Thor's face was split by a triumphant grin. To Emrys, however, the expression was so laden with transparent "secrecy" that it was almost painful to witness. It was the look of a man who believed he had successfully hidden a mountain behind a blade of grass.
Forget it, Emrys sighed internally. Don't bother trying to reason with a fool; just play the part.
"According to the ancient laws of the Aesir," Thor began, clearing his throat and attempting to look solemn, "an oath must be sworn before the circle is closed. First, you must state your name. It is a mark of respect between warriors."
Thor believed he was weaving a masterfully subtle web. To Emrys—who had survived the machinations of Tzeentchian cultists and the backstabbing politics of the Imperial nobility—the prince's "subtlety" was full of holes. Thor was protesting his "fairness" too much, his eyes darting toward the sky with every word.
But Emrys was curious to see where this path led. "Merlin Emrys."
"And I, Thor Odinson!"
Thor dropped to one knee, striking his fist against his breastplate with a resounding thud. "In the name of the King of the Gods, under the witness of Gungnir, I challenge Merlin Emrys to a Traditional Asgardian Duel!"
He emphasized the word "Traditional" with a flicker of predatory joy.
In Thor's mind, the trap had snapped shut. A "Traditional" duel under the gaze of Gungnir—Odin's own spear—invoked an ancient binding. Such duels stripped away all external aids, artifacts, and, most importantly, magic. Gungnir was the arbiter of oaths; its power ensured that no trickery could violate the terms once spoken.
As long as Emrys agreed, the sorcerer would be rendered toothless. Even Loki, for all his silver-tongued illusions, never stood a chance against Thor in the raw, bloody reality of a traditional circle.
"I, Merlin Emrys, agree," Emrys said. He covered his eyes for a moment, unable to look at Thor's gloating face. He felt a sudden wave of pity for Odin. To be a legend in one's youth and be saddled with an heir this transparent in one's old age was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.
The moment the words left Emrys' lips, a beam of blinding gold light descended from the heavens, engulfing them both.
"The oath is sealed," Thor growled, standing up. A sinister grin played on his lips. "We stand now in the domain of the All-Father, witnessed by the Spear of Destiny. Here, justice is absolute."
The golden light expanded, pulling reality apart. The dusty Midgardian street vanished, replaced by the towering, cold stone walls of a massive ancient arena. They stood on blood-stained sand the size of several football fields. Weapon racks lined the perimeter, laden with the cold steel of the Aesir.
"A pocket dimension? Or a memory of Valhalla?" Emrys mused, looking at the hundred-meter-high rock walls.
This was the power of Gungnir, the "Sure-Hit" spear. Its legends were the source of humanity's myths about wishing upon falling stars—destiny made manifest.
If I don't fleece Odin for every secret of this forge, I'll change my name to Meyer, Emrys thought, his mercenary heart leaping at the potential loot.
Thor snatched a heavy Viking longsword from the rack, testing its balance with a practiced whirl. "Pick your steel, sorcerer. Any weapon you desire. I would not have it said that I bullied a defenseless man."
"A sword will do," Emrys said, casually selecting a broad-bladed Viking sword. It was a brutal piece of work—double-edged, straight-spined, with deep blood-grooves designed for efficient killing.
"Do not fear the bite of the blade," Thor added with a laugh. "This is the Hall of the Slain. The experience is real, but the death is temporary. My father built this arena for the training of Einherjar. You can die a thousand times today, and I shall enjoy every one of them!"
A high-fidelity combat simulation, Emrys noted. I'll need a dozen of these for my Stormtroopers.
Thor advanced, his stride heavy and confident. "I shall show you the terror of the Asgardian God of War! I will take your head and hang it from my belt as a trophy!"
Emrys stood unmoved, his blade tilted at a low, defensive angle. "Do all Asgardians talk this much? Or is the noise meant to distract from your lack of footwork?"
Thor's face darkened. "I will teach you silence soon enough!"
He stomped the ground, the impact cratering the sand. Like a roaring engine, Thor surged forward, his sword swinging in a massive, overhead arc designed to cleave Emrys in two.
It was fast, but it was purely physical.
Emrys reached for the Warp, intending to end the farce with a simple telekinetic snap that would drive Thor into the dirt.
But he froze. The connection was gone. The Valhalla arena wasn't just a simulation; it was a null-zone. The runes carved into the walls acted like a psychic blank, severing his link to the Warp entirely.
"Hahahaha!" Thor burst into a roar of triumphant laughter, seeing the momentary confusion on Emrys' face. "Did you think I was a fool? This is a Traditional Duel! No magic! No spirits! Here, you have nothing but your own weak flesh!"
Thor's sword whistled past Emrys' ear as the Rogue Trader ducked, rolling across the sand.
"Just luck!" Thor sneered, turning to the viewing stands where Heimdall sat watching. He raised a fist, prematurely declaring victory. "You're a sorcerer, 'Merlin'! Without your parlor tricks, you're nothing but a child in a man's world!"
Thor charged again, a horizontal sweep aimed at Emrys' throat. The blade hummed, a sharp line of cold light cutting through the air.
But Emrys didn't panic. He shifted his weight, his movements becoming fluid and precise—the result of years of brutal training and the dark, martial "gifts" bestowed by the Blood God.
In a single, blurred motion, Emrys parried. He didn't just block; he caught Thor's blade on the forte of his sword, stepped into the prince's guard, and flicked his wrist.
Clang!
Thor's sword spun out of his hand, buried hilt-deep in the distant sand.
Before Thor could even process the loss of his weapon, Emrys' blade was a streak of silver. He didn't stop. He pivoted, his sword following a perfect, lethal trajectory.
The blade bit through Thor's neck with terrifying ease.
A head tumbled into the sand with a dull thud.
Thor's headless body slumped forward, the simulation's blood staining the arena floor. From the viewing platform, Heimdall let out a sound of pure, strangled despair.
Emrys stood over the fallen prince, his face splattered with digital gore. His pupils flickered with a faint, crimson light—the mark of Khorne's blessing. He looked at the severed head, which was still blinking in shock, and offered a "kind" smile.
"Who told you I was just a mage?" Emrys asked softly. "In my universe, even the scholars are taught how to butcher their enemies. Besides... a bit of close-quarters combat is good for the body and soul."
With the martial skill of a Company Champion and the cold pragmatism of a Rogue Trader, Emrys hadn't just won a duel. He had just acquired two divine slaves.