Location: Rome, Italy
Sunlight poured over the Colosseum, casting golden rays on ancient stone. But the grandeur of the ruin paled compared to the whirlwind of chaos unraveling inside it.
A god—or rather, the remains of one—lay in ruin, its body disintegrating into blue flame and silver dust, dissolving into myth as reality reclaimed itself. The creature had been a local deity of vengeance, forgotten and malformed, a Heretic God twisted by centuries of neglect.
Now it was dead.
And standing over its fading body was a grinning man, shirtless, muscles scarred and gleaming in the sun. He wore nothing but tattered jeans, a sword strapped lazily to his back, and a golden medallion swinging at his chest.
Salvatore Doni.
Italy's strongest Campione(Only). Europe's most unpredictable swordsman. A man with no formal magical training. A disaster in human form.
"Was that it?" he asked aloud, scratching his head like a confused tourist. "He screamed for vengeance, transformed into a bird-dragon-hybrid-thing, summoned a rain of fire... and that was it?"
He looked disappointed.
Beside him, Saint Raffaello, his handler and a high priestess of the Bronze-Black Cross, approached with a tired expression.
"You annihilated a Heretic God in the middle of Rome. Again. With a single sword technique."
"Not true!" Doni beamed, raising a finger. "It was three this time! First I dodged the fire, then the claws, then—"
"Then you split him down the middle like a fruit. In front of a crowd. Again."
Doni gave a shrug. "I'm a simple man. He tried to kill me. I asked him not to. He didn't listen. So, I gave him the full Doni experience."
He spun in place dramatically, arms wide as though expecting applause.
"One divine ass-kicking, no magic required."
Raffaello sighed. Again.
Later That Day
Secret Bronze-Black Cross Headquarters – Vatican Sublevels
Doni leaned back on a church pew, legs up, chewing on a sandwich made of suspiciously stolen ingredients from the bishop's private pantry.
His sword—a divine blade now engraved with symbols of victory and protection—rested beside him, wrapped in nothing but a ragged Italian flag.
Raffaello entered, holding a thick dossier. "News from Greece."
That got his attention.
"Let me guess. Big brother Alexios?"
She nodded. "He's moving. A Heretic God sighting in Norway. They say it's Tyr, the Norse god of war."
Doni's eyes lit up. "A war god, huh? I bet Alexios is thrilled."
"He departed on Vimana. Alone."
"Typical," Doni muttered, then grinned. "Think he'll leave anything left for the rest of us?"
"You're not going to chase after him, are you?"
Doni tilted his head.
"Nope. I've got my own scent in the air. Something weird's stirring in the Alps. A Heretic, maybe. Maybe something else. Besides, Alexios would probably hate if I crashed his party."
As the sun set over Italy, Doni stood on a hill, overlooking the city.
He unsheathed his sword and held it up to the light. The blade shimmered—not with magic, but with intent. With conviction. There was something almost terrifying about how natural it looked in his hand.
He didn't look like a king. Or a godslayer. Or a noble knight.
He looked like a disaster given form, held together only by his love of swordplay, chaos, and the thrill of battle.
"Bring on the gods," he whispered to the wind. "I'll cut them all down just the same."
The wind howled in approval.
-----
Location: Norway — Western Fjords, near Sognefjord
The people of western Norway had always lived with myth close at hand.
They were used to legends whispered over hearthfires—tales of Odin, of Thor, of Tyr, and the Ragnarök that never came. Mountains spoke, rivers wept, and the northern lights danced like Valkyries across the sky. But even in this land steeped in myth, something now felt wrong.
It started with the sky bleeding amber.
Not red, not orange—but a deep golden hue, like molten bronze smeared across the heavens. The fjords mirrored this strange color, and those who looked into them swore they saw images not their own. Warriors clashing in golden halls. Men losing arms. Crows whispering secrets. Wolves with jaws wide enough to swallow the sky.
Then the birds stopped singing.
The fish retreated into the deep.
Dogs barked at the air. Cattle refused to move. Children had nightmares of a man with only one hand, standing tall over battlefields littered with corpses—his hand bleeding endless gold, his eyes weeping molten fire, as if his own myth was unraveling in his veins.
And then… they saw him.
It happened on the old battlefield of Stiklestad, where the land still remembers war.
Lightning fell like spears from the sky, carving the earth with divine fury. The wind howled not with nature's voice, but with the howl of wolves, echoing Fenrir's cry. The soil cracked, split, and from that rupture rose a gold-armored figure, body wrapped in the scent of old iron and burned oaths.
He was massive—towering above all men, with hair like forged steel and one arm missing from the elbow down. The stump glowed with searing power, runes etched into scar tissue. His remaining hand gripped a blade formed of crystallized judgment—a straight-edged greatsword that looked carved from the bones of warriors.
Tyr had returned.
But this was no god of honor, of law, of noble sacrifice.
This was a Heretic God, born of corrupted memory. His myth had twisted in the world's collective subconscious. Now he embodied the rage of discarded warriors, the vengeance of broken oaths, and the grief of war without meaning.
"They forgot," Tyr's voice echoed across the plains. "They remember Thor, remember Odin. But me? I am only a shadow of sacrifice, a footnote to Fenrir!"
"Let me remind them what I was. What I am."
With every word, the wind sharpened, the grass withered, and the sky darkened into twilight, though it was only noon.
Over the fjords, a golden and emerald ark broke through the unnatural twilight like a second sun.
The Vimana tore across the sky in a blur of light and divine presence. Its thrumming engine, powered by solar rutilated quartz and mercury-burned ether, gave off a sound like a thousand singing blades. All who looked up fell to their knees—not from awe of the ship, but from the man upon it.
He sat on the pilot throne as though born into it, the wind whipping his traditional Greek toga, revealing a frame carved of marble and forged in battle. His skin gleamed like sun-warmed bronze, and his eyes held the calm of kings.
Alexios of Greece. Campione. Slayer of Gilgamesh. Lord of Fertile Realms.
"There," he murmured, looking down at the blackened battlefield. "The Warhound has returned."
Beside him floated golden glyphs—magical telemetry constructed by Nyra and her witches. It showed divine leyline disturbance, mythic resonance, and the name of the god: Tyr.
"Let us see," Alexios whispered, "if the one-handed god remembers how to bleed."
He descended.
As he stepped onto the field, the very earth responded. Fertility, a passive Authority he bore from Gilgamesh, clashed violently with the death-tainted presence of the Heretic Tyr. The grass beneath his feet refused to die, regrowing against the corruption. Trees leaned toward him, as if in reverence. Even the wind slowed, hanging on his breath.
Tyr turned to face him.
Their gazes locked.
Divine presence met divine presence.
The world shuddered.
Birds fled. Lightning arced across the sky. Time itself seemed to bend as two god-kings regarded each other.
"So… another upstart." Tyr spat golden blood from his stump. "You reek of stolen thrones and dead myths."
Alexios did not flinch. "And you reek of rot and forgotten glory."
Tyr stepped forward, blade dragging behind him like a judge's gavel. "I am war, mortal. Not glory. Not honor. Not sacrifice. I am the endless scream of broken men."
"Then allow me," Alexios said, voice like rolling thunder, "to silence it."
Tyr raised his blade.
Alexios lifted his hand—and with a snap, Vimana opened a portal behind him, disgorging a war spear once used by Ninurta, god of storms. It shimmered with emerald lightning.
The air screamed between them, not with action yet, but with intent. Even before their blades met, reality rippled. Visions struck both:
Tyr saw Alexios atop a mountain of gods, gilded in sunlight, bearing crowns made of war trophies.
Alexios saw Tyr not as he was now, but as he had been—a noble god holding Fenrir's jaws with divine sorrow in his eyes.
Their histories clashed. Their myths contorted.
One god corrupted by grief.
One man exalted by conquest.
The wind howled.
And the first blow had yet to be struck.