Chapter 724

"What in the Nine Realms is this place?"

Evenson slowed the spacecraft as he entered the strange dimension, scanning the surrounding landscape for any sign of Thor and the others.

Nothing.

As a Warlock, opening portals and finding ways into places he wasn’t supposed to be was practically part of his job description. After giving the problem some thought, he arrived at a troubling conclusion: he and the others had probably ended up in different spaces entirely.

He scratched his head.

"My ship was flying a little lower than theirs..."

Loki’s secret passage clearly wasn’t an ordinary tunnel. It wasn’t a matter of finding a hidden switch, crawling through a cave, and emerging somewhere on the other side.

That narrow fissure in the cliff had to be a junction between separate spaces. When crossing such a boundary, even a slight difference in speed, altitude, or approach angle could send a traveler somewhere completely different.

But seriously?

His ship had been flying about twenty centimeters lower than Thor’s!

Twenty centimeters!

Was that tiny discrepancy really enough to strand him in an entirely different world? Did the universe have some personal grudge against Warlocks? Was every absurd misfortune automatically assigned to him just because he’d chosen the wrong class?

Evenson wanted to cry.

Unfortunately, complaining wouldn’t get him home.

He concentrated on the demonic summoning circle connected to him, trying to sense whether he could teleport directly back to Earth.

Nothing.

His connection to the circle seemed to have been completely severed.

Fine. If the direct route was blocked, he would try another.

He reached out through his mental connections, attempting to contact his five infernal ancestors and persuade them to use a Summoning Stone to pull him back.

He called.

And called again.

The only response he received was the magical equivalent of an automated message.

The demonic entity you are attempting to contact is currently outside the service area. Please stop calling.

"Useless!"

Evenson slapped the side of the ship.

Those five freeloaders ate his food, used his resources, and generally took advantage of his hospitality whenever it suited them. Yet when he actually needed their help, not one of them could be bothered to answer.

No wonder Warlocks had such a terrible reputation.

With his usual methods exhausted, Evenson reluctantly rolled up both sleeves, exposing the magical brands on his forearms.

These were the marks the Eredar Twins had carved into him shortly before the Battle of New York, when he’d needed to wield Ulthalesh, the Deadwind Harvester.

They were no ordinary enchantments.

Consider the mark on his right arm.

His right arm had spent nearly a year in a state of conceptual collapse, effectively crippled beyond normal healing. Only two days ago, the magic of Asgard had finally restored it.

And yet, almost as soon as the arm had healed, the mark had begun to reappear.

It was as though the brand had become conceptually entangled with the arm itself. He could replace the limb, heal it, or destroy it, and somehow the mark would still find its way back.

Evenson wasn’t entirely sure whether that was impressive or deeply disturbing.

One thing was certain: he didn’t want to call upon the Eredar Twins unless absolutely necessary.

They were practically doctoral supervisors in the demonic arts. If he asked them for help, they would certainly provide it.

Then they would spend the next several hours lecturing him, insulting his intelligence, mocking his incompetence, and reminding him of every mistake he’d ever made.

Evenson would have to exhaust himself explaining the situation, defending his decisions, and eventually finding some way to placate them.

He could already feel a headache forming.

Unfortunately, he was out of alternatives.

He stood and raised his forearms in front of him, slowly bringing them together to establish a connection with the twins. If anyone could pull him out of this predicament, it was those two ancient demons.

His arms were almost touching when—

WHAM!

An enormous repulsive force erupted between them.

It was like trying to force together two powerful magnets with identical poles. His forearms were violently thrown apart.

Evenson stared at them.

He tried again.

The same thing happened.

On his third attempt, the force was even stronger. His arms flew apart, and the impact sent him sprawling backward onto the deck.

Cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

This wasn’t merely a dimensional barrier.

It was a prison.

A sealed prison.

Evenson finally understood what he was dealing with. The entire space was locked down, its dimensional boundaries continuously reinforced. Any attempt to communicate with the outside world, whether through teleportation, summoning, or magical connection, would be forcibly terminated.

Even his connection to the Eredar Twins had been rejected.

How was he supposed to escape something like that?

He had somehow wandered into a prison whose dimensional security was stronger than the Wall of Asgard, the protective barrier surrounding the Golden Palace.

This was getting ridiculous.

There had to be a limit to how unlucky one person could be.

For a few moments, panic threatened to take over.

Then Evenson forced himself to calm down.

No prison was perfect. Every dimensional seal had a weakness, every magical barrier a flaw. His task was to find it.

Besides, this was practically a Warlock’s specialty.

What did it matter if the dimensional defenses were powerful?

He just needed to find a way to open a door.

The Titans had established barriers across Azeroth to contain the forces they feared, yet Warlocks had eventually found ways to tear holes through those defenses and allow the Burning Legion to enter.

Compared with that, this place couldn’t possibly be completely invulnerable.

At least, he hoped not.

Evenson exhaled and returned to the controls.

First, he needed to understand the prison. Once he had a better grasp of its structure, he could search for a weak point and force his way out.

He only hoped the process wouldn’t take ten thousand years.

With that cheerful thought, he restarted the spacecraft and began exploring the dimension, carefully observing every change in the surrounding space.

The landscape was strange enough to make him wonder whether he’d entered the remains of some dead universe.

The ground consisted entirely of black rock. There was no soil, no grass, and no sign of life anywhere. Jagged mountains rose across the horizon, their narrow peaks resembling enormous blades driven into the earth.

Above them hung a dark, featureless sky.

There was no sun, no moon, no stars, and not even a cloud.

Without any celestial bodies to provide light, the world should have been completely dark. Yet a faint glow lingered over the landscape, resembling the last dim light of dusk just before night fell.

The silence was even more unsettling.

There was no wind.

Evenson licked a finger and held it up, checking for the slightest movement of air.

Nothing.

That explained why the mountains produced no wind noise, but it raised another question. The air clearly existed. He could breathe without difficulty, and there was no sensation of suffocation.

Yet even as he accelerated the spacecraft, the air remained perfectly still.

It was as if the entire dimension had been frozen in place.

What a miserable place.

If his theory was correct and this was a prison, then whoever had been confined here must have suffered terribly.

There might be no physical torture, but the endless silence, the dim light, and the barren landscape would wear down even a strong mind. Someone without sufficient mental resilience could easily lose their sanity after spending too long in such a place.

And once madness set in, the temptation to end one’s own life might become irresistible.

Evenson glanced around uneasily.

I’m not going to end up like that, am I?

The atmosphere was already getting to him.

He shook his head sharply, banishing the thought.

He was a naturally curious person. He had plenty of ways to keep himself entertained, and he could endure a lot more boredom than most people.

Surely he could hold out until he found a way to escape.

Couldn’t he?

He continued flying for a long time.

Navigating without landmarks was difficult, but Asgardian spacecraft were advanced enough to compensate. The vessel had an automatic directional navigation system, allowing him to lock in a heading and maintain a steady course without constant adjustments.

He traveled across the barren landscape, seeing nothing but black mountains and endless fields of jagged stone.

There wasn’t even a decent place to land.

Then, after circling around a particularly tall mountain, he discovered a vast stretch of relatively flat ground.

The surface was still composed of black rock, but at least it wasn’t covered in spikes. It looked like a suitable place to land and take a break.

There was something else about it, though.

Something that didn’t look like rock.

Evenson disengaged the automatic navigation system and slowly guided the spacecraft toward the clearing.

As he drew closer, the unfamiliar shapes became more distinct.

Then he realized what he was looking at.

Bones.

Thousands upon thousands of bones lay scattered across the ground, piled atop one another in a sprawling field of death.

There had to be at least seven or eight hundred bodies.

Did the prisoners here kill one another?

No. Something about the scene didn’t fit.

Evenson brought the spacecraft down for a closer look.

Although the bodies had long since decomposed into skeletons, the clothing covering them had not entirely disintegrated. He could still make out the remains of uniforms, along with armor and weapons that appeared remarkably similar from one corpse to the next.

These weren’t ordinary prisoners.

They were soldiers.

And judging by the consistency of their equipment, they hadn’t been some hastily assembled militia. They looked like a disciplined, elite military force.

Evenson examined the battlefield from above.

The skeletons were arranged in a broad semicircle, a formation that suggested they had been surrounding an enemy.

Yet their ranks were unnaturally orderly. There was little sign of a prolonged struggle, no scattered groups of bodies suggesting a chaotic retreat.

It looked as though the entire formation had been annihilated in a single devastating attack while advancing against its target.

Evenson lowered the spacecraft and jumped out.

A closer examination revealed the cause of death.

Every skeleton had been pierced by a black longsword.

Some had suffered a single thrust through the chest, while others bore multiple wounds.

Evenson stared at the remains.

Telekinetic sword control? A thousand flying blades striking at once?

He couldn’t help thinking of the legendary martial arts technique in which a master commanded countless swords through the air.

Whatever the actual mechanism, there was no way a single person could have killed an army this size by personally stabbing each soldier.

The swords must have flown.

And judging by the number of weapons scattered across the battlefield, the attacker had possessed an absurdly large collection.

Enough swords to open a shop.

Now that’s what I call an elite army.

Evenson bent down and picked up one of the longswords.

Despite the unknown amount of time that had passed, the blade remained bright and immaculate. Its edge gleamed with a cold, razor-sharp sheen.

The material of the hilt caught his attention.

Dragon tooth.

He recognized it immediately.

Then he remembered something painful.

Frigga had confiscated his dragon-tooth goblet and enormous golden bucket two days ago.

Evenson sighed.

Another loss for his already suffering collection.

He set the sword aside and continued examining the battlefield.

The remains weren’t all human. Mixed among the bones were the skeletons of animals that resembled horses.

Except these horses had wings.

Evenson stared at one of the skulls, then at the long, skeletal wings extending from its back.

Pegasus?

Was this where the legendary winged steeds of Asgard had met their end?

The soldiers themselves appeared to have been women.

Evenson briefly considered examining their pelvic bones, then abandoned the idea. He knew enough about anatomy to recognize his own limitations.

Besides, their armor made the answer fairly obvious. Each breastplate had two prominent raised sections across the chest.

Women’s armor.

Of course, he supposed it was technically possible that the entire army had been made up of men with very unconventional fashion preferences.

He frowned.

Then his expression changed.

An elite force composed entirely of women. Dragon-tooth swords. Winged horses.

Could these be the legendary Valkyries?

Sif had once told him that the Valkyrie Corps had been wiped out during a campaign against a great evil. She hadn’t known where the battle had taken place or what enemy they had fought.

Now Evenson had his answer.

They had died here.

All of them.

The discovery sent a chill through him.

The Valkyrie Corps had been regarded as one of Asgard’s most powerful military forces. Even Thor respected them immensely. He had once considered disguising himself as a woman just to infiltrate their ranks.

If an army capable of earning that kind of reputation had been slaughtered here in a single devastating attack, what sort of monster could have done it?

Evenson’s expression turned grim.

Light shimmered across his body as he summoned the dark council armor he’d finished crafting only two days earlier.

Then came the defensive spells.

Fel Armor. Demon Skin.

He layered enchantment upon enchantment, reinforcing his body and preparing himself for a potential fight.

Next came his consumable enhancements.

A Firestone.

A Spellstone.

A Healthstone.

And finally, a Soulstone.

There was no such thing as being too careful.

If this place contained a being powerful enough to annihilate the Valkyrie Corps, walking around unprepared would be an excellent way to die.

Evenson raised both hands.

"Felhound!"

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

"Damn it!"

The dimensional lockdown wasn’t merely preventing him from reaching the outside world. It was also interfering with his ability to summon demons.

No felhounds.

No wild imps.

His entire demonology arsenal had effectively been disabled.

That was a serious problem.

He looked down at himself, taking stock of the protective enchantments layered across his body.

Well, if he encountered the creature responsible for this battlefield, perhaps he could survive long enough to...

Beg for mercy.

There was no shame in knowing when to retreat.

Evenson was beginning to suspect that whatever had killed the Valkyries might be even more powerful than Thor. And now that a substantial part of his magic was unavailable, picking a fight would be an exercise in spectacularly poor judgment.

He wasn’t happy about it.

But he was alive, and he intended to stay that way.

Still, the loss of his demon-summoning abilities was infuriating.

He stood among the countless skeletons, reluctantly accepting that he might have to make do without them.

Then an idea occurred to him.

His gaze settled on one particular corpse.

He moved carefully among the bones, stepping around broken weapons and skeletal remains until he reached the body he’d selected.

There was something unusual about this one.

Most of the fallen warriors had been struck from the front, facing their enemy when they died.

This one had been stabbed in the back.

That meant one of two things.

Either the warrior had died protecting a comrade, or she’d been trying to flee.

Evenson sincerely hoped it was the latter.

Desertion might not have been honorable, but a deserter could potentially know where the exit was.

And he had absolutely no interest in fighting the monster that had slaughtered an entire army if he could simply find a way out.

He settled cross-legged beside the corpse and pulled a thick book from his bag.

His comprehensive Warlock spell manual.

After flipping through the pages, he found the section he needed and began studying.

He read carefully, following the instructions and examining the theoretical framework behind the spell.

Twenty minutes later, he closed the book.

"All right. Let’s see if this works."

He placed a hand against the corpse’s forehead and began chanting.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the skeleton trembled.

Its bones rattled against the stone as its limbs began to move. Slowly, stiffly, it pushed itself upright.

Evenson watched with satisfaction.

What? A Warlock couldn’t use necromancy?

Had everyone forgotten who was responsible for creating the Scourge? Who had raised the Lich King? During the ancient war on Azeroth, Dreadlords had already demonstrated the ability to resurrect corpses and send them back into battle.

A comprehensive Warlock spell manual was comprehensive for a reason.

It contained instructions for far more than demon summoning. Necromancy was only one of its many disciplines. The book even covered devastating spells such as Doom and Thousand Souls in Darkness.

Of course, there was a difference between reading about a spell and mastering it.

Evenson had never actually studied necromancy.

The fact that he’d managed to raise even a low-level undead creature after twenty minutes of frantic reading was either evidence of extraordinary talent...

Or, more likely, a testament to the manual’s exceptionally detailed theoretical explanations.

Unfortunately, the result was little more than a basic skeleton.

The creature could stand and move, but it possessed almost no intelligence. It certainly couldn’t recall its former life or hold a conversation.

That was a problem.

To create a more advanced undead capable of speech, Evenson would need considerably more practice. Fifty pounds of exercises might be a reasonable starting point.

He glanced at the skeleton.

Then he glanced at the book.

There had to be another way.

And Warlocks were nothing if not resourceful when it came to finding shortcuts.

Evenson reached into his bag and pulled out a large, grotesque heart.

The demonic heart he’d used as a conversion catalyst while saving Frigga.

Some fel blood still lingered inside it.

Evenson gripped the organ and squeezed, forcing the remaining fel-tainted blood out onto the skeleton’s skull.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he pried open the undead creature’s jaw and shoved the entire heart into its mouth.

"Swallow that."

He pressed its jaw shut.

"Don’t spit it out."

Evenson narrowed his eyes.

If a creature as enormous as Mannoroth could be transformed by fel energy into something even more monstrous, surely this comparatively small skeleton could handle a little blood and a demonic heart.

He’d just poured fel blood over its skull and fed it an actual demon’s heart.

There was no way the thing wouldn’t undergo some kind of spectacular transformation.

He’d practically given it a second character progression system.

The skeleton suddenly erupted in green light.

Its bones shook violently as flesh spread across them, muscle and skin forming in seconds. The transformation was so rapid that it resembled a three-dimensional printer assembling a human body from nothing.

One moment, Evenson had been staring at a skeleton.

The next, a fully formed woman lay before him.

Evenson’s eyes narrowed.

"Well..."

He paused.

"...that’s certainly a lot of skin."

The warrior’s clothing had deteriorated over countless years, leaving little to cover her newly restored body.

There was no dignified way to describe the situation.

The woman herself was strikingly beautiful. Her features were delicate rather than stern, unlike Sif’s more martial appearance. Two golden braids fell over her shoulders, framing a face that looked almost ethereal.

Her figure was equally impressive.

Evenson briefly wondered whether restoring the flesh had also restored the woman’s original physical condition, then decided that was probably not a question he should be asking out loud.

At that moment, the woman’s eyelashes fluttered.

Her eyes snapped open.

They were a brilliant emerald green, but there was no calm or awareness in them. Only panic and terror.

She drew a sharp breath.

"Brunhilde!"

Then, without a word of explanation, she lunged at Evenson and tackled him to the ground.