Svartalfheim, ten years after the prison break + 7 days and 7 nights
The place where light is forbidden, where divine blood flows into black rivers
Day 1 – First Night: The Death of Heimdall, the All-Seeing Watcher
A blood-red moon hung in the sky of Svartalfheim like diluted blood, casting a deathly glow over the endless plain of black stone.
The cold wind reeked of rust and burnt corpses, making forests of white bones rattle like hellish wind chimes.
Suddenly, space tore open.
A golden rift miles long split the heavens, and from it poured the final army of Asgard — the last storm of light in the dying Nine Realms.
Golden banners fluttered, golden armor blazed, reflecting the red moon into the color of fresh blood.
Eight-legged divine horses trampled the razor-sharp black sand, each hoof-fall cracking the ground and drawing up geysers of black blood like pus.
Heimdall rode at the front.
The guardian of Bifrost sat astride his golden steed, white cloak billowing, golden eyes blazing like twin suns that could pierce the Nine Realms, past and future alike.
He raised Gjallarhorn — the horn that heralds Ragnarok — to his lips and blew with such force that golden blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. The ancient horn cracked for only the second time in history, releasing a howl that shook the very fabric of Svartalfheim.
The sound was the final judgment of the gods.
Less than a mile away, in the middle of the black stone field, stood Freya.
Completely naked.
Her porcelain skin shimmered beneath the blood moon as though bathed in fresh gore.
Platinum-blonde hair reached her waist, every strand soaked in semen and slick fluids left over from the 24-hour barrier of the previous day.
Her 18 cm cock stood half-erect, the glans glistening with silver precum, heavy balls dangling like two living eggs.
On her left shoulder sat Lýsa, legs spread like a corrupted little princess. The tentacle-woven white dress barely covered half her ass; her pink little anus was still swollen and leaking thick white semen in slow rivulets down Freya's neck and chest, forming long glistening strands.
The child hugged Freya's head with both arms, giggling nonstop, mad blue eyes sparkling, tiny tongue licking her lips as if waiting for a show.
The divine army was less than a mile away.
Freya lazily raised one finger skyward, purple-black nail polish glinting.
The space in front of the army tore open as though clawed by invisible talons.
A purple-black rift over five hundred meters wide yawned open, its edges flickering with forbidden runes. Inside spun a tunnel of pulsating living flesh.
From it poured millions — tens of millions — hundreds of millions of black-purple tentacles, a living tidal wave so dense it eclipsed the blood moon and turned the horizon into a writhing wall of meat.
The stench of semen, blood, and rotting flesh slammed into the divine army like a physical blow.
Heimdall roared, voice like thunder:
"FORWARD! SLAY THE ABOMINATION!"
He swung his sword of light — Hofund — in a horizontal arc.
Golden brilliance rent space itself, severing thousands of tentacles in a single stroke.
Thick black blood sprayed like rain, hissing and smoking where it touched the golden armor of the Einherjar.
But in the blink of an eye the severed tentacles regrew — double, triple, larger, longer, faster.
They coiled around golden spears, dragged warriors from their mounts, then hundreds more struck — piercing chests, throats, eyes — and yanked the screaming victims into the rift.
Heimdall forced his golden eyes wide until divine blood trickled from the corners, trying to see through the wall of tentacles to find Freya.
He saw her — still motionless, sweet smile on her lips, finger still raised like a queen conducting an orchestra.
Lýsa on her shoulder clapped and giggled.
And then he saw it.
A single tentacle no thicker than a human hair — so thin the naked eye could barely perceive it, transparent purple-black like glass — slipped silently through the tiniest gap in the golden helmet Hofud, a gap not even wind could enter.
It writhed like a tiny serpent, flared needle-sharp tip, and shot into Heimdall's left ear at the speed of light.
Shlick.
A soft, wet pop, like cartilage pierced.
The body of the god who saw all froze mid-battlefield.
His blazing golden eyes rolled back, pupils dissolving into shards of broken light.
Thick black blood — scalding, reeking of semen and rot — geysered from his left ear, then the right, the nose, the mouth, the eyes, running in rivers down his neck and soaking his white cloak pitch black.
Gjallarhorn slipped from his hand, struck the black sand, and shattered into hundreds of pieces, each shard weeping black blood.
Heimdall opened his mouth to roar, but only a wet "glrk… glrk…" escaped as black blood frothed from his throat.
His body convulsed, right hand still gripping the sword yet powerless to raise it.
Instantly, tens of thousands of tentacles of every size descended like a storm of flesh.
They wrapped around neck, arms, legs, torso, head — squeezing, stretching.
Bones cracked. Golden armor crumpled. Divine golden blood sprayed, mingling with the black ichor of the tentacles.
A house-sized tentacle ending in a flowering maw of jagged teeth clamped over Heimdall's head and yanked.
With a wet rip, the head tore free, eyes still wide, black blood fountaining from the severed neck.
Headless corpse and severed head alike were dragged backward by countless tentacles into the closing rift and vanished.
Only the golden helmet Hofud remained, rolling across the black sand, streaked with black and gold blood, until the cold wind stopped it.
From the rear, Baldr witnessed everything, face pale as parchment, voice cracking into a high-pitched scream of terror:
"RETREAT!
RETREAT AT ONCE!
ALL FORCES FALL BACK!"
But it was too late.
The rift closed with a heavy, wet shlorp, like a womb sealing after devouring its prey.
The black stone plain fell utterly silent again.
Only the wind through bone forests and Lýsa's clear childish giggling remained.
The little girl swung her legs from Freya's shoulder, clapping:
"Sis! The gold-eyed uncle is dead~
His black blood sprayed so prettily~
I wanna see more~!"
Freya bent down, kissed the child's cheek with a loud mwah, and lightly licked her tiny ear.
"Just the opening act, my love.
We still have six days left."
She looked up, vertical purple eyes gleaming beneath the blood moon.
Far away, the panicked remnants of Asgard's army fled, divine horses trampling one another, golden banners falling like dead leaves.
Freya smiled — the sweet smile of a demon who had only just begun to play.
The first night of the seven-day blood moon ended.
And it had claimed only one god.
Day 2 – Second Day: The Thunder God Swallowed by the Tentacle Forest
Beneath the same blood moon — now resembling a gigantic eye gouged from its socket — time in Svartalfheim had lost all meaning of "morning."
Only deathly crimson light bathed the black earth and white bones.
Freya stood atop the highest obsidian outcrop, completely naked, skin glowing pearl-white beneath the blood moon.
Her platinum hair clung to her back and ass, soaked in last night's semen and fluids, releasing waves of obscene scent whenever the wind blew.
Her 18 cm cock stood proud and rigid, purple glans continuously weeping silver precum, balls swollen near bursting.
Lýsa straddled her left shoulder, tattered white dress torn further by her own hands for comfort, swollen pink anus still leaking thick white semen in slow streams down Freya's neck, breasts, belly, dripping onto the black stone.
The child giggled without pause, tiny hands clutching Freya's head like a spoiled kitten.
Freya raised both arms to the crimson sky, fingers spread as if embracing it.
Her Innate Barrier "Eternal Flesh-Lust" detonated.
Space within a 300-mile radius shattered like hammered glass.
A colossal sphere of living flesh — surface purple-black and convulsing — engulfed the entire fleeing Asgardian army.
Outside remained frozen Svartalfheim; inside was a private dimension: zero gravity, no day or night, only deathly purple light, the choking stench of semen and nectar, floor a breathing uterine membrane, ceiling a spiderweb of billions of interwoven tentacles.
Tens of thousands of Einherjar were yanked inside in an instant, divine horses shrieking, golden armor clanging.
Thor stood at the center, red beard whipping, eyes blazing like twin forges, roaring like thunder itself:
"COME OUT, DEMON BITCH!!!"
Mjölnir crashed down again and again.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!!
Each strike birthed a golden lightning explosion that tore space, blasting tens of thousands of tentacles into raining black meat and blood.
Golden lightning spread through the barrier, charring hundreds of square meters of living flesh into ash with a hellish sizzle.
But only for a second.
The scorched areas immediately boiled and regenerated — twice as large, thrice as thick, blacker, dripping scalding semen.
They regenerated faster than Thor's thunder could finish echoing.
Thor panted, Mjölnir trembling in his grip from the backlash.
Then, silently, space behind him tore a small slit.
Freya stepped out of nothingness.
One arm still cradling Lýsa on her shoulder, the other gently — almost tenderly — rested on Thor's armored shoulder, like a mischievous granddaughter greeting her uncle on a holiday.
"Hello, Uncle Thor~
I missed you so much."
Her voice was honey, but cold enough to freeze marrow.
Thor spun, eyes bulging crimson, roaring, Mjölnir already raised overhead.
Too late.
From the void above his head, a pillar-sized tentacle materialized — purple-black, covered in pulsing bubbles and veins, tip flared like a colossal spear.
It struck faster than lightning, coiling three times around Thor's neck and crushing.
CRACK!
His gorget shattered into fragments.
Mjölnir slipped from his grasp, clattered onto the fleshy floor with a dull thunk, then sank into the meat and was dragged away by hundreds of smaller tentacles.
Thor dangled in mid-air, legs kicking wildly, face turning purple, neck veins bulging, eyes protruding.
Golden divine blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. He tried to roar but managed only wet choking "khck… khck…" sounds.
Freya floated closer, stood on tiptoe, vertical purple eyes gazing straight into his panicked crimson ones.
She smiled gently, then tiptoed higher and kissed his burning bearded cheek.
"Goodbye, beloved uncle.
Thank you for coming to play with me."
Lýsa clapped from her shoulder:
"Uncle Thor's gonna go boom soon, sis!!!
Hurry hurry I wanna watch!!!"
Freya chuckled, stroked the child's hair.
The tentacle squeezed harder.
Crack… crack-crack-crack-CRACK!
Thor's cervical vertebrae shattered like dry twigs.
His head flopped sideways, eyes still wide, golden blood fountaining from his mouth.
Immediately hundreds of other tentacles descended.
They seized arms, legs, torso, head — and pulled.
RIP… RIP… RIP…!
The thunder god's body was torn into a hundred pieces mid-air: left arm torn from shoulder, right leg ripped from hip, chest split open revealing a ribcage still dancing with golden lightning.
Golden divine blood rained in sheets, hissing where it touched the fleshy floor, absorbed instantly without a trace.
Thor's head was swallowed by one tentacle, eyes still staring, mouth frozen mid-roar, dragged into a small rift and gone.
Only a few shards of red armor and scraps of golden flesh drifted down.
Lýsa laughed until tears streamed, clapping wildly:
"Uncle Thor really went boom!!!
Golden blood is so pretty sis!!!
I want him to explode again!!!"
Freya laughed loudly, hugged the child's waist, kissed her semen-swollen belly.
"Of course, my love.
Valhalla will bring him back.
We'll play again tomorrow."
She snapped her fingers.
The entire barrier shuddered, billions of tentacles roaring like starving beasts, then surged toward the terrified remnants of Asgard's army.
The second day ended in the screams of tens of thousands of Einherjar swallowed alive by the tentacle forest.
And for the first time in his existence, the god of thunder died without landing a single final blow.
Day 3 – Third Day: Freyr and Bragi Become Food
Inside the "Eternal Flesh-Lust" barrier, space remained thick purple-black, weightless, timeless — only the stench of semen and endless wet shlick-shlick of billions of tentacles.
Asgard's army was reduced to a few thousand survivors huddled in a desperate circle amid hills of golden corpses.
Freyr — the Vanir god of light who had submitted — rode his golden boar Gullinbursti, green eyes blazing, golden hair streaming.
His ten-meter sword of light carved miniature suns with every swing, severing tens of thousands of tentacles in radiant arcs.
Black blood rained, shredded meat fluttered like confetti.
Gullinbursti squealed madly, golden bristles glowing, charging and goring thousands of tentacles into pulp.
Not far away, Bragi — god of poetry — stood atop a fleshy hill, white cloak billowing, playing his ancient rune-harp.
His purest Valhalla voice sang golden rune-notes that floated like luminous birds, slowing time within the barrier to 1/100th normal speed.
Around him, tentacles moved through thick honey.
Useless.
Freya had grown bored of cat-and-mouse.
She appeared a hundred meters above, naked, platinum hair dancing, Lýsa still giggling on her shoulder.
She smiled sweetly… then her body began to change.
Crack… crack-crack-crack!
Bones snapped like rotting wood, flesh bulged and tore.
Millions of purple-black tentacles erupted from every inch of her skin — back, breasts, belly, thighs, neck, hair.
In three seconds Freya became a hundred-meter-tall tentacle abomination, trunk formed of millions of interwoven tentacles, crowned by her unchanged beautiful face — vertical purple eyes sparkling, crimson lips curved in an angelic smile.
Lýsa sat atop the monster's "head," legs swinging, clapping:
"You turned into the biggest tree ever sis!!!
So pretty!!!
Step on those uncles!!!"
Freyr looked up, blood draining from his face.
A mountain-sized tentacle — fifty meters in diameter — whipped out faster than lightning and wrapped Freyr and Gullinbursti in one coil.
THOOM!
Freyr's sword of light shattered into glittering dust.
Gullinbursti shrieked as its golden bristles were crushed off in patches.
Freyr's bones cracked like biscuits in a giant fist.
Golden divine blood jetted from every orifice, forming a radiant golden halo around him.
The tentacle tightened once more.
CRUNCH!!!
Ribs, spine, limbs — all pulverized simultaneously.
Gullinbursti was flattened into a golden meat-pancake, blood geysering.
Hundreds of toothed maws opened along the tentacle and chewed the pieces with wet cronch-cronch sounds.
Only Freyr's head remained, eyes wide, mouth full of golden blood, held before Freya's serene face atop the monster.
She smiled, extended her tongue, gently licked the cheek of the severed head, and whispered:
"Thank you for the meal, Uncle Freyr~"
The head was tossed into a colossal fleshy flower and swallowed.
At the same moment another tentacle — over a hundred meters long, tipped with a thirty-meter carnivorous bloom — shot toward Bragi.
Bragi's song faltered into terror, golden runes shattering around him.
The bloom opened, revealing thousands of shark-toothed human mouths drooling black saliva in ropes.
It engulfed Bragi from head to toe in a single gulp.
GLURK… GLURK… GULP… GLUG… GLUG…!
The ancient harp was crushed, golden blood spraying between petals.
Bragi's radiant golden soul was licked and sucked for ten agonizing seconds until drained dry.
The desiccated husk — skin over bone, eyes milk-white — was spat out with a wet thud, then dragged away by smaller tentacles.
Lýsa atop the monster-tree cried tears of joy:
"The uncles turned into food sis!!!
The flower ate so yummy!!!
Turn into the big tree every day please!!!"
The colossal monster shuddered — that was Freya's laughter.
Millions of tentacles roared and charged the survivors.
The third day ended in chewing and the patter of golden blood on fleshy floor.
Only four days remained.
And the gods of Asgard began to understand:
death was not the worst fate in these seven blood-moon days.
Being eaten alive was.
Day 4 – Fourth Day: Týr and Vidar, Corroded from Within
The barrier had shrunk to less than ten miles square.
Golden corpses formed walls dozens of meters high, divine blood pooled thick and sweet-smelling.
At the center stood only two figures back-to-back.
Týr — one-armed god of war — held his massive light-shield with his remaining left arm, its surface blazing white runes, pushing back thousands of tentacles.
Red hair matted with golden blood, single eye crimson with rage and fear.
Vidar — Odin's silent son, destined slayer of Fenrir — in skin-tight black armor, gripping a six-meter flaming greatsword with both hands.
They were the final living wall protecting a few hundred Einherjar.
Freya floated a hundred meters away, naked, 18 cm cock dripping silver, Lýsa giggling hysterically on her shoulder.
"Sis… those two uncles look so cool~~~
But I wanna hear them scream~~
Make their meat melt sis!!!"
Freya kissed the child's swollen belly, then… snapped her fingers.
Click.
A tiny sound.
Yet the fleshy floor beneath Týr and Vidar split open a hand-sized crack.
From it poured trillions upon trillions of hair-fine transparent purple-black tentacles — each tipped with a needle — like a flood of hellish insects.
They crawled so fast the eye saw only a spreading purple-black mist.
Týr raised his shield; white dome flared.
Useless.
The microscopic tentacles slipped through every microscopic gap, crawling over armor, under helms, into ears, nostrils, tear ducts, slightly parted lips.
First came tingling.
Then burning.
Then agony beyond words.
Týr was first to scream.
"GRAAAAAAA!!!"
Trillions bored into his right ear, burrowing straight into his brain, gnawing gray matter, secreting scalding corrosive slime.
Golden blood mixed with purple ichor fountained from his ear.
His remaining eye bulged, pupil dissolving, white turning purple-black.
Vidar remained silent, but his body shook uncontrollably.
Trillions more slipped beneath his neck armor, into lungs, heart, stomach.
They devoured muscle fiber by fiber, liquefying organs with acid.
Their skin began to sag and drip like melted candle wax.
Týr's cheek slid off in a sheet, exposing white jawbone.
Vidar's lips melted into golden sludge, revealing teeth falling one by one.
Týr's eyes liquefied into golden rivers down his cheeks, leaving empty purple-weeping sockets.
Vidar's eyeballs burst with twin wet pops, spraying purple fluid and tiny wriggling tentacles.
They screamed — Týr until his voice gave out, pounding the fleshy floor with his remaining arm; Vidar silent but convulsing, golden blood and liquefied flesh pouring from every orifice.
Skin sloughed off in sheets, revealing red muscle being nibbled thread by thread.
Ribs, collarbones, femurs cracked and melted.
In under a minute the two mightiest gods of Asgard were reduced to two staggering skeletons draped in scraps of melting meat and purple slime.
Then even the bones dissolved.
Clatter… clatter…
Two sets of white bones collapsed into piles of fragments.
Trillions of tiny tentacles swarmed the shards and dragged them into floor cracks.
Only two pools of yellow-purple sludge remained, smoking.
Lýsa rolled with laughter on Freya's shoulder:
"They really melted into goo sis!!!
So gross and so fun!!!
Only two days left — make it even scarier tomorrow please!!!~"
Freya licked the semen from Lýsa's neck.
"Tomorrow the dragon eats them alive, baby.
The day after is the best part."
She snapped again.
The cracks sealed without a trace.
The fourth day ended in deathly silence broken only by dripping divine sludge.
Two of Asgard's greatest had been corroded from within — not a single drop of pure blood left.
Three days remained.
Terror had become utter despair.
Day 5 – Fifth Day: Ullr and Vali Inside the Tentacle Dragon's Belly
Space had become an endless purple-black nightmare.
Golden corpses and Einherjar formed mountains; divine blood was slowly absorbed by the living floor.
Fewer than a thousand survivors formed the final circle.
At its center stood brothers Ullr and Vali back-to-back.
Ullr — god of hunting and archery — in form-fitting silver armor, long blonde ponytail, cold green eyes, divine yew bow drawn to its limit.
Each arrow released was a three-meter spear of unbreakable ice-light that pierced hundreds of tentacles in perfect lines.
Explosions of black meat and blood.
Vali — Odin's son of vengeance — had transformed into a fifteen-meter white wolf, silver fur glowing, crimson eyes, fangs like swords, shredding thousands of tentacles per bite.
Useless.
Freya hovered a hundred meters up, naked, cock dripping silver, Lýsa swinging her legs excitedly.
"Those uncles shoot so pretty!!!
But still not as good as sis!!!
Let the dragon play sis — I wanna hear bones go crack again!!!~"
Freya kissed the child noisily and clapped once.
Clap.
Space before the brothers ripped open a kilometers-long wound.
Out crawled the tentacle dragon.
Over three kilometers long, body composed of billions of purple-black tentacles twisted into grotesque muscle rings, each pulsing and oozing black slime.
Scales were jagged fleshy plates, wings vast membranes covered in blinking purple eyes.
Tail a kilometer-long bouquet of tentacles ending in a serrated fleshy bloom.
But the head — a hundred-meter carnivorous flower, petals thick slabs of meat lined with tens of thousands of shark-toothed human mouths drooling black saliva in ropes.
Each mouth possessed a writhing tentacle-tongue.
The dragon uttered one roar — not a dragon's roar, but the collective shriek of millions of living tentacles.
Ullr and Vali barely reacted.
The bloom opened to its maximum, forming a cavernous maw of teeth and tongues.
Then it struck.
One single gulp.
GLUUUUURK—!!!!
Ullr loosed one final arrow of light — it pierced a few hundred meters before being swallowed by thousands of mouths.
His divine bow snapped in half.
He and Vali's gigantic white wolf form were vacuumed into the bloom together.
Inside the dragon's belly came endless:
CRACK! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!!!!
Tens of thousands of mouths chewed.
Ullr's bones shattered like dry biscuits.
Vali's silver fur was stripped in an instant, flesh torn in sheets, fangs and claws broken.
Golden and white blood mingled, sucked dry by millions of tiny tentacles.
The horrific swallowing lasted fifteen seconds:
GLURK… GLURK… GULP… GLUG… GLUG… GLUG…!
Their silver and white souls were lassoed by tongues, stretched into threads, dragged deep inside forever.
When the bloom closed, only a few shards of silver armor and white fur drifted down.
The dragon belched a purple-black cloud laced with golden blood.
Lýsa drooled with joy, hugging Freya's neck:
"The dragon ate so yummy sis!!!
I heard every bone snap!!!
Who are we feeding it tomorrow???"
Freya stroked her hair, kissed her swollen belly.
"Just two uncles left tomorrow, baby.
Then we celebrate."
The dragon coiled into a massive ring around the final circle of survivors, purple eyes blinking, waiting.
The fifth day ended with the dragon's final swallow and a little girl's innocent laughter.
Two days remained.
Terror had rooted itself into the immortal souls of the remaining gods.
Day 6 – Sixth Day: Baldr Kneels and Begs
Only Baldr and fewer than three hundred Einherjar remained.
They stood in a sea of golden corpses, divine blood forming rivers that dyed Svartalfheim's black earth red.
Baldr fell to his knees, knees striking black stone, golden blood flowing from his forehead.
"Enough… we surrender…
Please stop… I will sign the covenant… I beg you…!"
Freya dismissed the barrier in a blink.
She returned to her perfect maiden form, naked, platinum hair dancing, Lýsa still smiling like an angel on her shoulder.
She walked to Baldr, lifted his chin with one finger.
"Are you certain, pretty Baldr?"
Her voice honey, eyes glacial.
Baldr trembled and nodded.
Day 7 – Seventh Day: Covenant Beneath the Crimson Moon
Atop Svartalfheim's highest obsidian peak, beneath the fresh-blood moon, the covenant ceremony took place.
Baldr sliced his wrist, wrote in golden blood upon an ancient rune-slab:
«From this day forth, all Svartalfheim belongs eternally to Zetsumyo Freya and her descendants.
The Aesir and Vanir who submit shall never set foot here again.
Any trespass shall be considered total war without mercy.
Signed: Baldr — Last King of Surviving Asgard.»
Freya smiled, pricked her wrist with a nail.
One drop of purple-black blood fell.
Baldr's golden letters ignited black, fused with her drop, burned forever into stone as an unbreakable curse.
The slab shuddered, hissed, bled living purple-black blood from its new crack.
Covenant sealed.
Freya turned to Lýsa, stroked her golden hair.
"Welcome to our new kingdom, my beloved wife."
Lýsa beamed, kissed Freya loudly on the lips.
Baldr remained kneeling, head bowed.
Thousands of divine corpses lay beneath the crimson moon, golden blood forming glimmering rivers.
Freya turned, Lýsa swinging her legs on her shoulder, and walked away.
A purple-black rift opened.
She lifted Lýsa into a princess carry and stepped through.
Just before the rift closed, her sweet, icy voice echoed across Svartalfheim:
"You imprisoned me for ten years.
I only took seven days in return.
Very fair, don't you think?"
The rift sealed.
The blood moon remained, now ruling an inviolable kingdom belonging to the platinum-haired demoness and her little hermaphrodite princess.
The seven blood-moon days ended.
Zetsumyo Freya was no longer a prisoner.
She was queen of darkness.
And the Nine Realms would never forget those seven nights of horror —
even though Valhalla can resurrect them endlessly,
none would ever dare return.
Because there are things worse than death.
And that thing was smiling beneath the crimson moon
with a little dual-sex child giggling on her shoulder.
Day 8 – Eighth Day: Valhalla Revives and Eternal Terror
On the eighth morning (still no sun, only fading blood moon),
a golden beam tore the sky.
Valhalla's gates opened high above.
Thousands of golden rays rained down, illuminating the cold divine corpses.
Heimdall opened his eyes first, sat up, golden eyes clouded with memories of tentacles boring into his brain.
Thor rose next, neck still bruised black, Mjölnir flying to his trembling hand.
Freyr, Bragi, Týr, Vidar, Ullr, Vali… revived one by one, pale, empty-eyed, souls dragged back from hell.
Valhalla had exercised its ancient right: all who fall in battle revive in the Golden Hall.
But none cheered.
Silence — terrible silence.
Baldr, the only one who survived the seven days, stood atop a hill, white cloak crusted with dried golden blood, tears in his eyes.
Thor gripped Mjölnir and whispered hoarsely:
"I… died.
I felt my neck bones shatter…
That monster… killed us all…"
Heimdall clutched his head:
"I still feel them… thinner than hairs… writhing inside my skull…"
Freyr stared at his restored arm in horror.
No one raised a weapon.
No one shouted charge.
Baldr stepped before the resurrected host, voice raw but resolute:
"ENOUGH!
We lost.
Completely.
Valhalla may revive us a million times,
but if we return we will die a million more —
each time worse than the last."
He knelt a second time in his life — before his own people — forehead to the ground.
"I, Baldr, last king of Asgard,
hereby recognize the blood covenant signed yesterday.
Svartalfheim belongs forever to Zetsumyo Freya and her line.
Any who trespass — I myself will behead them before she kills them the millionth time."
Dead silence.
Then Thor — for the first time ever — dropped to one knee, Mjölnir laid across his chest.
Heimdall, Týr, Freyr… all knelt.
Tens of thousands of revived Einherjar knelt.
Not in reverence.
In abject terror.
Baldr raised his head toward the obsidian peak where the covenant stone still wept purple-black blood, and whispered loud enough for all:
"We… lost to a demoness.
And we will never dare win again."
Far away atop that peak,
Freya stood naked, platinum hair dancing in cold wind,
Lýsa on her shoulder giggling and waving cheerfully at the kneeling gods.
Freya raised one hand in mocking farewell.
The wind carried the little girl's laughter and the demoness's sweet whisper:
"Go home, uncles~
Next time you come back,
sis will play longer than seven days."
Valhalla's gates opened one last time.
The divine host withdrew in silence — no horns, no banners.
Only fading golden shadows vanishing into light.
Svartalfheim fell silent again.
The blood moon dimmed, as though even it feared.
Freya kissed Lýsa's cheek.
"It's over, my love.
The whole world is ours now."
Lýsa hugged her neck, radiant:
"I want to build a palace of bone and flesh here!
And sit on your shoulder every day watching the uncles kneel!"
Freya's laughter echoed across her new kingdom.
The seven blood-moon days were over.
On the eighth day, terror was etched forever into immortal divine souls.
Valhalla can resurrect without end,
but memories of death, pain, and helplessness cannot be erased.
Svartalfheim belongs eternally to Zetsumyo Freya,
and no god — no matter how many times revived — will ever return.
Because they now know:
there are fates worse than death.
And that fate smiles beneath the crimson moon
with a little dual-sex child giggling on her shoulder.