting her hips forward, opening her mouth invitingly, clenching her cock and holes around them, sucking them deeper.
The tentacles understood.
And they obliged.
Her body remained sickeningly perfect:
• Skin flawless white despite 180 days of nonstop rape.
• Breasts full and round, nipples perpetually red from endless sucking.
• Waist tiny, still room to spare when two tentacles wrapped it.
• Ass perfectly curved, always lifted and lowered by two thick tentacles with soft "slap slap" sounds.
• Cunt pink and always dripping, swollen lips parted, juices running down her thighs.
• 18 cm cock perpetually hard, glans glossy from constant licking, leaking clear fluid or shooting endlessly without further stimulation.
She never slept.
Never ate: only drank the sweet, hot, nutrient-rich tentacle cum pumped into her mouth.
Never defecated: waste was instantly sucked away the moment it left her body, leaving her immaculate.
She only fucked.
24 hours a day.
365 days a year.
The eighth year.
Until day 365.
Freya was in the middle of her 312th orgasm of the day: body shaking violently, eyes rolled white, mouth gaping, tongue hanging like a puppy's, drool pouring.
Tentacles still sucked her cock fiercely, still swirled inside her cunt, still plunged deep into her ass, still licked her nipples, still pumped endless nutrient cum.
Then she opened her eyes.
No whites remained: only twin bottomless voids filled with spinning golden runes like miniature galaxies.
She whispered: not in human tongue, but in the ancient language of the nine goddesses she had devoured eight years ago.
Her voice echoed from the abyss:
"Enough."
At that instant, the powers of Gefjon (goddess of the plow and earth) and Skaði (goddess of hunting and mountains) awakened fully in her veins.
Her blood boiled.
Her skin burned.
Every pore opened like the earth receiving rain.
Freya extended her consciousness.
Not like a human reaching out.
Like the earth sending roots.
Her mind spread into every tentacle: millions of them, like water soaking parched soil.
She felt every tiny sucking mouth, every vein, every starving fragment of consciousness.
She whispered into their minds in the ancient tongue: gentle, yet irresistible:
"You… are mine."
The tentacles trembled.
Their pale purple-black gradually shifted to the glossy obsidian purple-black that was Zetsumyo Freya's signature.
The tiny sucking patterns on their skin became crawling black runes: each rune a curse, each curse a chain.
In exactly seven seconds.
Every tentacle froze.
Absolute silence.
No more "kiss slurp," no more moans, no more "pfft pfft."
Then, all at once, millions of tentacles knelt: like millions of arms bowing before their queen.
They bent, lowered their heads; the flower-tips bloomed to reveal thousands of golden eyes inside, all gazing at her in absolute worship.
Freya still hung suspended in the void, Gleipnir still binding wrists and ankles.
But now she was the center of this universe.
She raised her left hand.
A house-thick tentacle immediately coiled lovingly around her wrist like a lover's embrace, its flower kissing the back of her hand.
She raised her right.
Another kissed her palm, tiny tongues tracing every line as if in prayer.
She smiled.
For the first time in 365 endless days and nights, she smiled fully awake: a smile so beautiful the purple-black void itself brightened.
"I cannot leave this place.
How unfortunate."
Her voice did not come from her mouth.
It came from all million tentacles at once: a deep, layered sound like an entire planet speaking.
"But you are now mine.
My arms. My legs. My cocks. My cunts. My tongues. My flesh and blood."
She closed her eyes.
All million tentacles vibrated as one, producing a low "OMMMM…" like the heartbeat of a colossal god awakening after a thousand-year sleep.
Outside the barrier, Baldr still watched.
The smile on his lips died instantly.
Because through the tiny crack he saw a colossal tentacle slowly rising, its tip blooming into a perfect black flower filled with thousands of golden eyes.
And every single eye was smiling at him.
The eighth year was over.
Zetsumyo Freya was no longer a prisoner.
She had become the queen of a living dimension, with millions of tentacles as her limbs, her organs, her army.
And the door that led out to Valhalla, to the Nine Realms, to the entire cosmos…
…was now only a matter of time.