Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 775: Home of a Primordial God

Chapter 775: Home of a Primordial God

Vlad’s eyes sharpened as he watched the Lord of War vanish into the distance. Only after the man’s overwhelming presence faded did he allow his mind to finally relax. He lowered his gaze to his body, examining himself with the full awareness of someone attuned to both matter and soul.

Every cell and every strand of spiritual essence that made up his being had not only been restored to peak condition, but enhanced far beyond their previous limits.

"Not only has my Level risen... even my innate talent has evolved. Incredible., the power of a Primordial God is truly beyond measure."

That thought crossed the mind of the True Depravita of Wrath, a rare sense of awe flickering within him. But that awe quickly gave way to something warmer, deeper. A gentle hand took his own, grounding him. He turned to find Freya, her radiant eyes locked on his, filled with kindness, pride, and unshakable love.

The Depravita of Wrath, often consumed by rage just a few minutes ago during his battle, couldn’t help but return her gaze with a rare, genuine smile. In that moment, his usual fury gave way to serenity. The trials they had endured, the countless battles and wounds—they had survived them all. And now, at last, they were safe.

The atmosphere around them grew still. Silence blanketed the crowd of Vikings, none daring to disturb the quiet moment shared between two warriors who had fought, suffered, and ultimately triumphed together.

Only after a full minute passed did the silence break. The sound of footsteps echoed across the field. All eyes turned toward the approaching figure of the Valhallan Empress.

The moment her presence was felt, every Viking dropped to one knee in deep reverence. Even Freya, though she had severed her formal ties to the realm, bowed respectfully before the matriarch of Valhalla.

But Vlad did not move.

The True Depravita of Wrath stood firm, his gaze unwavering as he stared directly at the Empress. His eyes were not filled with open hostility, but with cool, unyielding judgment. There was a restrained coldness in them—a reminder that while the Empress had helped them in the final moments, her actions—or rather, her inaction—had nearly doomed them.

She had allowed Freya to be condemned as a criminal. She had stood by while the fraudulent Tournament of Destiny continued unchecked. And even when the Lord of War first appeared, she only acted due to the White Death’s threat. In the final confrontation, she waited until the people rose up in defiance before making her stance clear.

To Vlad, that kind of leadership was not true leadership at all.

A ruler who required the push of others to act was, in his eyes, unworthy to lead.

The Viking Empress, though ancient and wise, recognized this in his gaze. She had encountered many across the eons, from Lords to tyrants to saints—but the look in Vlad’s eyes reminded her of something rare: the gaze of someone who did not bend. A being of absolute conviction. A soul that would move forward even if the entire world stood in opposition.

She sighed quietly, though not out of anger. It was the sigh of a ruler who knew her flaws had been exposed before one whose strength was not merely physical, but rooted in unshakable will.

After a pause, the Empress gestured for the Vikings to rise. The tense silence lingered for a few seconds more before she finally addressed the group—her gaze focused directly on Freya and the True Depravitas.

"I would like to receive you in my longhouse," she said.

The announcement caused a ripple of surprise among the crowd. To be invited into the Empress’s personal residence—a place reserved for only the most sacred meetings—was an honor few had ever experienced. Most Vikings could only dream of stepping foot within its ancient halls.

Freya’s eyes widened slightly, even she caught off guard.

Vlad, however, remained indifferent. As far as he was concerned, leaving Valhalla and returning to Terra would be the wisest choice. In his homeland, even the Lord of War would hesitate to pursue them—because there, Vlad could fight back with the full power of the world. But he wasn’t a fool. Refusing an invitation from the Empress in front of the entire Viking population could be seen as a grave insult.

And while his respect for the Empress was thin, his respect for the people who had stood for justice was genuine.

After a moment’s thought, he nodded slowly.

"It would be an honor."

The Empress released a small sigh—this time tinged with something like admiration. Vlad had displayed strength, restraint, and honor under pressure. His decorum in such a moment only deepened her impression of him.

"If someone like him had been born in Valhalla... how different things might be," she mused silently.

Without another word, she turned and rose into the sky. A signal for them to follow.

The journey through the heart of Valhalla was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Towering spires of celestial steel pierced the skies, temples carved from the bones of slain titans stood like monuments of eternity, and crystalline bridges shimmered with the power of runes. The Viking civilization was not just grand—it was overwhelming in its scale and might.

Many of their sacred structures were constructed using the remains of gargantuan beasts, each slain by ancient heroes. It was a show of dominance, but also a mark of respect. Their enemies, once formidable and revered, were honored by having their remains woven into the very fabric of Valhalla.

Some of these colossal remnants were so large they reached beyond the clouds. The Depravitas stared in silence, marveling at how such beings had been defeated.

Soon, the group arrived at their destination.

It was a house—not a castle or fortress—but a large wooden longhouse. There was no grand display of power, no glowing runes, no divine sigils. In comparison to the wonders of the realm, it seemed... humble.

And yet, the moment they drew near, Vlad and the other True Depravitas felt their blood stir violently, their spirits tremble. A fierce, ancient energy surrounded the place like a protective shroud.

Noticing the confusion in Vlad’s expression, Freya leaned closer and whispered with a faint smile.

"This longhouse is said to have been Odinvaldr’s home before his ascension. He trained here—grew here—until his power infused every beam and stone. It is the most sacred place in all of Valhalla."

The eyes of the True Depravitas widened in silent awe as Freya revealed the longhouse’s significance. A hush of reverence washed over them. This unassuming wooden hall—simple in appearance and modest next to the grand architecture of Valhalla—was no ordinary structure. It was once the dwelling of Odinvaldr himself, the Primordial God of Bloodshed and Battle.

Before his ascension to divine status, he had lived here, trained here, bled and meditated within these walls. Over time, his essence had seeped into every stone, every grain of wood, making this place sacred beyond measure.

To stand in this space was to be immersed in a history more ancient than memory, a power more primal than law.

A Primordial God was not merely a powerful being. He stood on a level of existence so elevated that even the greatest civilizations, the highest Lords, and the most advanced species bowed to their presence. Their power rippled across galaxies, shaped the very weave of the cosmos. Even if you had conflicts with such an entity, even if hatred burned in your soul, respect for their might was inescapable.

As the Viking Empress led the group inside, the moment they crossed the threshold, something changed.

The air became richer, as if each breath carried divine particles. Their bodies eased, but not into lethargy—rather into a state of heightened awareness. It was not rest, but harmony. The chaos of thoughts dulled into clarity. Their spiritual senses sharpened, tuning to the subtle rhythms of the universe itself.

"Living in a place like this must bring all sorts of benefits," Vlad thought, his eyes roaming across the hall.

Carved symbols along the walls pulsed with ancient energy, their meanings long forgotten by most, yet still resonant to those who walked the path of power. Though rustic in design, the architecture hummed with divine resonance.

But Vlad’s admiration didn’t last long. His gaze quickly hardened, shifting to the Viking Empress as she led them deeper.

She had not brought them here out of sentiment.

Vlad was no fool. Whatever reason she had for inviting them into this sacred domain, it was not merely ceremonial. And though he was strong for his age, he knew very well that meddling in the affairs of Lords—especially those like Antorus and the Empress—was not something he was yet prepared to do. His most recent battle had pushed him to the brink, nearly shattering his soul. If not for the divine intervention of Odinvaldr, he would have been comatose for decades.

Eventually, the Empress reached the far end of the hall and sat upon the central seat—the seat once said to have belonged to Odinvaldr himself. Carved from the bones of a dragon slain by the god in his youth, it radiated both wisdom and threat. She sat not like a frail elder, but like a sovereign—back straight, gaze commanding.

With a subtle wave of her hand, she gestured for Freya and the True Depravitas to sit beside her. It was a gesture of trust and respect, but also a political statement. To be invited to sit next to the ruler of Valhalla within this most sacred place was something that would echo for ages.