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  Chapter 5: The Whisper of Oblivion

  Valmorr was no more. Now, there was only V.

  Lowering his eyes from the empty sky, V began to take in his surroundings. He found himself standing upon barren land, cracked and lifeless, stretching endlessly in all directions. There was nothing but dust and desolation, as if this place had long been forgotten by time itself.

  To his right, a shoreline shimmered under the dim light, its waters unnaturally clear—almost inviting. A few figures lingered near the edge, casting nets and lines into the sea. Mortals. Simple, fragile creatures, unaware of the darkness that lingered just beyond their understanding.

  “Mortals…” V whispered, his voice dry and hollow, a mere echo of the proud Asgardian prince he once was.

  In truth, he was little more than one of them now. Perhaps even less. His body, once imbued with divine vitality, was broken. His strength had withered like old leaves in winter’s grasp. Even mortals appeared healthier than the withered husk he had become.

  Grimacing, he planted both hands into the dirt to push himself upright, ignoring the sharp sting from the gashes carved into his knees. Blood mixed with soil beneath him. With trembling fingers, he reached for a dry branch lying nearby.

  “It’s about the same length as my old staff,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else. Leaning on it for balance, he took his first step—painful and unsteady, but necessary.

  Just as he did, a chilling sensation crept down the back of his neck. It was cold, familiar, and ancient. A presence. A weightless, invisible claw resting upon his spine. It was a feeling he hadn’t forgotten—one he had first encountered when summoning the Dread Titan.

  Sweat formed along his brow. His breath quickened. Every instinct screamed at him not to turn around. And yet, slowly, he pivoted.

  There it was.

  Where his vision once met only the endless stretch of lifeless ground, now stood a protrusion of stone—impossible to have missed before, and yet, he had. A formation of jagged, obsidian-black rock, worn by time, but emanating a whisper of unnatural energy.

  And then came the voice.

  “Do you still wish to take what is rightfully yours?”

  It echoed not through his ears, but through the very marrow of his soul—deep, ancient, and relentless. It clawed through his mind like smoke seeping into every crack, pulling at the edges of his sanity.

  V spun around, panic momentarily gripping him. But there was no one. Just the distant mortals, still fishing, blissfully unaware.

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  “Who are you?!” he shouted. “What do you want from me?!”

  No answer came.

  Instead, a scream split the air.

  V’s eyes snapped toward the shoreline. One of the mortals had collapsed, blood spraying into the air as something burst from the sea.

  A beast.

  It towered above the fishermen even as it walked on four legs. Its body, feline in structure, was cloaked in shadowed scales and slick with sea brine. But this was no tiger, no earthly predator. Its mouth gaped unnaturally wide, filled with jagged teeth that jutted out past its cheeks. From its spine extended six long, metallic tails, each lashing through the air like whips of death.

  The creature tore through the mortals with grim efficiency. Flesh split. Bones cracked. Cries turned to silence.

  V was frozen.

  This was Midgard. The mortal realm. A place of order and simplicity. Such horrors did not belong here.

  “I can give you power…” whispered the voice again.

  This time, it was a temptation. A promise. It stirred something buried within him.

  V clenched his teeth, vision flashing with memory—the way the Dread Titan had shattered the holy walls of Asgard as though they were parchment. His hands shook, but not from fear—no, from longing.

  “If I had that power…” he thought. “I could do more than survive.”

  He turned from the massacre and began to walk, dragging his makeshift staff behind him. The branch scraped across the dry soil, leaving a trail of crimson from his still-bleeding legs.

  An Asgardian who had lived his life in pursuit of strength… would never ignore its call. Especially not one who had tasted it and lost it all.

  V did not care where the power came from. Not anymore. Light, darkness—it made no difference.

  He had seen what dark magic could do. And despite its cost… it worked.

  He needed power. And he no longer cared about the consequences.

  What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t yet sense—was that the beast from the shore had caught his scent. The copper tang of his blood hung in the air, leading it slowly toward him.

  ?

  The journey was excruciating.

  Every step sent fresh waves of pain through V’s legs. His breaths came ragged and shallow. His fingers, gripped around the stick, were raw and slick with blood. And yet he did not stop.

  Eventually, after what felt like hours, he arrived.

  Before him stood a crumbling structure, long forgotten by time. A temple of sorts, built from weathered stone bricks, half-swallowed by the earth and covered in creeping moss. It radiated darkness, even under the sun.

  Without hesitation, V entered.

  He moved past twisted carvings on the walls—depictions of creatures with too many eyes and mouths filled with teeth too sharp. He ignored the whispers. The air was thick with malevolence, but he pressed on, until he reached the center.

  There, upon a worn altar, rested a sphere. No larger than a human skull, it hovered just above the stone, cloaked in a swirling shroud of black mist. It pulsed softly, like a heart that had never truly stopped beating.

  V froze.

  Then the voice returned, now louder, clearer, more intimate than ever before.

  “Touch it… and claim the power you were denied.”

  He hesitated.

  “What’s the cost?” he asked, his voice a whisper of suspicion. There was always a cost. Dark magic never gave freely.

  No answer came.

  Just the pulsing of the sphere.

  He looked down at his hands. At the blood. At the trembling. At the weakness.

  He looked up again.

  The desire for power silenced his doubts.

  In a single, decisive motion, V stepped forward and placed his palm upon the sphere.

  Pain. Agony beyond anything he had endured. It surged into his body like molten metal, rushing through his veins, replacing blood with darkness.

  He screamed.

  The walls of the temple trembled as his cry echoed through its halls. His flesh twisted. Organs dissolved and reformed. His bones cracked and rebuilt themselves.

  His white, lifeless hair fell away, replaced by strands of darkness that shimmered with unnatural light. His green eyes, once dulled by despair, transformed into twin voids—bottomless, starless, devouring all light.

  Intricate black runes carved themselves into his arms, glowing briefly before settling into his skin like living tattoos.

  And then, silence.

  The pain stopped.

  He stood, changed.

  Something had taken root in his soul. A power—terrifying and vast—now slept within him, waiting to be commanded.

  He was no longer just V.

  He was something… more.

  The world had taken everything from him.

  Now, he would take something in return.