Chapter 123: The Sundering of the Gods — The Release of Fenrir
"You owe us an explanation!"
The divine spectators erupted. Cries of outrage surged from the stands, directed not at the battlefield, but at the Norse pantheon itself. Some gods even shouted for Loki to be removed from the arena, declaring him unworthy to represent the divine.
Loki, the Trickster God, stood at the center of the coliseum, his laughter rising like a storm—manic, unhinged, echoing through the sacred space.
"Heh… heh… HAHAHAHAHA!"
Then, with a voice that cut through the chaos like a blade:
"Yes. I am of the Jötunn."
The admission dropped like a thunderclap. For a moment, the arena fell into stunned silence. Then, as if a dam had burst, the crowd roared with fury. Shouts to banish him, to strip him of his divine status, filled the air.
"Please, everyone, remain calm—ow!"
Heimdallr, the announcer and guardian of the Bifröst, tried to pacify the crowd, only to be struck by a flying object. Dazed, he staggered, stars dancing in his vision.
"Declare Loki invalid!"
"Remove him from the match!"
"Replace him with a true god!"
The divine faction was in uproar.
"Pathetic," murmured a voice—soft, cold, and cutting.
It was Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty. But her disdain wasn't aimed at Loki. It was for the gods who had lost their composure, who now resembled mortals in their hysteria.
Her eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. Certain gods weren't merely angry—they were orchestrating this chaos, stoking hatred with calculated precision. They weren't just disgusted by Loki's heritage. They wanted him cast out, isolated, driven to the brink.
Loki, meanwhile, stood unshaken. No rage. No sorrow. Just a smirk of contempt.
"So I'm not welcome. Fine. Let me disappear from your sight."
His words, seemingly self-aware, sent a chill through Aphrodite. She saw it then—in his eyes. Madness. Not the theatrical kind. The kind that made even gods tremble.
"Good! Leave!"
"Vanish forever!"
"Never show your face to the gods again!"
They kept provoking him.
Loki's smile widened.
"Oh, I'll disappear from your sight, all right. Because I'll make sure you're all dead."
The arena froze.
Then came the laughter. Derisive. Mocking.
"Who does he think he is?"
"He wants us all dead?"
"If he could do that, he wouldn't be bleeding on the floor!"
Even Odin's ravens cawed in protest, preparing to join the chorus—until their master stood abruptly, causing them to tumble from his shoulders.
The gods turned. Odin's face was pale.
Something was wrong.
Loki reached into his chest again, tearing open a rift of darkness. From within, he pulled a chain—thin, shimmering, and cursed.
Odin's eyes widened.
"Gleipnir…"
Before he could speak, Loki snapped the chain.
In the Grand Temple of the Giants
The ancient hall was filled with laughter. Giants watched the broadcast with glee, reveling in Loki's descent.
"Is he really severing ties with the gods?"
"He says he'll kill them all. Bold words."
But their mirth faltered as they noticed Odin's reaction. The Allfather—usually composed—was visibly shaken.
"Wait… Odin's panicking?"
Even Ares, the Greek god of war, felt unease. He had no prejudice against Loki's lineage. Many gods, if traced far enough, bore traces of giant blood.
Hermes, standing nearby, turned pale.
"That chain… it's not just any chain."
"What is it?" Ares asked.
Adamas, the silent observer, finally spoke.
"If that's Gleipnir… then Loki has just unleashed something we were never meant to face."
Back in the Arena
Gretel clung to her sister's arm, eyes wide.
"Gleipnir? What's that?"
Brunnhilde's face was drenched in cold sweat.
"It's the chain that binds a monster. A beast so terrible, it was sealed away with a curse."
"A monster?"
Gundal's voice trembled.
"Is it… Fenrir?"
The name struck like lightning.
"Fenrir?!"
Gretel gasped.
The monstrous wolf. The devourer of giants. A creature of war and hunger. During the war against the Jötnar, Fenrir had been a weapon of destruction. But once the war ended, his appetite turned toward the gods.
At first, he restrained himself. But soon, he began devouring gods in secret, growing stronger with each feast.
The gods debated his fate. Killing him felt dishonorable—he had fought beside them. But Brunnhilde knew the truth.
"It wasn't honor. It was strategy. Fenrir was too valuable. If war came again, he'd be their trump card."
And Fenrir was Loki's child. To appease the Trickster, they chose imprisonment over execution.
But no ordinary chain could hold him. Gleipnir was forged from six impossible things: the sound of a cat's footfall, a woman's beard, the roots of a mountain, the breath of a fish, the sinews of a bear, and the spittle of a bird.
Only Gleipnir could bind Fenrir.
And now, it was broken.
Brunnhilde turned to Odin.
"What will you do now, Allfather?"
Odin's panic wasn't just about Fenrir's release. It was about prophecy.
A forbidden one.
A prophecy that few dared speak aloud.
Loki would betray the gods.
He would bring about Ragnarök.
And Fenrir—his monstrous son—would devour Odin himself.
The signs were aligning.
"What is this aura?!"
"Something's wrong!"
Even the gods who had mocked Loki now trembled. From the rift in his chest, a presence emerged. Not divine. Not mortal.
Predatory.
A chill swept through the arena. Legs buckled. Breath caught.
Then came the roar.
"ROOOOOOOOAAAAARRRR!"
It wasn't a sound. It was a declaration. A promise of death.
"No… it can't be…"
"It's him. It's the beast!"
Those who had seen Fenrir before turned pale. They remembered the carnage. The blood. The gods torn apart like prey.
"What is that—"
The question died in the throat of a young god as the rift in Loki's chest shifted.
A claw emerged.
Massive. Gnarled. It filled the entire wound, nearly forty centimeters wide.
Then, with a single motion, it tore Loki in half.
The Trickster God was split down the middle.
But there was no blood.
No organs.
Only darkness.
And Loki… was still alive.
His bisected form stood, impossibly animate, as more claws reached from the void.
Fenrir was coming.
And the gods were not ready.