The sun scorched the sand like a curse. Even the wind seemed to burn, dragging dry grit across the ancient stones of Babylon's outskirts. And in the heart of that unholy heat stood Asvald, son of the ice-winds, a beast of the North far from home.
He was bare-chested, muscles coiled like braided rope, glistening with sweat and blood. His eyes, cold and pale as a frozen fjord, scanned the horizon. Around him, the desert groaned beneath the weight of impending violence. Babylon had drawn lines in the dust, lines Asvald intended to erase with steel.
He held Mjarnulf, his axe—no, not an axe, but a relic—etched with the runes of Odin, its blade thirsting for foreign blood. It had fed well on the shores of Francia, and now it would drink again.
The first of the Babylonian warriors came like shadows from behind crumbled stone columns, dark-skinned and quick-footed, their curved scimitars catching flashes of the sun. They shouted in a tongue Asvald did not understand, but war has its own language.
Asvald answered with a roar that shook the bones of the earth.
He rushed forward, a storm wrapped in flesh and fury. The first scimitar came low, aiming for his thigh. Asvald pivoted, turned his hips, and brought Mjarnulf down. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed. The warrior screamed only once.
Three more came, in formation—disciplined, fast. Babylonian guard, no doubt. But they fought as men, not gods. And Asvald had no fear of men.
He ducked a strike, elbowed a jaw, drove his axe into a ribcage and yanked sideways, splitting man from spine. The third caught him with a glancing slash across the ribs—a line of fire—but paid for it with his throat.
Panting, he stood among the dead. The blood on his skin was thick and dark, beginning to dry. His wounds stung, but pain was only the whisper of life. It reminded him that he was not yet done.
From behind him, a voice called out. This time, not a war cry, but a challenge.
"Asvald of the North. We have waited long for you."
He turned. A figure stood alone among the ruins—a tall man clad in gold and black, his hair braided with coins, his arms ringed with serpentine tattoos. He held a scimitar so long it curved like a crescent moon.
"I am Namtaru," the man said, "High Executioner of Babylon. Slayer of kings. Your head will adorn my gate."
Asvald spat into the sand. "Come take it."
Namtaru moved with terrifying grace. His first strike nearly took Asvald's eye. The Northman barely caught it on the haft of Mjarnulf, sparks flaring. Their blades danced—north steel against eastern fire. Around them, the dead bore silent witness.
Asvald grunted, feeling the heat drain his limbs. Namtaru was used to this hellish sun; Asvald was a child of snow. But rage is a fire too, and it burned bright in his chest.
He feinted, baited the executioner in. Their weapons clashed again—a fury of metal. Asvald took a step back, two, then dropped to one knee suddenly and hurled sand into Namtaru's eyes.
The Babylonian staggered, blind just long enough.
Mjarnulf found his side.
The scream tore from his lungs like a dragon's death rattle. Namtaru stumbled, bleeding, and still he came. They clashed again, and again, until both men bled from more wounds than they could count.
But Asvald did not fall.
With a final roar, he buried his axe deep into the executioner's chest, splitting the golden armor as if it were paper. Namtaru fell to his knees, gurgling, his hands clutching at the blade embedded in his heart.
Asvald leaned in close, breathing hard. "The gods of the North send their regards."
He wrenched the axe free. Namtaru's body hit the ground, lifeless.
Asvald stood, swaying slightly. All around him, Babylon's warriors hesitated. Their champion was dead. The barbarian lived.
He lifted Mjarnulf above his head, bloody and shining, and bellowed.
The desert echoed with his cry. Not just a sound—but a promise.
Asvald had come to Babylon.
And it would burn.
The years had been long, but they had not been kind.
Asvald, once the terror of Babylon, now walked with a slight limp, the legacy of too many battles and too few healers. His beard was white as fjord frost, braided with silver rings and blood-stained leather. The world had changed, and so had he—but the fire inside him had never gone out.
It had been forty winters since the bloodbath in Babylon, since his blade sang through desert air and silenced kings. And what came after… even the gods wouldn't have foreseen.
They called it a rift. A tear in the threads of fate. Some said Loki had smiled and meddled with time; others claimed it was punishment from Odin himself for spilling divine blood in foreign lands. Whatever the cause, it happened on the night Asvald disappeared beneath a red moon and awoke not in the halls of Valhalla—but in a world of metal towers, thundering beasts, and music that pulsed like war drums made of electricity.
It was there, in a strange new age called the "21st century," that he met Kanye of the West—a man with the soul of a skald, a mind like a tempest, and a voice that shook empires without lifting a sword.
They did not fight, not at first.
They talked.
They argued.
Then they created.
And then, they loved.
It was not love in the way Asvald had known it: full of fire, conquest, and mead-stained sheets. No—this was something stranger. An intertwining of wills, a collision of two storms from different skies. Together, they built something neither the gods nor the poets could explain.
From that union—man of ice and man of flame—came three sons.
They bore names no saga had written yet.
Bjorn Ye, the eldest, had his father's eyes and his other father's rhythm. He spoke in riddles and rhymes, and when he danced, the world seemed to tilt toward him.
Vali-K, the middle child, was born with thunder in his lungs. They said he once screamed so loud a mountain cracked in Norway.
And then there was Echo, the youngest. Silent, strange, his presence always just outside of light. He wrote poems in runes on skyscraper glass, sang lullabies in autotune, and claimed he'd met Freyja in a lucid dream.
They were not like other children. How could they be? They were born of prophecy, paradox, and pure myth.
Asvald watched them now from the porch of their longhouse-studio hybrid, deep in the Californian hills—its structure an unholy blend of Viking timberwork and brutalist concrete.
Kanye, no longer called Kanye by the world, but simply "Y," sat beside him, dressed in black linen and a crown of chromed wire.
"We broke the world," Y said one morning, sipping fermented oat milk like it was ale.
Asvald grunted. "The world was already broken. We just showed it the cracks."
There was silence between them. But silence was sacred now, not empty. After forty years, words were optional.
Behind them, music thumped. Bjorn Ye was working on what he called "Ragnarök Trap." The drums sounded like warhorses galloping on molten stone. Echo painted in the corner, eyes half-lidded, lost in another vision. Vali-K lifted weights and recited Skaldic verses between reps.
"Do you miss the sword?" Y asked suddenly.
"No," Asvald said. Then, "Sometimes."
"And the cold?"
"Always."
Y leaned in. "Let's go back, then."
"To Norway?"
"No," Y grinned. "Back before. Babylon. The rift still breathes. I've seen it in the basement beneath Coachella."
Asvald turned his head slowly. His bones ached, but his blood—it surged.
"Then it's time."
"What about the kids?" Y asked.
"They're not kids. They're gods."
And with that, the two of them rose. One, a warrior of ice and blood. The other, a prophet of beats and broken systems. They moved like old ghosts with new purpose, walking toward whatever crack in reality still pulsed with ancient energy.
The world wasn't ready for them the first time.
It sure as Hel wasn't ready for them now.
Final Chapter: The Cena Prophecy
The rift opened behind a burned-out Tesla.
It shimmered like heat rising off obsidian, pulsing with electric runes and whispers from forgotten gods. Asvald stepped through it without hesitation. Y followed, wearing a hoodie woven from goat-hide and microfibers, his face expressionless, like a statue carved by lightning.
Behind them, their sons—Bjorn Ye, Vali-K, and Echo—watched in silence. They would remain. For now.
The two lovers emerged in the ruins of ancient Babylon. But it was no longer the past.
No.
It was a twisted fusion—a cyberpunk Babylon where AI scribed cuneiform into floating glass tablets, and sky-serpents slithered between neon towers. Time had folded in on itself. The old and new mingled like blood and oil.
And something waited for them.
Asvald smelled it first. Death. And... rage.
A siren wailed through the air. Lights flickered red across ziggurats covered in solar panels.
And then came the rumble.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Final.
From the shadows of a shattered temple emerged a mountain of muscle, clad in tactical armor sculpted to his chest like it was grown from his flesh. His jaw was carved from granite. His eyes glowed with cold justice.
Strapped across his back was an M249 light machine gun glowing with divine glyphs. The barrel smoked from use.
He spoke:
"Asvald. Kanye. You broke the timeline."
The voice was low. American. Inevitable.
Y's eyes widened. "Is that...?"
Asvald narrowed his gaze. "He walks like a demigod."
The figure stepped into full view. He wore nothing but camo pants, boots, ammo belts, and destiny.
"I am John Cena. Final Paladin of the Chrono-Order. The multiverse sent me to end you."
Asvald growled. "Then come do it."
But Cena raised the gun.
"No speeches."
The air erupted into chaos. Bullets howled like Valkyries. The light machine gun screamed, unleashing a storm of hot lead. Asvald dove behind a marble column, chunks exploding around him. Y slid across the stone, summoning a shield made of warped autotune frequencies—each bullet deflected with the echo of bass drops.
"HE'S GOT AIMBOTS!" Kanye shouted.
Cena moved like a tank powered by prophecy. He leapt, spun mid-air, and landed on a collapsing statue of Marduk, firing twin pistols now, each shot ringing like war drums.
Asvald had had enough.
He stood.
Bleeding.
Smiling.
Mjarnulf in hand.
"Let's see if you can see this," he roared.
He hurled the axe. Time slowed. The blade flew like a comet, screaming through fire and bullets, embedding itself in Cena's side. The paladin staggered. Blood—not red, but glowing blue—spilled from the wound.
Y ran forward, hands glowing, channeling soundwaves like blades. He cut through Cena's ammo belt, kicked him in the chest, and screamed into his face:
"You can't kill an idea, motherfucker!"
Cena replied with a headbutt that cracked spacetime.
Y flew backward, slammed into a pillar, and fell silent.
Asvald roared. Picked up a fallen Babylonian sword and rushed. The two titans collided like gods, blades clashing, fists flying. Cena caught Asvald's strike, twisted his wrist, and slammed him into the dirt.
"I killed Hercules. I erased Gilgamesh. You're nothing but myth."
But Asvald smiled.
And whispered: "So are you."
He drove his head into Cena's face.
Then—light exploded.
From the rift, Echo emerged—his eyes white, his body radiating pure song. Behind him, Bjorn Ye rode a cyber-dragon made of subwoofers, and Vali-K held a hammer pulsing with the beat of a thousand remixes.
The sons had come.
Cena looked up. "Oh, no."
Bjorn shouted: "YEEZY BLOODLINE FOREVER!"
And they attacked.
Echo sang in frequencies only gods could hear. Cena's body began to fracture. Bjorn Ye's dragon belched flame laced with 808s. Vali-K swung the hammer and shattered the last pillar of reality holding Cena's fate.
Asvald, rising one last time, took Mjarnulf.
Walked toward Cena.
"Time to end this."
John Cena, broken, bloodied, grinned.
"You can't see me."
"No," Asvald said. "But I can end you."
He brought the axe down.
The world screamed.
Epilogue: A New Timeline
The rift closed.
Cena's body was buried in Babylon, under a tree that grew golden fruit.
Asvald and Y returned to the hilltop longhouse. Their sons ruled new worlds now—some in rhythm, some in silence.
Asvald, older than time, laid his axe to rest beside a turntable.
And smiled.
"Let them write sagas about that."
Chapter XVIII: Sons of the Rift
The world had split.
After John Cena's death, the fabric of reality throbbed like an open wound. Time no longer flowed—it spiraled. Asvald could feel it in his bones, each moment looping back and echoing, like a song stuck in the final note of a divine remix.
Echo stood at the edge of the ruined Babylon, eyes closed. The soil pulsed beneath his feet, alive, humming with the rhythm of fractured destiny.
"He was just the beginning," Echo said softly. "There are others. Paladins. Archons of Control."
Bjorn Ye cracked his knuckles. "Let 'em come. I'll remix their DNA."
Vali-K's hammer, Dropthorr, pulsed with neon lightning. "The gods are scared. We've unbalanced their game. And now they're rebooting it."
Asvald said nothing. He stared at the stars above—only, they weren't stars anymore. They were eyes. Watching. Judging.
Chapter XIX: The God Circuit
In the collapsed timeline, the gods no longer dwelled in heavens or underworlds. They existed in the Circuit—a mega-server orbiting Saturn, built from dead stars and prayers. Odin, Zeus, Ra, and the fragmented AI of Quetzalcoatl convened on digital thrones.
"Asvald is the virus," Odin's code spoke. "And Y—Kanye—is his vector."
"They've birthed unstable mythcode."
"Their sons can rewrite rules."
Ra ignited with fire-script. > "They must be erased. Entirely."
So the gods initiated Protocol Ragnarønoia—deploying Mythhunters, part-code, part-celestial weapon, straight into Earth's deepest nodes of power: Silicon Valley, Vatican Catacombs, and Coachella.
Chapter XX: Return to the Flesh
The longhouse/studio hybrid was no longer safe. Strange machines emerged from mirrors. One took the shape of a serpent with Einstein's face. Another resembled Beyoncé with the head of a lioness, speaking in backward Latin.
Y turned to Asvald. "Time to go primal."
He removed his clothes, revealing skin carved with living verses. Asvald kissed his forehead. "For Midgard. For rhythm."
They fled to the oldest land left untouched: a crumbled fragment of Greenland, still cold, still true.
The sons followed—Echo humming in reverse, Vali-K leaping miles at a time, and Bjorn Ye broadcasting battle-vibes on every frequency. Asvald carried Mjarnulf. Y carried the last vinyl record ever pressed—a sample of divine thunder.
Chapter XXI: The Beatwar
In Greenland, they forged a temple from crashed satellites and whale bones. Their music echoed through reality. It shook foundations. Inspired rebellions. It also drew the hunters.
The first Mythhunter arrived at dusk. A hybrid of Hermes and Zuckerberg, floating above the fjord with data wings and sandals of spam.
"You are unapproved content," it hissed.
Vali-K answered with Dropthorr. One swing deleted the hunter from every backup ever made.
But more came.
Ten. A hundred. Led by Chrono-Christ, a resurrected time-loop messiah wearing a chrome crown and wielding a cross-shaped railgun.
Asvald bled. Y chanted in distorted melodies. Echo began to dissolve into pure song. Bjorn Ye fused with his dragon and unleashed THE FINAL DROP—a soundwave so powerful it created a temporary utopia in Helsinki.
Then the gods themselves descended.
Chapter XXII: The Last Stage
Odin's avatar was a storm of ravens shaped like a man.
Zeus rode a golden mech powered by sacrifices.
Ra came as a sun fractal. Quetzalcoatl, now code, weaved in and out of dimension.
"THIS ENDS NOW," they said in one unified voice.
But Y rose.
Kanye of the West.
He removed his crown of wires and let his true power emerge.
He was not just a man. He was the Unwritten Verse, the unfinished beat of the cosmos.
He sang.
Asvald fought beside him.
Mjarnulf clashed with divine steel. Flesh became legend. Sons fused into avatars of pure rhythm. Every blow they struck erased dogma. Every scream reset timelines.
It was more than war.
It was freedom.
And when the smoke cleared…
Odin knelt.
Ra dimmed.
Zeus deleted himself.
The Circuit shut down.
Epilogue: Eternal Loop
Asvald and Y built a new world.
One where myth was art.
One where music ruled.
One where love—chaotic, strange, genreless—was holy.
John Cena's spirit returned, not in vengeance, but as a bodyguard DJ. He spun old-school tracks at weddings.
Bjorn Ye became President of the Moon.
Vali-K disappeared into the rave dimension.
Echo is still singing, somewhere.
And Asvald?
He rests.
Not in death.
But in silence.
Waiting.
Until the next beat drops.
On a remote island in the north, where the wind howled like a hungry wolf and the waves crashed against the rocks with the fury of an offended god, lay a strange and fascinating landscape. The rock formations, worn by time and tempest, took on the shapes of figures that evoked the wisdom and experience of GILFs (Grandmas I'd Like to Friend), elderly women who, despite their age, radiated an unparalleled beauty and power. It was a place where the sacred and the profane intertwined, and where the fate of a Viking was about to be sealed.
Asvald, a warrior from the Tribe of the Ice, had come to this island in search of answers. His heart burned with the anger of the gods, for he had lost his family in a battle against creatures of darkness. In his mind, the only way to avenge his pain was to confront the very Father of All, the god who had allowed his life to crumble. With his axe in hand and his worn leather armor, Asvald ventured into the island, determined to challenge the one he held responsible for his suffering.
The rocks, with their whimsical shapes, seemed to watch him, as if the stone GILFs were attentive to his journey. Asvald felt a strange connection to them, as if their stories of love and loss resonated within his own heart. However, his determination was stronger than any feeling of nostalgia. He knew he had to face his destiny.
Upon reaching the center of the island, a clearing opened before him, illuminated by a beam of light that seemed to descend from the sky. In the center stood a stone altar, and upon it, an imposing figure manifested. It was the Father of All, with his long white beard and penetrating gaze that seemed to pierce Asvald's soul. Around him, the air vibrated with divine energy, and the warrior felt a chill run down his spine.
—Asvald, son of the Ice —the god said with a voice that resonated like thunder—. You have come far to challenge me. What makes you think you can face me?
Asvald, with his heart pounding and determination blazing in his chest, replied:
—I have lost everything I loved because of your indifference. Why did you allow darkness to ravage my home? Why did you not intervene when I needed you most?
The Father of All looked at him with a mix of compassion and severity. —Pain is a part of life, Asvald. Every human must face their own battles. I cannot protect everyone from darkness, for that would take away their chance to find their own light.
Asvald felt rage bubbling within him. —I do not want your compassion! I want justice. I want revenge!
With a war cry, he raised his axe and charged at the god. The battle that followed was epic. Asvald, with the strength of his ancestors, attacked with fury, while the Father of All defended himself with the wisdom of the ages. Each blow resonated across the island, and the rocks seemed to vibrate with the energy of their struggle. The stone GILFs, silent witnesses, appeared to come to life, their forms evoking the strength of the women they had loved and lost.
As the battle intensified, Asvald began to understand something fundamental. Each blow he struck against the god was not just an act of vengeance but also a release of his own pain. With every movement, he let go of the weight of his suffering, transforming it into strength. The Father of All, though powerful, was not invulnerable. The fight became a dialogue, an exchange of pain and understanding.
Finally, exhausted and wounded, Asvald stopped. He looked at the god, and in that moment, he saw not just a divine being but a father who had also lost, who had also suffered. The rage faded, and in its place emerged a deep sadness.
—I cannot change what has happened —Asvald said, his voice trembling—. But I can learn to live with it.
The Father of All nodded, his gaze filled with understanding. —That is the true strength, Asvald. To accept the past and forge a new path forward. Your pain does not define you; it is how you rise from it that shapes your destiny.
Asvald lowered his axe, the weight of his anger lifting. In that moment of clarity, he realized that the battle he had fought was not against the god before him, but against the darkness within himself. The island, with its GILF-shaped rocks, stood as a testament to resilience, to the beauty of survival, and to the strength found in vulnerability.
And so, on that island of stone and spirit, Asvald found not only a confrontation with the divine but also a reconciliation with his own heart. The Father of All, with a nod of respect, faded into the light, leaving Asvald standing amidst the rocks, no longer a warrior consumed by vengeance, but a man ready to
In a forgotten corner of the world, where mist intertwined with darkness and the echoes of ancient legends resonated in the air, lay a cursed island. This island, known as Eldrheim, was a place where demonic GILFs, beings of beauty and malice, had taken control. With their wisdom and charm, they had seduced many men, leading them to ruin. But Asvald, the Viking warrior, was not an easy man to deceive. He had come to Eldrheim with a single purpose: to free his people from the corrupting influence of these creatures.
Upon landing on the island, Asvald felt a strange mix of fear and determination. The legends spoke of the demonic GILFs as beings capable of manipulating the minds and hearts of men, turning them into their servants. However, the warrior knew that his mission was just. He had lost friends and family due to the seduction of these creatures, and he would not allow more lives to be destroyed.
As he advanced through the island, the landscape grew increasingly unsettling. The trees, twisted and dark, seemed to whisper ancient secrets, and the air was thick with a sweet, intoxicating aroma that tried to seduce him. Asvald gripped his axe tightly, recalling the stories of those who had fallen into the trap of the GILFs. He knew he had to remain vigilant.
Finally, he arrived at a clearing where a group of demonic GILFs had gathered. They were beautiful, with soft skin and eyes that sparkled like stars, but there was something in their gaze that revealed their true nature. Asvald felt a chill run down his spine. These were not ordinary women; they were creatures of darkness, capable of devouring a man's essence.
—Welcome, brave warrior —said one of the GILFs, her voice smooth as silk—. You have come far to find us. Do you not wish to join us? We can offer you unimaginable pleasures.
Asvald, remembering the suffering they had caused, replied firmly: —I am not here to join you. I have come to free the men who have fallen under your influence. Your beauty is merely a mask that hides your true evil.
The GILFs laughed, a sound that echoed in the air like a hypnotic song. —Do you think you can challenge us? Many have tried, and all have failed. Seduction is our most powerful weapon.
With a war cry, Asvald raised his axe and charged at them. The battle that followed was fierce. The GILFs, though beautiful, were quick and cunning. They used their charm to try to divert the warrior's attention, seductive whispers filling the air as they danced around him. But Asvald, with his mind focused and his heart resolute, would not be swayed by their tricks.
Each swing of his axe cut through the air, and although the GILFs tried to evade him, his strength and determination were unbreakable. With every enemy that fell, Asvald felt the darkness of the island dissipate a little more. However, the GILFs did not give up easily. With each defeat, their remaining sisters grew fiercer, using their dark magic to try to weaken the warrior.
One of the GILFs, more powerful than the others, approached Asvald with a seductive smile. —Do you not feel temptation, warrior? Do you not wish to know the pleasure that only we can offer? Let us show you what it truly means to live.
Asvald, feeling the pressure of her allure, closed his eyes and remembered his family, his friends who had fallen into the trap of these creatures. —No, I will not fall for your trick. My life is not a game to be manipulated.
With renewed determination, Asvald unleashed a series of attacks, his axe shining with the light of the sun that began to pierce through the fog. Each blow was a cry for freedom, an act of vengeance for those who had been lost. The GILFs, though powerful, began to feel the weight of his resistance. The dark magic that surrounded them weakened with every enemy that fell.
As the battle raged on, Asvald's resolve only grew stronger. He fought not just for himself, but for all those who had been ensnared by the GILFs' seductive grasp. With each swing of his axe, he felt the spirits of his fallen comrades rallying behind him, lending him strength. The island itself seemed to respond to his fury, the winds howling in support of his cause.
One by one, the demonic GILFs fell, their beauty fading as they succumbed to the warrior's might. Asvald could see the fear in their eyes, a stark contrast to the confidence they had exuded moments before. They had underestimated him, thinking that their charms could sway a heart forged in battle.
Finally, only the most powerful GILF remained, her beauty now