Chapter 12: Thunder's Judgment—When Gods Walk Among Men
A wave of undead surged toward the gate like a tide of rot and ruin. The guards, unable to halt the inexorable advance, sent messengers racing through the streets—one to the garrison for reinforcements, another to the Adventurers Guild for support.
Before the undead could breach the gate, before death could claim the living, Momon, Thor, Nabe, and Hamsuke arrived like fate itself, come to answer destiny's call.
Though the guards doubted—oh, how they doubted—that these low-ranked adventurers could help, Momon demonstrated the yawning chasm between mortal and myth by unleashing an attack that annihilated dozens of undead in a single, devastating instant.
The guards stood speechless, struck dumb by the sudden, suffocating silence. No groans, no shuffling, no scraping of bone on stone. Nothing. That day—that blood-red dawn—the legend was born: The Hero Clad in Black.
Some distance from the gate, Momon and Thor carved through the undead horde like gods through grass, reaping, rending, relentless. Yet this method, this mundane massacre, slowed their progress since they still held back their true, terrible power.
Hamsuke: "My apologies, Lady Naberal. My deepest, most profound apologies."
Nabe: "Just don't move. It's remarkably difficult to hold onto something this fluffy while maintaining flight."
Nabe soared over the battlefield, carrying Hamsuke aloft to avoid the undead's natural, insatiable attraction to the living—that hunger that knows no end, no mercy, no peace.
Thor: "The dead hunger for the living. Stay above, stay alive."
Hamsuke: "My sincerest regrets, Lord Thor."
Nabe: "Milords, could we not summon reinforcements from Nazarick? A mere dozen would deal with these wretches in moments. Minutes, at most."
Momon: "Don't speak such foolishness. How can we forge a legend if we cannot accomplish this feat under our own strength, our own sweat, our own steel?"
Thor: "Glory gained too easily is glory quickly forgotten. The tale must be worth the telling."
Nabe: "But Milords, if the objective is gaining fame—true, lasting fame—would it not serve better to let the undead breach the gate? To let them claim a few townsfolk? The people would worship those who saved them from certain death."
Momon: "No. We lack information, intelligence, insight. It's best not to gamble with what we don't know. Besides..." He paused, his blade cleaving through another rotting corpse. "Does it not upset you to watch the enemy achieve their objective unopposed?"
Thor: "There is also the matter of others—opportunists, glory-seekers, fools with swords—who might steal our achievements like thieves in the night."
Nabe: "I see. You have considered every angle, every outcome, every possibility. You two are truly, deeply, profoundly amazing, Milords."
Thor and Momon grew increasingly frustrated with the unending army—wave after wave, corpse after corpse, death after death—and began contemplating an alternative approach.
Thor: "There is no end to them, Momonga. This tide of rot and ruin—if this continues, your carefully crafted plan will crumble like dust."
Momon: "Then we adapt. 'Medium Undead Creation'—Jack the Ripper! Corpse Collector!"
Two grotesque, strangely designed monsters materialized before the pair, summoned to counter death with death, darkness with darkness.
- Jack the Ripper- Corpse Collector
Jack the Ripper and Corpse Collector were unleashed against the horde like wolves among sheep. The undead stood no chance—none whatsoever—against these high-level summons, these creatures of calculated cruelty.
Momon then summoned two additional monsters using 'Low Undead Creation', manifesting a skeletal vulture and a wraith to serve as sentinels, guardians to prevent any adventurers or interfering fools from disrupting their work.
Once they passed through the endless, shambling hordes, they reached the mausoleum where the cultists had established their fortress—their sanctuary of shadows and secrets. They paused, breathing, waiting, watching.
Momon: "Shall we take them by surprise, Thor? Strike like lightning before they can react?"
Thor: "Pointless. Meaningless. They already know we're here—I can feel their fear like static before the storm."
Hamsuke stood guard, a loyal sentinel ensuring no one would interfere, no one would interrupt. The trio continued walking toward the cultists, who noticed their presence with widening eyes and trembling hands.
Cultist 1: "Sir Khajiit! Intruders! There are intruders here!"
Thor: "There's another hiding nearby. Someone with a thrusting weapon—a coward's blade for a coward's heart."
Khajiit: "No, it's just us—"
????: "Hehe. You sure took a good, long look at those corpses. Well done, well observed, well deduced."
Everyone's attention turned toward the source of that feminine voice—lilting, mocking, musical. Behind a pillar stood a blonde woman in a dark hooded robe, the very one Thor had been hunting, tracking, pursuing like prey.
Khajiit: "You..."
????: "Aw, come on. It's obvious they know, crystal clear, plain as day. So why bother hiding?"
The hooded blonde walked forward with languid confidence, each step deliberate, measured, theatrical.
????: "Would you mind introducing yourselves? Names before bloodshed, I always say. Oh, I'm Clementine."
Thor: "I see no reason you need to know, but courtesy demands some response. I'm Loke, and these are my comrades—Momon and Nabe."
Khajiit: "I can't say I've heard of any of you... Have you, Clementine?"
Thor: "You'll find the answer beneath your cloak, thief. Why don't you show us your trophies, your prizes, your stolen pride?"
Clementine: "Are you talking about these?"
With theatrical flair, Clementine opened her robe, revealing her breastplate—a grotesque mosaic crafted from adventurers' rank plates, each one a life extinguished, a dream destroyed, a story ended.
Clementine: "That's what led you here. These pretty little badges."
Thor: "Momon, Nabe—you two will deal with Khajiit and his cultist rabble. Dispose of them quickly, efficiently, thoroughly."
Momon: "Are you certain about this, Thor? She's dangerous, deceptive, deadly."
Thor: "I am."
Momon could tell—could sense, could feel—that Thor desired to unleash his wrath, his fury, his tempest. Like any father would when their child had been harmed, hurt, hunted.
Momon: "Then do not destroy everything. We still need evidence, witnesses, proof of our victory."
Thor: "Understood. Clementine..." His voice rolled like distant thunder. "Why don't we take our battle elsewhere? Away from these mortals, these fragile, fleeting things."
Clementine grinned—a predator's grin, a killer's smile—and agreed, following Thor to a location some distance from the mausoleum, leaving Nabe and Momon to handle the cultists and rescue Nfirea from his chains, his cage, his captivity.
Clementine: "Say, were those people in the shop your friends? Your companions? Your comrades? Are you mad that I killed them? That magic caster seemed so hopeful, so certain that help would arrive. Sorry for butchering them all—well, not really sorry at all."
Thor: "No need to apologize. I barely knew them—tools, pieces, pawns to elevate my comrade's fame. You disrupted Momonga's carefully laid plans, which is... unpleasant. Irritating. Vexing."
Clementine: "Well, that's no fun at all. I thought you were here for revenge, for vengeance, for blood."
Thor: "Though I am here to avenge one."
Clementine: "Oh? And who could that be? Who matters enough for a god to care?"
Thor: "The mage. I recently adopted her—took her as my daughter, my responsibility, my charge—and seeing how you treated her, how you tormented her, how you hurt her..." Lightning flickered across his knuckles. "What father wouldn't be vengeful? What father wouldn't seek judgment?"
Clementine: "Oh, I see. Poor little me. I'm hated now, despised, marked for death... By the way, it was a mistake leaving your friends to fight Khajiit. A warrior and a magic caster against a necromancer? They won't beat him. But then again, they couldn't beat me either—no one can."
Thor: "I'm quite certain even my comrades could handle you without significant difficulty. You overestimate yourself, little mortal."
Clementine: "There is no one—no one—in this country who could actually beat me. Though there are five who could put up a good fight, make me sweat a little: Gazef Stronoff, Gagaran of the Blue Rose, Scarlet Droplet's Luicenberg Alberion, Brain Unglaus, and the now-retired Red Vestal Croft Diroufan. Five warriors. Five threats. Five worthy opponents."
Clementine began removing her dark robes with deliberate slowness, revealing skimpy armor that offered minimal protection but maximum flexibility—function and form, deadly and distracting.
- Clementine
Clementine: "I don't know who you are, stranger, wanderer, fool, but now that I've stepped into the domain of heroes, there's no possible way you could defeat me! None!"
Thor: "Domain of Heroes..." He tilted his head, considering. "What does that mean to a god?"
Clementine: "What are you talking about? What nonsense is this?"
Thor: "What I'm saying is simple, clear, absolute—what are you to me?"
In that moment—that breathless, electric moment—his form began to change, shift, transform. His height surged to seven feet, his frame expanding with lean, corded muscle. His skin darkened to storm-cloud grey, and his armor didn't merely fall away—it liquefied into molten gold, flowing like lightning into his veins. His head elongated, shifting, morphing into something between man and beast—not a jackal, but something distinctly Norse, something ancient and terrible. His eyes blazed with electric blue fire, crackling with barely contained power.
- Wrath of the Thunder God
Clementine stumbled back, her confidence cracking. "What... what are you? A demi-human? A demon? Some new monster?"
Thor: "I am someone who has transcended mortality, who has claimed divinity, who stands among the Aesir. Before me, before my judgment, before my thunder..." Lightning danced across his fingertips. "You are nothing. Less than nothing. Dust waiting to scatter."
Clementine: (Angered) "Nothing?! You think I'm nothing?! I'll show you who's nothing! I'll carve that arrogance out of your throat!"
Clementine pulled out two short-bladed weapons—Stiletto and Kilineiram, legendary weapons stolen from legendary corpses—and lowered herself into her fighting stance, animalistic and provocative, deadly and seductive depending on the angle, the light, the perspective.
Still believing—still hoping, still convinced—that she had a chance, Clementine unleashed a burst of speed to deliver a furious assault, her blades seeking vital points with surgical precision.
In that moment, she was faced with the truth. The terrible, inescapable truth.
Thor: "Hmm. Interesting technique, mortal. But allow me to demonstrate something." He raised one hand almost casually. "Mjölnir's Weight."
The air itself seemed to solidify around Clementine. Not gravity—something different, something more primal. The weight of judgment itself pressed down upon her shoulders, her spine, her very soul. She crashed to the ground with bone-jarring force, struggling, straining, fighting to rise.
Thor: "You believed this would be a fair fight? No, no, no. This isn't a battle, little assassin. This is a lesson. A demonstration. A judgment rendered by powers you cannot comprehend."
Clementine: "I... will not... be defeated... by some magic caster!"
Thor: "A mere magic caster? You still don't understand, do you? You still don't see? Still blind, still deaf, still ignorant." He lowered his hand. "Mjölnir's Weight—release."
Clementine rose to her feet, fury burning in her eyes, pride wounded and bleeding. She returned to her stance, determined, defiant, desperate.
Thor: "Very well. If force pressing down doesn't teach you..." He gestured upward. "Ascending Storm."
Clementine: "What?!"
Suddenly, Clementine was lifted—not by wind, not by magic, but by the very air itself rejecting her presence. She floated upward, helpless, flailing, unable to control her trajectory as she rose higher and higher into the dawn sky.
Thor: "Again, this is not combat. This is education. This is truth delivered through demonstration. Now... Thunderclap."
BOOM.
The sound was deafening—ear-splitting, bone-rattling, soul-shaking. A concussive blast of pure kinetic force struck Clementine mid-flight, hurling her like a rag doll into dozens of dead trees nearby. The ancient wood splintered, cracked, shattered.
Thor: "Not quite sufficient. Not quite enough. Lightning's Judgment."
Clementine: "S-Stop! Please!"
Arcs of electricity—brilliant blue and crackling with barely contained power—wrapped around Clementine like serpents, dragging her forcefully back across the clearing directly into Thor's waiting grasp. His hand closed around her throat, not quite crushing, not quite killing, but promising both with the slightest increase in pressure.
Thor: "Do you still not understand the difference? The chasm? The impossible gulf between what you are and what I am?"
Clementine: "I-I just... need... one... precise... strike..."
With desperate, dying determination, Clementine reached for one of her remaining blades and targeted Thor's throat with all her remaining speed, all her skill, all her hope.
Before the blade could connect, Thor's left hand caught it effortlessly, his fingers closing around the steel like a vice.
Clementine twisted the blade, activating its enchantment. Flames erupted—hot, hungry, consuming—engulfing Thor's hand and face in a conflagration that should have ended him, should have melted flesh from bone.
Her celebration died before it could truly begin.
The flames parted like curtains. Thor stood unchanged, unmarked, unbothered. Lightning crackled across his skin, dispersing the fire like morning mist before the sun.
Thor: "Fire? You brought fire to challenge thunder? How... quaint." He examined the blade with almost academic interest. "Nullification."
The weapon simply ceased to exist—not shattered, not broken, but erased. One moment it was there, the next it was gone, as though it had never been forged, never been wielded, never been named.
Clementine stared at the empty space where her legendary blade had been, her mind struggling to process the impossibility.
Thor: "You can struggle, you can scheme, you can strike with all your mortal might and skill and cunning. But against the divine? Against the eternal? Against the storm itself?" He tightened his grip on her throat. "It means nothing. Striving without understanding is merely suffering prolonged."
Clementine: "Ack!"
Thor applied more pressure—not enough to crush, not enough to kill, but enough to make his point crystal clear, sharp as broken glass, undeniable as thunder.
Thor: "This will be my final lesson, little assassin. My final mercy. My final judgment." His free hand crackled with electricity. "Raijin's Wrath."
Clementine: "What?! No! Aaaah!"
Black lightning—not the clean, bright electricity of natural storms, but something darker, older, more primal—engulfed Clementine's body. This was divine judgment made manifest, controlled with surgical precision to damage without killing, to hurt without ending, to teach through agony.
The black lightning seared seventy percent of her body, burning away flesh in controlled patterns, leaving her hovering at the very edge of death but not crossing that final threshold. She was dropped to the ground like discarded trash, and Thor extinguished the dark lightning before it could finish its work.
Thor: "Do you finally understand? Do you comprehend? Do you see?"
Clementine: (In agony) "I-I... understand... I understand..."
Thor: "Do you yield? Do you surrender? Do you accept judgment?"
Clementine: (Trembling) "I-I... yield... m-my lord..."
As Clementine knelt on the ground—broken, burning, barely breathing—Thor reached down and lifted her chin with surprising gentleness, forcing her to meet his blazing eyes.
Clementine: (Barely conscious) "W-What... will happen... to me...?"
Thor: "I could grant you a swift end. Quick. Painless. Merciful. But I see value in your continued existence—potential, possibility, purpose. Do you desire to live? Do you wish to continue, to endure, to survive?"
Clementine: (Desperate) "I-I do... please..."
Thor: "If I permit your survival, your life belongs to me. You breathe for me. My goals become your goals, my enemies your enemies, my purpose your purpose. This road of redemption will be difficult—painful, humiliating, endless. You will suffer. You will struggle. You will be reforged in storm and lightning until you are something worthy of the mercy I show you now."
Clementine: (Trembling) "W-What... must I do...?"
Thor: "From this day forward, you will be my daughter. You will still be an assassin—that skill, that talent remains useful—but you will serve in my name, under my command, according to my judgment. Your old life ends here, dies here, burns away here. Do you accept? Do you submit? Do you agree to be my daughter, Clementine?"
Clementine: (Broken) "I-I do... my... father..."
Thor: "Then by my decree, by my word, by my divine authority—you are claimed. You are reborn. You are mine." He placed his hand on her charred forehead. "Resurrection's Touch."
Lightning flowed—not destructive, but reconstructive. All of Clementine's injuries, all her wounds, all her burns healed in moments, flesh reknitting, skin reforming, bones mending. As the sun rose fully above the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Thor summoned his divine attendants to escort Clementine back to Nazarick.
Afterward, Thor returned to Momon and Nabe. They had defeated Khajiit and his cultist followers—dispatched them efficiently, thoroughly, permanently—and recovered Nfirea, who lay wrapped in a blanket, blessedly unconscious.
Nabe: "Was your battle successful, Lord Thor? Did you achieve your objective?"
Thor: (Satisfied) "Quite successful. Very successful. Tremendously beneficial for Nazarick's future plans."
Momon: (Suspicious) "You seem... remarkably pleased with yourself. Unusually cheerful. What did you do, Thor?"
Thor: "I don't know what you mean, Momonga. I simply handled the situation appropriately."
Momon: "You adopted her, didn't you? You took in that psychotic killer as your daughter."
Nabe: "Did you truly, Lord Thor?"
Thor: "Fine. Yes. I did. But she will prove beneficial to Nazarick in the long run—useful, loyal, skilled. An asset rather than a liability."
Momon: "I'll hold you to that promise, that guarantee, that oath. If she causes problems—any problems at all—they're your responsibility to solve. Understood?"
Thor: "Understood completely. I'll manipulate her memories and Ninya's memories and Nfirea's memories so they don't remember her crimes—instead, they'll believe she attempted to help them, to save them, to protect them. A hero rather than a villain."
Momon: "That could prove beneficial. She could provide security when Lizzie and Nfirea relocate to Carne Village. An invisible guardian watching from the shadows."
Thor: "Precisely my thinking."
Momon: "Alright then. Let's return to E-Rantel and claim our reward, our recognition, our glory. The Hero Clad in Black and his mysterious companion—let the legends begin."
Both Nabe and Thor nodded in agreement and walked back toward E-Rantel, the rising sun illuminating their path, the cemetery behind them fully cleared of all potential threats, all lingering undead, all traces of the night's dark work.
To Be Continued