In battle, numbers are a critical factor.
The number of enemies, the number of allies, and the count of weapons and means at one’s disposal.
In fact, the outcome of a fight could be said to be decided by these factors. It was akin to a precise game of numbers.
In this sense, Aslan’s chances of victory were never very high.
It was obvious. Even with one more person added, the enemies seemed endless.
On the other hand, Aslan’s side had to take on two foes at once as the best strategy, and even that possibility dwindled as time passed.
This was due to the advantage and disadvantage of the Abyss: being controlled by a single will.
Thus, the encirclement tightened, and amidst the barrage of projectiles, Aslan had no choice but to flee.
Kwa-jik!
As the hammer swung and crushed a head, an assassin’s blade that had sneaked in from behind scraped against the armor and ricocheted off.
Aslan glanced at the bouncing blade, swung Purity to cut down the assassin, and scanned the enemies seeping in from all sides with peripheral vision.
There were too many foes.
If it weren’t for Aslan, anyone else would have fallen dead long ago under such numbers.
And so, the means wielded by those foes were diverse and bizarre beyond measure.
Some had elongated arms, others spewed fire from their mouths.
Still others fired guns, or spun their arms to scatter bullets.
Meanwhile, some shot out a blue beam akin to a laser from their swords, and another Possessor unleashed a sword qi by swinging their blade.
With such a wide variety of unpredictable attacks flying in, Aslan quickly grew exhausted mentally.
Even while wielding a shield, transforming the shield into an axe to sever heads, kicking away massive bodies with Purity, and piercing through enemies with the Dragon King’s fist, Aslan felt the strain.
Amidst countless exchanges, Aslan realized that if he had been alone, he would have already failed.
Had it not been for the Viking warrior striving behind him, the situation would have ended far sooner.
Upon realizing this, Aslan was taken aback.
The Viking warrior fought better than Aslan had anticipated.
Kwa-a-aang!
A spinning swing of the axe split a Possessor clad in armor cleanly in half from head to toe.
The hybrid beast-human Possessor that followed was swiftly pierced and incinerated by a sword that seemed to hold flames capable of burning the world.
The Viking warrior freely handled both axe and sword, cutting down enemies as they surged forward.
Though different from Budonggong or Aslan, his technique was undeniably practical and threatening.
Truly, these were skills honed on actual battlefields.
But even these skills had their limits.
Gradually, the attacks began to reach the Viking warrior.
His skin bled, and his armor turned deep red.
Protecting himself was all Aslan could manage.
Thus, before long, Aslan shouted.
“Let’s retreat!”
Expecting perhaps a rebuttal, the Viking warrior paused briefly in silence before responding.
“Stay close.”
Unexpected. Vikings were known as warriors who embraced death to ascend to Valhalla.
Yet, as if refuting Aslan’s preconceptions, the Viking glanced at Aslan as he approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Afterward, the situation became almost hazy.
As his lips moved, the wind of the underworld that had been felt when the Viking arrived swept back in.
As the wind enveloped Aslan and the Viking, their vision distorted as if they were soaring upward like a meteor diving from the sky.
However, instead of plummeting to the ground, they ascended toward the heavens.
When the two figures soared across the darkness and crashed onto the ground, Aslan finally realized they had fled.
Faster than comprehension, Aslan and the Viking had escaped the scene and reached somewhere else.
As Aslan rolled along the ground to land, the Viking slid and came to a stop.
Simultaneously, the wind of the underworld that clung to the Viking’s cloak dissipated.
Though unclear what exactly it was, its function could be guessed.
Certainly, it was something akin to an acceleration magic that imbued great speed, but the level of power was so far beyond ordinary acceleration that it acted with immense strength.
While pondering this function, Aslan turned his head to express gratitude.
The Viking warrior sat atop the undulating darkness.
Breathing heavily, his armor appeared dyed crimson with blood.
Clutching his abdomen, he tried to maintain composure.
Seeing this, Aslan froze mid-motion to express thanks.
“You….”
“Call me Lee Hyun-woo.”
He had sustained injuries from the recent battle.
Though his armor was undoubtedly top-tier, it couldn’t withstand the relentless onslaught of countless Possessors, unlike Aslan’s Dragon King armor that protected him from harm.
As Aslan realized this, the Viking warrior continued to breathe expressionlessly while clutching his wound.
His refusal to resist fleeing earlier wasn’t due to any special reason.
He simply didn’t want to worsen the situation by dying after offering help.
As Aslan understood this, the Viking warrior, regaining his breath after retrieving his physical form, removed his helmet.
Revealed was a middle-aged man with brown hair and piercing eyes.
Possibly around the age of Aslan’s father.
Though bearing a scar on his face, his expression seemed weary rather than fierce.
After dropping his helmet to the ground, the Viking warrior looked at Aslan while still clutching his wound.
“Don’t worry about it too much. I was already in this state before helping you. It’s just that whatever I barely dealt with has resurfaced.”
Was that truly the case? When the Viking intervened to help Aslan, his armor had looked pristine.
But there was no point in pressing the matter.
Regardless of what happened beforehand, Aslan had managed to escape thanks to this Viking warrior.
The Dark Ram Herd and the Abyss’s trap were a clever move that Aslan alone wouldn’t have been able to overcome.
Had this Viking warrior not appeared now, Aslan would have either died or met an even worse fate.
Given this, Aslan didn’t want to ask the obvious question.
Watching the dripping blood, Aslan quietly sent a glance.
“What happened?”
At Aslan’s inquiry, the Viking warrior blinked while clutching his wound.
“As you see. We were all wiped out. I’m the only survivor.”
The worst-case scenario among all possibilities. As Aslan bit his lips, the Viking warrior gave a wry smile.
“At first, everyone fought well. They were all heading towards the end of their own sagas. But… the enemies were endless.”
As Aslan listened intently, the Viking tilted his head and gazed into the distance.
“They kept resurrecting, and whenever one of us fell, they joined their ranks. From the start… it was a fight we couldn’t win.”
As he spoke, blood flowed from the Viking’s hands.
With the flowing blood, his consciousness seemed to fade as he rambled on.
“Maybe… it was like that from the beginning. Ever since the day I lost my son… ever since that damn bastard beckoned me… defeat was all I knew.”
Unable to interrupt his rambling, Aslan lacked the heart to press further. How could one urge a dying man?
Listening solemnly, the Viking warrior continued.
“My son was a foolish lad. He fell in love with a lord’s daughter and made her fall for him but couldn’t handle the aftermath. I was the same, so my son was cursed and beheaded.”
Since Aslan didn’t know this story, he furrowed his brow, prompting the Viking warrior to laugh bitterly.
“The lord declared my son would rot in the deepest part of Hel and framed him. All I could do was seek revenge.”
“What…”
“So I killed them. Everyone. From the lord to every one of his retainers. Then I died. I thought I’d go to Hel, but when I opened my eyes, I was in Valhalla.”
Valhalla.
A legendary place that might not exist. And yet, this man from the medieval era must have firmly believed in this afterlife.
What happened afterward was predictable.
This man fought in Valhalla and was eventually consumed by the Dark Ram Herd.
However, the details of that story remained unknown. Aslan silently sat on the black ground as the Viking warrior began to speak again.
The narrative that followed differed greatly from Aslan’s expectations.
Unlike Aslan or some Possessors, this man was a genuine Viking warrior who never doubted his arrival in Valhalla.
So, upon finding himself in Valhalla, the man immediately left.
He headed straight for Hel.
The closest Norse afterlife realm to the underworld, where those who didn’t enter Valhalla went.
He believed his son was there, in the deepest part of Hel, Niflhel—a prison for the wicked.
Thus, he journeyed through Hel.
Wandering among the dead, killing those who attacked him, and sometimes rescuing others.
It was only after saving an old woman and receiving a ring that granted invisibility that he could proceed with his plan.
To rescue his son—a paternal plan.
When he sought out the goddess of Hel to find his son’s exact location, he struck a deal.
The dwarves would create a burial gown for his son, and in return, the goddess would release him.
Believing Hel’s intentions might change, he accepted the offer. After searching for fifty winters, he found the dwarves and crafted the burial gown.
Made from silk that could withstand Hel’s fiercest winds, freezing even the souls of Niflheim.
With the gown, the warrior set off for Niflhel.
Filled with anticipation to finally meet and rescue his son, to finally do something paternal for him.
But expectations often lead to disappointment. He overlooked a few facts:
Hel was a cunning goddess, and he was merely human.
The “gown” he brought was not a gown but a sail.
The sail for Naglfar, the ship of the dead made from nails and toenails, signaling the onset of Ragnarok.
And when he found his son in Niflhel and took his hand with the ring of invisibility to cross the sharp ravines,
Ragnarok began.
An earthquake shook the world.
In the trembling chaos, he dropped the ring and his son.
They were devoured by the Nidhogg, the guardian of Niflhel and a malevolent dragon seeking escapees.
And at that moment, the Viking realized.
He had been deceived and lost everything.
The rest is predictable.
He fought Nidhogg.
Riding the dragon destined for the battlefield of Ragnarok, he battled and plunged into it, slaying the dragon.
He slaughtered the dead arriving on Naglfar.
Then he tore the sail—originally meant as a burial gown for his son—from the mast and wrapped it around himself.
Encased in his regret, failure, and ignorance, he killed the goddess Hel and fought until the end of Ragnarok.
Dying, he encountered the old woman who had given him the ring.
When she swallowed him, he realized she was the true evil deity behind all the tragedies, the one called the Dark Ram Herd by Aslan.
Thus, the story concluded.
While listening to this tale, Aslan wondered why the dying man shared it with him.
Perplexed, the Viking slowly raised his hand to his shoulder and loosened his cloak.
A beautiful gray-blue cloak.
It was the sail of Naglfar mentioned in the story.
“Take it.”
Realizing what it was, the Viking extended it to Aslan.
“It’s what the goddess herself desired through deceit, the beacon that ignited Ragnarok. And now… it’s yours too.”
Trembling slightly as he offered it, Aslan accepted the cloak.
The Viking smiled as Aslan held it.
“My saga ends here. A tale of defeat, failure, and loss… a pathetic saga indeed.”
Unsure how to respond to these cryptic words, Aslan remained silent as the Viking looked at him.
“Certainly, my worthless saga ends here. But what about yours?”
Saga. History. Simultaneously, akin to a Nordic legend.
Only then did Aslan understand what he meant, looking at the dying warrior.
“Does your saga end here? Will it collapse under a mere group of failures and shadows, spies, ending as a trivial story?”
As the hand holding the cloak relaxed, Aslan received it, untouched by the blood-stained hand gripping it.
Aslan recalled anew.
These shapeless beings, including this warrior, had witnessed all his struggles and hardships.
The words spoken by this warrior were undoubtedly directed at Aslan.
Appealing to Aslan’s fears.
Feeling a cool sensation in his palm, Aslan clenched the cloak.
“Our enemy is undoubtedly vast. Their tricks are cunning, their power greater than the world. But so what?”
As Aslan draped the cloak over his shoulder, the Viking watched approvingly.
“Even Ragnarok couldn’t break humanity. People can carve mountains and fill seas. The vast and cunning always succumb to humanity… to heroes.”
With that, the warrior let his hand drop.
“Carry pride. For even gods fear humans.”
No response was needed.
With those words, the warrior slowly lowered his head, and Aslan turned away.
As he swept the cloak, the wind of the underworld swirled around Aslan.
As the wind coursed through him, Aslan murmured.
“Acceleration.”
Accompanied by the wind of acceleration, Aslan soared toward the center of the Abyss.
