CHAPTER 731: BACK TO TERRA

In the heart of the cosmos, beyond stars and storms, rested a realm unlike any other—Valhalla, the ancestral stronghold of the Viking race. A realm not only of power and grandeur, but of unyielding will.

Towering spires of gleaming stone rose like spears into the sky, etched with ancient runes that pulsed with divine energy. Golden bridges connected floating citadels, and coliseums as large as mountains dominated the horizon. The streets were paved with obsidian and starlight, and every structure reflected both beauty and brutality.

But Valhalla was not merely a city—it was a realm. Entire continents thrived under its dominion, filled with wild forests of silverleaf trees that glowed softly in the night, roaring rivers of molten crystal, and beasts both majestic and deadly.

Thunderstags whose gallops echoed like drums of war, behemoth hawks whose wings cast shadows over mountains, and wolves with ember-lit eyes patrolled the deep glades.

The people of Valhalla lived in harmony with this raw power, not by subduing it, but by respecting it. The Viking way was not to dominate nature but to honor it. Trials, rites, and combat were the cornerstones of their society. Strength was not just admired—it was sacred. To be weak was not a sin, but to avoid the challenge of overcoming weakness was.

Valhalla was home to several warrior sects, each upholding its own sacred traditions. The Ironfang Legions, who forged their weapons from the bones of earth dragons; the Skybreaker Guild, whose warriors trained atop clouds and battled astride stormhawks; the Totem Circle, mystics and warriors who bonded with primal spirits of beast and storm; and the Flameforged Kin, a fire-wielding brotherhood known for surviving trials in volcanic deathfields.

Yet even in such a realm of splendor and strength, there was one place that made even the boldest warriors avert their gaze—a newly built castle on the outskirts of the capital. Though constructed with the same divine craftsmanship as the rest of Valhalla, it radiated a cold, oppressive aura.

Its towering black spires absorbed light. No birds flew overhead. No wildlife dared approach. Those who passed nearby did so quickly, heads down, words unspoken.

It was not always this way.

Once, this castle had been raised in honor. Now, it was a prison.

Inside its shadowed halls sat a lone figure: Freya, the exiled warrior-princess of Valhalla. She was a vision of impossible beauty—radiant yet deadly, her presence sharper than any blade. Her hair fell like silk, but her eyes gleamed with the fire of a storm barely contained. She was not fragile; she was forged.

Seated in a meditative posture, Freya attempted to draw energy into her body. Normally, this would have been effortless. Her cultivation talent was exceptional—she could once inhale oceans of energy in minutes. But now, even hours of effort only yielded a meager trickle. The reason was clear: the castle itself.

What was once a sacred formation designed to enhance growth had been tampered with. Now, it repelled energy. The very walls that were meant to nurture her suppressed her potential. For a few days, it might have been tolerable. But after weeks, the effect was dire. Her cultivation had begun to stagnate. Her Soul Dimension strained. And time was not her ally.

The tournament was fast approaching. Warriors across Valhalla trained endlessly, honing their strength for a chance to decide her fate. Each second wasted here placed her further behind.

Frustration built inside her like pressure beneath ice. Her heart trembled, her breath faltered. But before despair could surface, she clenched her fists so tightly that her palms bled. She welcomed the pain. It grounded her.

She would not crumble.

She was not a flower to wilt under pressure. She was the warrior who stood against Leviathans, who defied the gods when others bowed. She was Freya.

"I will endure," she whispered. "And when the tournament comes... I will kill them all. I will take back my freedom."

...

Meanwhile, in a distant region of Valhalla, far from Freya’s exile, another castle loomed—this one brimming with power and bustling activity. Its architecture was jagged, carved from obsidian and shadow. Unlike the radiant halls of the capital, this place was veiled in gloom. Strange winds circled its towers. The sky above it was always gray.

In a chamber at its core, dimly lit by torches that burned with black flames, an old man sat upon a twisted throne. Totems covered his entire body, but unlike the divine carvings worn by noble warriors, these were corrupted—etched with chaotic and dark energy. Each totem hummed with unclean power.

Before him knelt a young man.

His aura was potent—raw, coiling with a serpentine darkness that twisted the air itself. His name was Lucius.

"Are you ready, Lucius?" the old man asked, his voice grave and hollow.

"Yes, Grandfather," Lucius answered with icy calm. "I have mastered the power our Lord granted us. I will win the tournament. I will break that woman."

His lips curled into a cruel smile—sharp, cruel, cold. A smile that would unnerve even demons.

"Good," the old man said. "That girl was once favored by Odinvaldr. A divine child. A Primordial God’s power is infinite—it can rewrite reality itself, make even Lords kneel. But they are not free. They are bound... by faith."

The meaning behind his words was not lost on Lucius.

"If you succeed," the old man continued, "our Lord will be closer to his return. But if you fail... we will all be condemned."

Lucius’s smile vanished, replaced by unwavering steel.

"There is no failure," he said. "There is only conquest. I will not let our Lord down. And when she falls... his feast will begin."

Their conversation was heard by none, and yet, its consequences would ripple across Valhalla like an avalanche. Unseen forces had begun to move, and the fate of gods and warriors alike would soon be decided—not by prophecy, but by blood.

....

Far, far away from Valhalla, separated not merely by vast distances of space but also by complex layers of dimensional realities, there lay another world entirely.

This world was young, especially when compared to ancient realms such as Valhalla, whose vastness, energy density, and stability of natural laws stood peerlessly above. Yet despite its relative infancy and humble foundation, there was something uniquely compelling about this particular world—its absolute unity.

Every town, city, and nation—indeed, every continent—proudly raised a single, unified banner: the flag of the Xaos Kingdom. Here, there were no competing kingdoms, no nations divided by petty squabbles or bitter rivalries. This was a world meticulously brought together under the visionary leadership of a single ruler, known throughout the realms simply as the Xaos King.

Under this singular governance, peace had become commonplace, and collective purpose flowed through society like lifeblood.

Yet, things were not always this prosperous or unified. Not long ago, this very world had stood on the precipice of annihilation. First, it was ravaged by invasions of celestial proportions—angels and demons alike descended from their respective realms, Heaven and the Abyss, seeking conquest and resources, plunging the world into turmoil.

The devastation they wrought was catastrophic, cities burned, populations decimated, and hope all but extinguished.

But as if these calamities were not enough, something even worse soon followed—the arrival of the monstrous Leviathans. These creatures of hunger, entities whose very existence defied reason, brought terror and destruction far beyond the scope of angelic and demonic incursions. Entire nations were obliterated overnight, civilizations crumbled into ruin, and humanity found itself on the brink of extinction.

It was from this despair that the Xaos Kingdom emerged. Forged through relentless struggle and indomitable resilience, the kingdom united humanity, marshaling its collective strength to fight back against all invaders.

Under the resolute leadership of the Xaos King, humanity not only resisted these invasions but ultimately triumphed, eliminating every trace of these alien threats. Now, demons and angels alike, whenever they dared to return, were swiftly captured and harnessed—turned into resources to propel the Xaos Civilization forward.

Despite its authoritarian governance—indeed, an absolute dictatorship where ultimate power resided solely in the hands of the Xaos King—the society of this world was remarkably progressive in nature.

Laws within the Xaos Civilization were strict yet just, prioritizing merit and dedication above all else. It was a civilization where anyone, regardless of origin, could rise through society’s ranks purely through determination, hard work, and unwavering resolve.

In this society, humble birth posed no limitation. A child born in poverty within the simplest village could, through sheer determination and persistent cultivation of their abilities, become a great general commanding armies numbering in the millions.

Similarly, one could ascend to the rank of Archduke, ruling over vast swathes of land, governing entire provinces and overseeing millions of subjects.

In the Xaos Kingdom, your lineage, your past, or your social standing did not define your destiny—only your own willpower and strength mattered. This profound meritocracy created an unprecedented level of motivation among the populace.

Every citizen was driven by the knowledge that their future depended solely upon their own efforts. Thus, the society flourished, growing rapidly in strength and innovation, transforming the Xaos Kingdom into a beacon of hope and unity in a cosmos filled with turmoil and conflict.

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End of Book 7 - The Rise of the Depravita Race