Chapter 11: The Hammer Falls Silent, The Dead Speak in Whispers
The company of adventurers and Nfirea returned—returned, yes, but changed—to E-Rantel at last, trailing in their wake a figure who moved like thunder contained: Thor, the Norse Breaker, whose armor sang songs these New World souls had never heard, strange and savage and utterly, utterly wrong by their standards.
Thor's voice rolled out like distant thunder over flat plains: "So. E-Rantel." A pause, pregnant with disappointment. "Underwhelming."
Lukrut bristled, his pride pricked: "Underwhelming? Underwhelming? E-Rantel stands—no, towers—as one of the mightiest fortress cities in all the Re-Estize Kingdom! The pharmacists here, the potions, the production—unmatched, unrivaled, un."
"The architecture," Thor interrupted, his tone flat as hammered steel, "is pedestrian. Primitive. I have witnessed—witnessed, mind you, not merely imagined—structures that would make this city weep with shame at its own mediocrity."
Peter blinked, uncertain whether offense or curiosity should win. "Really?"
Ninya leaned forward, eyes bright with that hunger for knowledge that defined her—had always defined her, would always define her until— "Are you describing your homeland, perhaps, Loke?"
"Quite so." Thor—or Loke Dahlström, as they knew him—rolled the words like thunder across mountaintops. "My home is beauty incarnate, glory made manifest in stone and steel and divine design. It dwarfs this... settlement... by margins too vast to measure with mere words."
"Is it truly that beautiful?" Ninya breathed, half-question, half-prayer.
Momon's response came quietly, almost reverent: "A true beauty."
Both warriors—one of death, one of thunder—thought of home. Home. The Great Tomb of Nazarick, that monument to another world, another life, another reality entirely. The memory tasted of copper and regret.
The gates of E-Rantel yawned before them like a mouth preparing to swallow. They passed through—through, not into, for some passages are merely transitions, not arrivals—and the group fractured, split, divided like lightning seeking multiple paths to ground.
Peter cleared his throat: "Now then, since we've returned—returned victorious, returned alive—the request stands complete."
Nfirea shuffled his feet, that nervous energy that never quite left him: "Would you mind, perhaps, possibly, coming to my shop? For payment, you understand. For services rendered."
"Mr. Momon," Ninya interjected, "will be heading to the guild, though. To register his beast."
Momon thought: Is this like registering pets? Am I truly reduced to this, to bureaucratic animal documentation?
Thor thought: Haha. Just that. Just laughter, internal and infinite.
Agreement rippled through them like wind through wheat. They split—split, that word again, always splitting, always separating—into two groups, waves and farewells exchanged like currency between merchants who know they'll meet again but pretend otherwise.
"See you later," Lukrut called, his hand raised high, too high, compensation for something unnamed.
So the Swords of Darkness—oh, that name, that prophetic, tragic name—departed with Nfirea toward his shop, while Momon, Nabe, and Thor carved a different path toward the Adventurers Guild. As distance grew between them, Thor alone lifted his hand in response, that gesture of farewell that somehow felt more like benediction, or perhaps warning.
"Those inferior beings," Nabe proclaimed with all the certainty of the ignorant, "are overwhelmed by your prowess, Lord Ainz."
Thor's internal voice dripped sarcasm like honey laced with poison: Yes, yes, overwhelming prowess. Truly, we are paragons of martial perfection.
Momon's thoughts snapped back, irritated: Shut it, you.
But aloud, to Hamsuke, he maintained the performance: "I was merely swinging the sword around, moving as an actual swordsman moves—which is, I assure you, considerably more difficult than it appears. I'm only a warrior in disguise, after all. No need to worry overmuch about the details."
"Master," Hamsuke—that absurd, oversized rodent—rumbled with concern, "please, please tell me you are not actually a swordsman."
"You were fortunate," Momon replied, each word weighted with unspoken threat, "that I wasn't serious in that fight."
Thor's thoughts wandered: I still cannot fathom why you chose Hamsuke. Such a simple name. So... pedestrian.
Momon countered mentally: I should have called him Daifuku instead. More dignity in desserts than in this.
"My lord is truly unfathomable," Hamsuke intoned with religious fervor. "I shall devote myself—fully, completely, utterly—to your service."
Time passed. Time always passes, indifferent and inexorable.
Within the guild hall—that temple to regulated violence—Thor stood apart, distant, separate, watching as Nabe assisted Momon with paperwork, that most mundane of mortal concerns. Then: a sensation. A pull. The golden Ankh upon his right gauntlet blazed to life, light spilling between his fingers like liquid fire.
"Hmm."
A glance backward. Eye contact with Momon. Understanding passed between them without words, but words would follow regardless—Message, that spell, that connection, that lifeline between allied souls.
"Hello?" Momon's mental voice, uncertain, probing.
"Momonga. It's me."
"Why use Message, Thor? What's wrong?"
"I'm being summoned." The words carried weight, gravity, import. "Elsewhere. I must leave you, but briefly—only briefly. I'll be at the shop when you finish this... administrative theater."
"Should I worry?"
"Possibly." Honesty, stark and unadorned. "But I'll scout ahead. Ensure safety. Prepare the way, as it were."
"Just be careful, my friend." Concern, genuine and deep, the kind that transcends mere alliance.
"Of course." Thor's mental voice carried that edge of pride, that thunder-touched certainty. "I am, after all, Thor—the Norse Breaker, He Who Stands Alone, the Thunder Given Form."
Out—out of the guild hall, into the street, into an alley, empty and anonymous and perfect for secrets. Thor opened a Gate—reality splitting like rotten fabric—and stepped through, discarding his disguise like a snake shedding old skin, returning to his true form, that magnificent, terrible, divine form.
[Thor: True Form—The Norse Breaker Unveiled]
Teleportation complete.
Location: Nfirea's grandmother's pharmacy.
Alert source: The Ankh necklace gifted to Ninya, now dark—dark, completely, utterly dark, absence of light made manifest.
Thor moved through the shop like judgment incarnate, each footfall deliberate, measured, inevitable. The main area: clear. Safe. Untouched by violence.
But that safety was an illusion, a vapor, a dream.
The back room told the truth.
Three figures shambled there—shambled, that word reserved for things that were human but are human no longer. The Swords of Darkness, transformed, perverted, resurrected by unknown hands and unknown magics into mockeries of their former selves. Undead things. Hollow things. Things that moved but did not live.
"I know you cannot understand," Thor said, his voice carrying that peculiar gentleness reserved for mercy killings, "but I shall make this swift. Painless. You deserve that much—that much at least—for what you were, before this violation."
They lurched toward him, these puppet-corpses, these desecrated friends, driven by hunger or compulsion or the cruel whim of their unknown master.
Thor raised his right hand. Not Mjölnir—he needed no hammer for this, no grand gesture, no performance. Just his hand, palm forward, fingers spread.
"Goodbye, Swords of Darkness."
A pause—half a heartbeat, half an eternity.
"Hakai."
The word—that word—rolled out like thunder's final judgment.
Purple light erupted, engulfed, consumed. The undead froze, suspended in that moment between existence and absence. Their forms—what remained of Peter, Lukrut, Dyne—dissolved into purple particles that drifted, scattered, vanished like morning mist before the sun, leaving behind nothing, nothing, not even ash to mark their passing.
Thor stepped forward. Stopped. Looked down.
There, where three friends had stood—had died, had been defiled—lay a single black metallic blade, dark as sin and twice as sharp.
"Swords of Darkness," he whispered, voice soft as falling snow. "Hmm."
The blade vanished into his item box—safekeeping, respect, evidence—and Thor continued his search, hunting now for the living: Ninya and Nfirea, wherever they might be, whatever state they might be in.
Down a corridor. Around a corner. And then—
A body.
No: Not a body. A person. Still alive, still breathing, still suffering.
Leaning against the wall like a broken doll discarded by a cruel child. Bloody. Beaten. Tortured—yes, tortured, that specific kind of violence that seeks not merely death but degradation.
Ninya.
"Hmm."
Thor knelt, examined, and witnessed. And in witnessing, he discovered truth hidden beneath lies: this was no boy. Never had been. Ninya was she, not he—a girl wrapped in boy's clothing, in boy's identity, in boy's life, for reasons that survival demanded and society had failed to make unnecessary.
A whisper—weak, wavering, weighted with pain: "I-Is someone... there?"
"Hello, my child." Thor's voice, transformed—not thunder now, but summer rain, gentle and cleansing.
"Y-You're not... not Loke."
"I am not, my child. But I believe—believe, yes, more than believe, know—that you recognize me, for you were granted an artifact, a gift, a promise placed upon your hand."
Recognition dawned, terrible and beautiful: "Y-You're the... the Thunder... the Norse Breaker..."
"I am." Simple. Stark. True. "I am here because I heard your plea—heard it, felt it, answered it—your cry to be saved."
"P-Please..." Each word cost her, cost her dearly. "Please save... my friends... first..."
Thor's expression—could stone weep? Could thunder grieve?—shifted into something approaching sorrow. "I am sorry, my child. So deeply, profoundly sorry. But their souls have already crossed the final threshold. They walk now in Valhalla's halls, where warriors feast eternal."
"G-Gone? Val... Valhalla?"
"By the time I arrived—arrived too late, always too late—they were merely undead shells, emptied of essence, bereft of soul. Valhalla is the great hall where worthy warriors reside if they lived with honor, fought with courage, and died with dignity. Your friends," and here his voice carried absolute certainty, "have earned their place there."
"T-They lived... good lives..."
"I know they did, my child. I ensured their passage, stood witness to their crossing, and granted them the honor they deserved."
"T-Then what... what will... happen to... to me?"
"First," Thor said, and now his hand moved toward her forehead, fingertips glowing with divine light, "I must witness the life you've lived. Then—and only then—will I render judgment."
Contact.
Memories flooded through—not observed but EXPERIENCED:
Parents lost—first father, then mother, leaving only sister, only Neta, only LOVE in a world of cruelty—
Sister and self, clinging together like shipwreck survivors in storm-tossed seas—
Then THAT DAY—that terrible, terrible day when the noble came, when he SAW, when he TOOK, when Neta was STOLEN away like property, like POSSESSION—
Decision made in darkness and desperation: become strong, become capable, become ADVENTURER, earn money, gain power, RESCUE sister—
Meeting the Swords of Darkness—finding FAMILY again, a different family, a chosen family, GOOD people—
Adventures and battles and close calls and laughter despite everything, despite LOSS—
Meeting Momon and Nabe, those strange, powerful beings who felt like HOPE incarnate—
And finally, RECENTLY—the ambush, the elderly cloaked figure and the blonde woman in scandalous armor, their target Nfirea, but their CRUELTY universal—
What they DID to her—
What they DID—
What they—
Thor withdrew his hand. His eyes blazed—not purple now, but white, like lightning's heart, as rage refined to its purest essence.
"You have suffered," he said, and each word fell like thunder, "greatly. Greatly. Far more than one so young—so good—should ever, ever have to endure."
"I'm... I'm scared..." Tears mixed with blood on her ruined face. "I don't... don't want to die... not before... before finding Neta... saving her... not before—"
"I can save you, my child." Direct. Certain. Absolute. "But understand: my intervention demands cost. Balance must be maintained—the universe demands it, and even I cannot defy that fundamental law."
"W-What cost?"
"Your life," Thor said, "as you know it—knew it, understood it—will end. But! But. You will have a chance—opportunity, glorious and unprecedented—to live a life beyond mortal imagining. Kings will bend knees. Armies will tremble. Nations will speak your name with reverence or fear, but they will speak it."
"W-Why would they?"
"Because," and here Thor's voice carried that divine authority that brooks no argument, accepts no denial, commands reality itself, "I decree it so. You will become my daughter—my daughter, blood of my blood, chosen and blessed—daughter of Thor, the Norse Breaker, the Thunder Made Flesh, the most powerful god this world has seen or will see."
"I-I don't... don't know..."
"Your fear," Thor acknowledged, "is valid. Reasonable. Wise, even. But hear this, understand this, believe this: if you become my daughter, I will use everything—every ounce of power, every fragment of divinity, every resource at my command—to save your sister. To reunite you. To grant you both the life you deserved but were denied by cruel fate and crueler men."
Silence stretched between them—not empty silence, but full silence, pregnant with decision, heavy with consequence.
Ninya tried to open her good eye—the other swollen shut, ruined, a testament to violence—to see his face, to witness the god offering salvation.
"P-Please..." Her voice broke. Reformed. Continued. "Please save me... Father."
"Then it shall be done."
Thor produced a vial—red liquid, glowing faintly, impossibly pure. "First, drink. This is potion from Asgard itself, brewed in halls divine, capable of healing wounds that mortal medicine cannot touch."
"W-What is it?"
"Healing made manifest. Drink, and your major injuries will fade like bad dreams at dawn. Then I will use Mjölnir's Blessing—one of the few healing arts in my arsenal—to complete your restoration."
She drank.
The potion tasted of lightning and honey, of thunder and spring rain, of power and mercy intertwined. Her body began to heal—heal, truly heal, not merely scar over but restore—flesh knitting together, bones straightening, pain receding like tide before the moon's command.
Then Thor spoke words in Old Norse—ancient words, primal words, words that predated language itself—and golden light poured from his hands, washing over Ninya like benediction, like baptism, like rebirth.
Healed.
Complete.
Whole.
Thor placed her gently into sleep—not unconsciousness, but rest, deserved and deep and healing in ways beyond the physical.
Then he raised both hands and spoke in that voice that commands reality: "By my authority as Thor, the Norse Breaker, I summon forth my servants, my warriors, my priests—attend me now!"
Reality tore. Two figures emerged—tall, imposing, wrapped in ceremonial armor that sang with divine purpose.
[Norse Priests of Thor—Manifestations of Divine Will]
They knelt immediately, fists to hearts, heads bowed: "My liege, what are thy orders?"
"Take the girl," Thor commanded, each word absolute, "back to Nazarick. Treat her with utmost kindness—with care, with reverence—for she has been named, by my proclamation and divine decree, my third daughter. Let all of Nazarick know: she is family now. She is mine."
"It shall be done, my liege, by your divine word and will."
The priests approached Ninya—now healed, now sleeping, now safe—and wrapped her in silk blankets from Nazarick, fabric so fine it seemed woven from moonlight and dreams. A Gate opened—reality splitting once more—and they carried her through, back to safety, back to home.
Thor stood alone in the corridor.
Not alone for long.
The shop door opened—crash, sudden, urgent—and voices spilled in: Nfirea's grandmother, Lizzie, her voice sharp with worry, and Momon, calm despite everything, with Nabe and Hamsuke waiting outside like faithful hounds.
[Lizzie Bareare—Grandmother, Pharmacist, Woman Who Has Seen Too Much]
"Nfirea!" she called, voice cracking. "Nfirea, where are you? Mr. Momon is here—here for his reward, his payment, his—"
Thor shifted—shifted, not changed, but shifted—back into his disguise: Loke Dahlström, warrior companion, ordinary man who was anything but.
He stepped forward into view.
Lizzie startled, eyes wide: "Who—who are you? And where—where—is my grandson?"
"Do not worry," Momon interjected smoothly, "he is a comrade, a friend, a trusted ally named Loke. But Loke—where is Nfirea?"
Thor's response fell like a hammer blow: "Kidnapped."
"What?!" Lizzie's voice cracked like breaking ice.
"And the Swords of Darkness?" Momon pressed, already knowing, already dreading.
"Already killed."
"Who—" Lizzie started.
"Comrades," Thor explained, voice gentle despite the terrible truth, "our comrades, escorting your grandson, protecting him with their lives—which they gave, which they sacrificed—before he was taken by forces unknown."
"Where are their bodies?" Momon asked. "We must—"
"Already transported," Thor interrupted. "For burial, for honor, for respect. They deserved that much. They deserved more."
"I understand." Momon's voice hardened, shifted into something approaching his true nature. "We must act. Quickly."
"What do you mean?!" Lizzie demanded, caught between grief, confusion, and terror.
"They killed our comrades," Momon said flatly, "without hesitation, without remorse, without mercy. Meaning they care nothing—nothing—for human life, for consequences, for who might stand in their way."
Thor turned to Lizzie, eyes catching hers, holding them: "Would you like to request our help? Our service? Our vengeance made manifest?"
Silence.
Lizzie thought—thought of her grandson, of Nfirea, of the boy she'd raised, the man he'd become, the future he deserved—
Momon's voice cut through her thoughts like lightning through a storm: "You're fortunate, Lizzie. Fortunate. Because standing before you now are the strongest adventurers in this city, possibly this kingdom. If you request my services—our services—I'm not opposed to accepting. But understand: it won't be cheap. Nothing worthwhile ever is."
Lizzie's gaze moved between them—Momon, dark and imposing, and Thor—no, Loke—who somehow felt even more dangerous despite his smaller stature. She thought of the potions they possessed, of the Wise King of the Forest who served as a mere pet, of power beyond comprehension standing in her shop, offering help—
"I'll do it," she said, voice steady despite everything. "I'll hire you. Both of you. I'll pay whatever price you demand."
"A wise choice," Thor murmured, something like approval in his tone.
"I see." Momon's voice carried dark satisfaction. "As payment, then—I'll take everything you have. Every coin, every possession, every asset you've accumulated. Total compensation for total commitment."
Lizzie laughed—short, sharp, bitter: "They say demons grant wishes in exchange for souls, bargains sealed in blood and shadow. But you two..." She trailed off, eyes narrowing. "You're something else entirely, aren't you? Something worse—or perhaps better. I can't quite tell."
Beneath Momon's helmet, his eyes gleamed red—crimson light like dying stars, like death itself given sight.
Beneath Thor's helmet, his eyes blazed white—lightning light like newborn stars, like judgment itself made visible.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
The deal was struck.
The hammer would fall.
And God help those who had transgressed.
—To Be Continued—
[In the distance, thunder rolled despite clear skies, and somewhere, someone who should have been careful wasn't careful enough, and the world prepared itself for consequences that would reshape nations.]