Valhalla was a truly vast plane, so massive that even a Superior Legend would need decades to explore every inch of it. Countless regions remained unconquered, teeming with beasts and ancient forces.
Of course, if the higher echelons of Valhalla truly wished it, they could easily pacify the entire plane. But they didn’t. Those wild, dangerous locations served a purpose—they were the testing grounds for the next generation, a crucible for warriors in a realm that revered battle above all else.
One such place was the Evernight Forest, a gargantuan expanse where ancient trees pierced the clouds and blocked the sun entirely. The canopy was so dense that the forest floor lay in perpetual darkness, a place of shadow and silence. Evernight was infamous, feared even among Sages—a battleground where the very air crackled with danger, and only the reckless or the desperate dared step lightly.
Today, the forest trembled. A sudden, violent ripple of spatial energy tore through the void, and in a burst of blinding light, four figures appeared within the heart of Evernight.
There was a young man with sharp eyes, a small yellow cat perched on his shoulder, a dragon wreathed in fire and light, and a white werewolf whose very presence radiated ferocity. Each one exuded the aura of a Legendary being, but more than that—their physical forms pulsed with an energy that transcended mere flesh and blood. These were beings who had broken the natural limits of the mortal coil, and the air around them seemed to warp in recognition of their power.
The moment they arrived, a wave of feral eyes snapped toward them—hundreds, perhaps thousands. The monsters of Evernight, drawn by the massive burst of energy from the interstellar teleportation, had already set their sights on the intruders.
But instead of fear or hesitation, wide grins appeared on the faces of Vlad and his companions. The primal, raging vitality radiating from the monsters was exactly what they needed—fuel for their bodies, nourishment for the battles yet to come.
And so the slaughter began.
From a distance, the scene was a nightmare of destruction. Explosions of lightning split the sky, streaking across the dense forest canopy like divine lances. Waves of fire erupted, consuming entire swaths of trees in roaring infernos.
Kinetic blasts detonated with the force of artillery strikes, shattering the earth and launching splinters of wood the size of boulders. Sonic booms cracked through the air as figures blurred faster than the eye could follow, their movements tearing through the darkness.
The mighty trees of Evernight—ancient, colossal beings that had stood for tens of thousands of years—began to fall. Entire sections of the forest collapsed in on themselves as the battle raged on. The ground quaked, the sector vibrating under the sheer ferocity of the fight.
For half an hour, chaos reigned. The sound of battle, the roars of monsters, the hum of power clashing against power—it was a storm of carnage. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, silence returned.
Minutes later, four figures emerged from the shattered remains of Evernight. Vlad, the small yellow cat, the dragon of fire and light, and the white werewolf—all walked calmly, not a single drop of blood staining their bodies.
Behind them lay a trail of devastation—trees shattered, craters carved into the earth, the bodies of beasts torn asunder and still smoldering from elemental energies. The carnage was inhuman, the scale of destruction a testament to the might of the True Depravitas.
Vlad clenched his fist, his eyes narrowing as his psychic power spread outward, scanning the surroundings. He took a deep breath, nodding in satisfaction.
"It seems we’re clear. Arriving in Evernight masked the signal and radiation from our interstellar teleportation," he said quietly.
Jormungandr, perched calmly on Vlad’s shoulder, grinned. "Angelo was right. We owe that man a lot."
The rest of the Depravitas nodded in agreement, their eyes gleaming with quiet determination.
"Let’s move," Vlad ordered, his voice sharp and resolute. "We must reach the capital before the tournament ends—and we must do it without being noticed."
The others nodded without hesitation. Whoever was scheming against Freya would do everything in their power to stop Vlad from intervening. If they were discovered, they’d be hunted relentlessly, and reaching the tournament would become impossible. Caution and stealth were essential.
Without another word, Fafnir and Ouroboros shifted their bodies, shrinking down to pocket-size forms—one resting on Vlad’s left shoulder, the other on his head. Their transformation was seamless, the product of their mastery over their evolved forms as True Depravitas.
Vlad couldn’t help but chuckle wryly as he glanced at his odd appearance. A small yellow cat on his right shoulder, a white werewolf on his left, and a miniature dragon perched atop his head—he looked absurd.
"Whatever," Vlad muttered, shaking his head. There was no time for vanity. His aura vanished completely, cloaked in the Void, while his eyes sharpened to razor points. With a thought, he flashed forward—his movement swift, silent, and lethal.
At the heart of Valhalla, a colossal coliseum towered above the surrounding cities—a monument to battle itself. This was the Arena of Gods, a sacred place where the greatest warriors clashed, a place steeped in history and legend. It was said that even Odinvaldr himself had once fought within these hallowed grounds.
The arena was so vast it could hold millions, with an arena floor large enough for even Legends to battle freely without constraint. Today, every seat was filled, a sea of roaring Vikings packed into the stands, banners waving and weapons raised in anticipation.
This was no ordinary event. Today marked the Tournament of Destiny—the battle that would decide the fate of the Viking Princess, Freya.
Despite the accusations leveled against her—charges of murder and betrayal—the crowd’s Enjoy reading on NovelHub - your free online novel platform. Among the countless banners and signs, many bore Freya’s name, their voices shouting her name with fervent admiration.
It was clear that while the higher-ups of Valhalla might be complicit in the charade, the people—the heart of the Viking realm—still respected honor, still believed in fairness. And in their eyes, Freya was the one in the right.