As Fenrir and the divine wolves emerged, alongside the colossal dragon, the figure of Loki hovered high in the sky.

To him, Akira and the others were no more than insignificant insects. The thought that these children could stop him? Utterly laughable.

Fenrir let out a guttural howl, his destructive aura pouring out like a raging storm, distorting the very air.

On the ground, Rias Gremory and Sona Sitri exchanged glances. They'd fought together long enough to read each other's intent without speaking a word.

As Fenrir roared, his children—Hati and Sköll—and the replica of Midgardsormr, the world-ending serpent, began to move.

Even the subtle shifting of Midgardsormr's body sent tremors through the earth, like an earthquake heralding apocalypse.

"Midgardsormr… the dragon of destruction from Norse mythology," Sona murmured, narrowing her eyes. "Wait—this one's not the original."

Her analytical gaze sharpened. "It's a replica… created through magic."

As the heiress of the Sitri Clan, her insight was far from ordinary.

The real Midgardsormr was a catastrophe even the gods feared. Loki, unable to control the original, had manufactured a weaker version—easier to command, yet still devastating.

Behind Sona, pale-blue magic surged to life, coalescing into the ethereal image of a giant serpent curling above her.

At the same time, Rias's crimson energy erupted into the sky—her signature Power of Destruction surging forth.

"Demonic Sword Creation!"

Kiba Yuuto drove his foot into the ground, conjuring hundreds of magic blades that burst up beneath Fenrir's paws.

Though they didn't pierce him, the relentless swarm of blades disrupted his footing, limiting his movement.

A sudden crack of thunder split the sky as lightning rained down, striking Fenrir directly between the eyes—just in time for Rias to launch into the air, her devil wings spread wide as she unleashed a torrent of destructive magic upon the God-Eater Wolf.

Elsewhere, Koneko, Gasper, and Xenovia charged at Hati, the elder of Fenrir's children, locking him down with precision teamwork.

Sköll, the younger sibling, found himself pinned under the combined efforts of Tsubaki and Sona's other peerage members.

Overhead, the sole Valkyrie among them, Rossweisse, conjured a cascade of Nordic magic circles that glowed like constellations. Thousands of magical projectiles rained down upon Midgardsormr's replica, aiding Sona in keeping the dragon contained.

Everyone was playing their part.

Amidst the chaos of clashing powers and roars of magical beasts, two figures remained apart from it all—Shin Akira and Loki.

Akira slowly rose into the sky, eyes fixed on the Norse god above.

"A human? What, are you bored of living already?" Loki mocked, his tone brimming with divine scorn.

To him, the notion of a mere mortal challenging a god was not just offensive—it was pitiful.

"Loki. The so-called God of Evil from Norse mythology," Akira said calmly. "You and I… were never going to get along."

"Not going to get along?" Loki scoffed. "Obviously. I am a divine being—supreme and eternal. You're dust beneath my boots. How could we possibly relate?"

"That arrogance… Yeah. That's exactly what I expected from a god."

As Akira stared up at the smirking deity, a memory surfaced—one not his, but deeply etched into his soul.

In the records of Mesopotamian legend, the arrogant gods who ruled from on high were the greatest enemies of Gilgamesh, King of Uruk.

Because of Ishtar, Enkidu—his closest friend—was taken. Punished by the gods and fated to die.

Akira wasn't Enkidu. But he bore something deeper—a conceptual inheritance. And because of that…

He felt an instinctive disgust for deities like Loki.

Behind him, golden rings shimmered into existence.

Chains of Heaven—divine restraints born from myth. Weapons forged not to destroy gods… but to bind them.

With a whip-like snap, the sacred chains shot forward, splitting through the air toward Loki.

"Hmph. Sacred Gear trash?"

Loki sneered. In his eyes, Sacred Gears were nothing more than mortal toys—blasphemous attempts at divinity.

He raised a hand.

In an instant, dark-blue Nordic magic circles bloomed in the air, stacking in layers like a spiraling tower.

From within them, arcs of divine lightning erupted, lashing out at the incoming chains and blasting them apart before they reached him.

As expected.

This was the man who created Fenrir—a creature ranked among the top ten threats in the world. Though only at Maou-class in terms of raw power, Loki was a master of magic, an architect of destruction.

Where Ajuka Beelzebub was a genius researcher, Loki was a scheming alchemist and a master tactician.

But Akira didn't falter.

A wave of silvery lightning burst from his body—his own divine thunder, slamming into Loki's magic head-on.

"You're wide open, human!"

In a blink, Loki vanished—then reappeared at Akira's flank.

A dense ball of magic formed in the god's palm.

Boom!

The blast struck Akira's ribs, sending him crashing to the ground like a meteor.

Dust and debris flew everywhere.

But before the echoes had faded, Akira rose—his wounds already healed.

"Tch… You lowly insect… You should be groveling," Loki spat, voice echoing from above. "On your knees. Begging the gods for mercy. Submitting everything you are."

He hovered high, a silhouette of superiority, as if the weight of his presence alone could crush the boy beneath him.

"Mercy from the gods…?"

Akira's voice was quiet.

The ground beneath him began to pulse.

From deep within the earth, golden energy surged—ancient and primal. The land itself responded to his presence, bathing the battlefield in radiant light.

"Before the will of the earth… even gods must fall silent."

He spread his arms wide.

"Bear witness—Wisdom of the People."

From the illuminated soil, weapons began to rise.

One after another, forged from divine clay, glowing with sacred energy—each imbued with power rivaling that of mid-tier Noble Phantasms.

Loki's expression darkened.

"Not good…!"

He threw both hands forward.

Hundreds of magical arrays appeared at once—blotting out the sky with layers upon layers of Nordic defenses.

Rossweisse's magic had summoned a hundred circles.

Loki summoned over eight hundred.

This was no simple defense—it was a magical fortress.

The divine earthen weapons rained down like falling stars.

Explosions tore across the sky.

Shockwaves rippled in every direction, creating a storm of flame, wind, and thunder.

The battlefield was swallowed in a cyclone of light and sound—magic colliding with myth, fury meeting fate.

For one brief moment… the world held its breath.

The battle between man and god had only just begun.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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