CHAPTER 963: THE PLIGHT OF THE VIKING HERO

A deep frown creased Vlad’s face the moment he saw the approaching armada.

His instincts told him all he needed to know—this was not a coincidence.

Things between him and Valhalla had not ended well, to put it mildly. Though he had managed to patch things up with the Empress to some degree, the scars of the past were still there. He had marched into their world, slain one of their Earls, and openly offended their Lord of War. Even with diplomacy and restraint, those wounds would take centuries to fade.

So the sight of a massive fleet cutting across the void toward Terra could only mean trouble.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Without hesitation, Vlad rose into the sky, joined by Freya, Overlord, and the other True Depravitas. Their figures blurred, crossing the atmosphere in moments until they reached the Void Between Worlds, the vast emptiness that separated realms. There, they halted—right between Terra’s orbit and the approaching fleet.

Each of them was silent, the tension thick enough to still the stars.

Vlad’s thoughts raced, considering every possible motive Valhalla might have. Was it vengeance? Conquest? A test of power? Even if it was something else entirely, the timing was suspicious.

Overlord, however, showed no such uncertainty.

His expression was cold, unreadable, and within his gaze flickered something far more dangerous than curiosity—intent. Without warning, the A.I. Chip Clone extended his arm.

A dark storm erupted across the edge of space, expanding outward until it cloaked Terra like a living curtain. It was the Nightmare Universe—a monstrous amalgamation of bodies, shadows, and souls, each one wailing faintly as they fused into a barrier that could double as a weapon.

Overlord’s directive was simple: Protect the Xaos Kingdom.

If he detected even the slightest trace of hostility from those ships, he would not hesitate to annihilate every living being aboard them—brutally and without mercy.

Vlad glanced at him, sensing the murderous will radiating like heat from the Archangel’s frame. Though Vlad hoped things could be resolved peacefully—especially since the Vikings were still Freya’s people—he knew that if conflict came, he would stand with Overlord.

Duty came first.

Still, something about the fleet didn’t fit the picture of war.

As the ships drew closer, confusion replaced suspicion in the eyes of the True Depravitas. The vessels were in ruinous condition—hulls cracked, engines flickering, armor torn and pitted with impact scars. Sections of the fleet seemed moments away from breaking apart, scattering into the void like dying stars.

This was no invasion force.

But if not that... then what?

The answer arrived soon enough.

The fleet halted a few thousand meters from the barrier. A moment later, several figures emerged—each one a Viking Legend, their armor marked with the ancient runes of Valhalla. Yet it was clear they had not come for battle.

Every one of them was wounded. Blood stained their garments, and the light of their souls flickered faintly, as if life itself was slipping through their grasp.

At the forefront floated a man Vlad recognized instantly.

Angelo

They had once fought side by side in the Land of the Three Calamities, warriors bound by mutual respect and survival. Back then, Angelo had been radiant with strength and confidence—the very image of a Viking hero.

Now, he looked broken. His left arm was gone, and his body was covered in deep scars. His eyes, once fierce and proud, were hollow with exhaustion and grief.

The man hovered before them for a moment, drawing in a shuddering breath. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he bowed deeply, one knee pressing against the invisible plane of energy beneath him.

His voice was hoarse, trembling but resolute.

"I, Angelo Ikanson, have come to beg for the future of my people."

Silence fell across the void.

Even the True Depravitas stared in disbelief. The Vikings were a notoriously proud race, their pride higher than that of angels. For a warrior like Angelo to beg was unthinkable.

Freya’s expression softened, pain flickering in her eyes.

"What do you mean, Angelo?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp with urgency. "What happened to our people? To Valhalla?"

Angelo looked up slowly, meeting her gaze. For an instant, shame crossed his face—shame for what Valhalla had done to her, and for what it had now become.

He forced himself to speak.

"Half a year ago," he began, "the Empress was murdered. The throne was seized by Antorus, and within months, his influence spread across all of Valhalla. He now claims absolute rule over the realm."

He hesitated, his expression darkening.

"And he claims... that it was the Depravita Race who took her life."

Vlad’s eyes narrowed, and the others exchanged grim looks as they heard those words.

It was an obvious lie. The Empress’s death had occurred while the entire Xaos Kingdom was engaged in the Graecia Civil War, and Vlad himself had been present at the fall of the Zanis Homeworld during that same time. There were countless witnesses to confirm it.

But truth mattered little to tyrants.

For Antorus, truth was whatever served his ambition. And for the people of Valhalla, his word would be law.

Angelo continued, his tone heavy with defeat.

"Many of us knew the truth. But we were powerless. Antorus seized control of the military, subjugated the High Houses, and purged all who dared question him. His methods were... efficient."

He paused, trembling slightly. His eyes dimmed, as though he could still see the flames that consumed his homeland.

"We tried to resist," he whispered, "but it was hopeless. Antorus’s power is beyond anything we imagined. One by one, our leaders fell. Our only chance was to flee. We captured what ships we could and escaped into the void."

His voice cracked as he spoke the next words.

"Most of our strongest warriors died protecting the exodus. The rest... the rest are civilians, children, the wounded. I beg you, Xaos King. Please... grant us sanctuary. Let our people live."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.

Vlad stared down at the kneeling Viking, a pang of sorrow twisting within him. He remembered Angelo’s pride, his laughter amid the chaos of war, his unwavering belief in honor. Now that same man knelt before him, begging for mercy.

He felt Freya’s gaze on him. When he turned, he saw the conflict in her eyes—the longing to save her people, the pain of seeing them fall so far, and the silent plea for him to act.

He understood her completely.

But before he could speak, he sensed another gaze—sharp, cold, and unyielding.