CHAPTER 280: CHAPTER 38

Hecate stood in awe before the grand library of Odin—a structure so vast it seemed to stretch beyond space itself.

Towering shelves carved from world tree roots spiraled upward endlessly, filled with tomes that shimmered with runes of forgotten ages.

Floating lanterns of condensed starlight drifted between aisles, illuminating books that whispered softly to one another, each containing the knowledge of countless eons.

"This," Odin said with quiet pride as he walked beside her, "is the sum of all knowledge the Norse gods have gathered since the birth of creation. There is no truth of our cosmos that cannot be found here."

He extended his hand, and at his call, a golden scroll drifted down from the highest shelf, trailing faint motes of light.

As it landed in his palm, he spoke again, his tone solemn. "This is the Record of Ymir. It contains the exact method by which my brothers and I forged the Nine Realms."

He handed it to Hecate, who carefully unrolled it.

Her eyes widened as she read the first passages—lines of divine script glowing faintly as if alive.

It described not a mere act of cutting, but a cosmic process, a metaphysical dissection of Ymir’s essence, where matter, energy, and concept intertwined.

The scroll explained how Odin, Vili, and Vé divided Ymir’s being not through physical blades but through Runes of Separation—symbols that severed existence itself into nine conceptual domains.

His flesh became Midgard, his bones Jotunheim, his blood the rivers and seas of the realms, while his mind was split into invisible threads that became the very laws of the universe.

The Nine Realms were not mere worlds, they were thoughts given form, dreams given permanence.

It also explained how this was made possible, as merely cutting off the body of the Primordial Giant wouldn’t result to such creation.

Yet, such realms, being born from one corpse, would inevitably collapse back into themselves without balance.

To prevent this, Odin carved from the axis of reality a cosmic spine—Yggdrasil.

It was not a tree in the mortal sense, but a multidimensional anchor, its roots burrowed into primal chaos while its branches pierced the veil of infinity, binding each realm to the next.

Its flow of life-energy acted as the equilibrium between existence and void, ensuring the stability of all creation.

Hecate’s eyes gleamed with wonder. The precision, the conceptual engineering of it—it was no wonder Odin was hailed as the wisest among gods.

Odin smiled faintly and began to explain further, his tone turning scholarly, almost like a teacher revealing forbidden truths.

"The principle behind the Hyperverse is similar," he said. "Just as the Nine Realms were formed from Ymir’s divided essence and sustained by Yggdrasil, multiple universes can be fused through the establishment of a Singular Anchor—a vessel powerful enough to contain and regulate their combined laws."

He traced glowing runes in the air as he spoke, each symbol representing a universe’s distinct concept of reality. "Each universe possesses its own constants—its own laws of time, magic, physics, and divinity. To merge them, these constants must first be translated into a shared language—runic patterns that define existence on a conceptual level. Then, they must be threaded together and rooted into a central point, a being or structure capable of enduring infinite contradiction."

He looked at her, his single eye gleaming with divine light. "That is where Hades comes in. He is no longer a god bound by mortal form. He is a transcendent being who is not limited by any single reality. He is, in essence, an infinite vessel, capable of holding countless universes without collapse."

He raised a hand, and a vision formed before them: an endless expanse of intertwined galaxies, their luminous trails spiraling around a singular dark core.

"When Hades becomes the Axis Mundi—the new Yggdrasil—each universe will bind its roots to him. Their energies will circulate through his being, feeding and sustaining one another. The Hyperverse will not just exist, it will live, becoming a breathing organism of infinite realms, harmonized through his existence."

Hecate exhaled softly, overwhelmed yet fascinated.

"So," she murmured, "you’re basically recreating creation itself, but on a scale far beyond the divines and Primordials alike."

Odin chuckled, stroking his beard. "Creation and destruction are but two sides of wisdom, child. The question is not whether we can build such a thing, but whether it will last once born."

The words lingered in the air like prophecy, echoing through the endless halls of knowledge, as the flames of creation once more threatened to ignite the cosmos.

"Here, take a look. I have outlined the method to create the hyperverse." Odin handed a scroll to her.

Hecate took it and began to read it.

1. They must choose one universe as the core. It must possess a stable axis of laws and reality.

2. They must synchronize the constants of other universes to the anchor’s frequency. Adjust time flow, causality, and energy signatures until all align.

3. Use a binding medium, such as a world tree, leyline nexus, or conceptual bridge.(In this case, it’s Hades) This medium must transcend the dimensions it connects.

4. Merge compatible laws first, then overwrite or rewrite conflicting ones through a governing concept—an Overlaw. The Overlaw acts as the root that sustains all.

5. Channel divine or infinite energy into the new structure until the merged realities stop collapsing into entropy.

6. Once balance is achieved, the Hyperverse will(theoretically)takes form: countless universes orbiting a single metaphysical root, like fruits on the branches of creation.

After reading all these, Hecate regarded Odin with a faintly amused expression, her purple eyes reflecting the light of the hovering runes that filled the air around them.

"I must admit," she said softly, her tone carrying both curiosity and irony, "I didn’t expect you to be this cooperative, Allfather. For one so proud, you seem rather willing to share your secrets."

Odin let out a slow sigh, his single eye dimming with contemplation as he leaned back against the marble table behind him.

"Cooperation," he murmured, "well, I truly am a man of my word, but I have my own reasons, selfish ones, as you may expect. I am not a fool who gives without expecting something in return."

He turned toward her, his expression neither defensive nor ashamed, but rather calm, measured, as if he had already accepted the truths of his own ambition.

"You should already know this, Hecate. Nyx, being who she is, must have told you the fundamental truth of cosmic existence, that a single universe can only sustain the birth of one true Transcendent."

Hecate nodded, her long purple hair shimmering faintly under the divine light.

"Yes," she said, "she explained that the total sum of energy in a universe is finite, and only one being can surpass the boundaries of godhood before the system collapses under the strain. The universe cannot support more than one who breaks its laws."

"Exactly." Odin’s voice deepened, resonating through the vast library. "But that is true only when there is no one to share with. Every star, every soul, every law, each draws from the universe’s energy. Gods, mortals, spirits, they all consume, and they all limit what can be born beyond their ceiling. The moment one ascends, the balance breaks. That is why the higher beings of every pantheon have always been few, and why ascension beyond godhood has remained a dream for most."

He lifted his hand, and in the air appeared a vision of a collapsing world, a brilliant sphere imploding in on itself as a single golden figure rose from its ruin, ascending beyond light.

"To transcend within a single universe," Odin continued, "you must devour that universe entirely, its stars, its laws, its meaning, and absorb all of its essence into your being. Only then can one stand beyond existence. But such an act is destruction itself, and it leaves nothing behind."

He closed his hand, and the vision shattered into motes of light that drifted around them like dying stars.

"However," he went on, "if we succeed in forging the Hyperverse, things will change. The fusion of countless universes will form an energy network so vast that its potential will no longer be confined to a single soul. The combined vitality of all realms will be sufficient to support not one, but many ascensions. Each god, each being, will draw upon the endless reservoir of the merged realities, and we, those who stand at the apex, will have the chance to reach heights undreamed of."

Hecate’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, her expression thoughtful yet sharp.

"You realize," she said quietly, "that such a realm would also invite competition. Every god will thirst for the power to transcend. You would be setting the stage for another war of gods—this time not for thrones or realms, but for supremacy itself."

Odin smiled then, a slow, knowing smile that carried both arrogance and destiny.

"Competition is inevitable, goddess of magic," he replied. "Even within the same pantheon, gods strive against each other. That is the nature of divinity, to seek, to dominate, to surpass. But..."

He paused, his single eye gleaming with faint amusement and unshakable pride, "I am Odin—the Allfather, the King of Asgard, the one who hung upon the Tree of Death and seized the runes of truth. Do you truly think I fear rivalry? I do not believe there exists any god in any universe who stands above me."

Hecate said nothing at first.

She simply watched him, the sheer confidence, the burning pride that radiated like a star too bright to look at.

Then, finally, she nodded.

"I suppose that’s what makes gods like you dangerous," she said quietly, turning her gaze back toward the endless rows of books that seemed to whisper in the background. "You all believe yourselves to be the most superior, and perhaps that’s why you are what you are."

Odin smiled faintly. He conjured two glasses of wines, and handing one over to Hecate.

Hecate took it, her eyes observing the wine before turning back to Odin.

"And you, Hecate," he said, raising his wine in salute, "should know better than anyone that pride is the truest fuel of power. Without it, even gods would wither into dust."

Hecate nodded. The absolute necessity for gods to efficiently use their power and gain strength. That is pride.

The gods were prideful by nature, for pride was the pillar that held their divinity together.

A god who doubted their own greatness would find their light dimming, their name fading from mortal tongues.

Pride was not vanity to them, but sustenance.

Their belief in their own supremacy gave form to their power, shaping faith into reality.

To be worshiped, they had to appear beyond reach—untouchable, flawless, absolute.

Without that certainty, mortals would cease to kneel, prayers would lose conviction, and the divine fire within them would wane.

Even among themselves, pride was armor. In the endless struggle of deities, only those who believed unshakably in their right to rule could command the forces that shaped worlds.

Hades himself was absolutely prideful, and even Hecate believes herself to be the most superior when it comes to magic.

Even that bubbly idiot Aphrodite was incredibly prideful and vane, believing herself to be the most beautiful being in all of creation.

"Cheers, to our cooperation." Said Odin.

Hecate raised her own cup, "Hm. Cheers."

The two clinked their cups together, and the echo of their toast reverberated through the library like a soft, fateful tremor, one that would ripple through worlds yet unborn.