The wind howled across the Norwegian mountains, bearing witness to a battlefield carved by the collision of divinity and wrath. Thunderclouds roiled like a beast disturbed from slumber, blotting out the sun in reverence to the two figures who now stood across from each other: Alexios, the Godslayer of Greece, and Tyr, the Heretic God of Justice and War.
Tyr gripped his ancient blade with a single hand. It gleamed with the pallor of starlight, etched with runes that danced in time with the beat of battle. The blade was no ordinary steel, but a fragment of the primordial flame of Surtur, gifted by his kin as he descended into heresy. His lone hand crackled with power, the divine wound from Fenrir's mauling imbued with a haunting glow.
Niklaus dismissed Vimana with a nod. The golden ark vanished into golden particles, its departure followed by a low pulse of divinity, like the parting breath of a god. He cracked his knuckles, the Nemean Lion Gauntlets materializing over his fists in a flash of bronze and gold. The air shimmered around him from the weight of divine power.
"Let the lion's hide shield me from blade and flame. Let the fangs of Nemea rend what gods deem immortal. O Twelve Labors, O Trials of Earth's Champion—empower me."
As he chanted, his form subtly shifted. Muscles expanded, sinew tightened. His aura flared like wildfire, the embodiment of Herakles' raw, immortal defiance. The lion-headed pauldrons snarled, echoing his growing fury.
Tyr moved first. He surged forward with speed that fractured the ice-laden ground beneath his feet, blade aimed for Alexios' heart.
Steel met flesh.
Niklaus blocked the divine blade with his bare fists, the Nemean Hide deflecting the slash with a booming clang. Ice cracked for miles as the shockwave reverberated across the fjord.
"You are no mere mortal," Tyr rumbled."I smell your defiance. I smell... Olympus."
Niklaus grinned. "Wrong pantheon. But I've buried gods from both. Want to be next?"
Tyr roared and activated his next authority. The Binding of Fenrir.
Chains of myth, shimmering like aurorae, burst from the earth—runes of sacrifice and prophecy wrapping around Alexios' limbs.
"By the fetters that held the Beast, I bind thee. Gleipnir, woven of paradox and doom—entwine!"
The chains coiled around Niklaus' arms and legs, glowing with prophecy. For a moment, Niklaus was still. The binding paralyzed not just the body, but fate itself. But then he grunted, a grin splitting his face.
"Chains, huh? You're not the only one who's mastered them."
He invoked an authority from Set—Warden of the Desert Maw.
"By crimson sands that bury thrones and gods alike, I command thee: Break, as the Nile overflows and drowns its bonds."
A scouring wind erupted from his body—heat and sand surged like a living tempest, grinding the ethereal chains into dust. Gleipnir shattered with a mournful hum. Tyr's eyes narrowed.
"Egyptian trickery. The betrayer's blood lives in you now."
"Damn right. I took Set's storm and made it mine. Want to see what else I usurped?"
Niklaus leapt forward, his gauntlets glowing red-hot from Set's desert fury. He slammed a fist into Tyr's blade arm. Metal screeched. Blood sprayed. Tyr's shoulder was dislocated by sheer force.
The Norse god retaliated by invoking another authority—Son of Odin, Justice Unyielding.
"Let the justice of the Nine Worlds descend. Let the wisdom of my father, Odin the Allfather, grant me sight!"
Tyr's eye glowed with burning insight. His stance shifted—every strike became preemptive, predictive. He dodged Alexios' next blow with inhuman precision, delivering a retaliatory slash that cut deep across Alexios' ribs, drawing blood.
Niklaus hissed, gritting his teeth.
"You see through me now, huh? Let's see how well you see in a storm."
He activated another of Set's authorities—He Who Commands the Red Storm. The sky turned crimson. Winds howled. A supernatural sandstorm enveloped the battlefield, turning sight and hearing to chaos. Lightning of gold and red cracked through the tempest.
"This is my world now."
He attacked from every direction, fists cloaked in desert flame and divine strength. Tyr parried and countered, but his precision was lessened.
Yet he responded with divine fury.
"By the blood of Thor, by the soul of my brother, let his might lend strength to my arm!"
Lightning surged through his sword—Mjolnir's Echo, an inherited mimicry of his brother's thunderous wrath. The sky shattered with blinding light as he released a slash charged with thunder and fire, cutting the storm apart.
Niklaus saw it coming. And smiled.
He invoked both Set and Herakles.
"From Olympus, I wield the labor of Geryon—strength thrice-folded! From the Red Lands, I call the wind of desert slaughter! Let the wrath of man and beast become one!"
His muscles swelled, veins glowing with divine ichor. He launched himself forward—no dodging—just a fist fueled by gods.
Fist met blade.
A flash of gold and red exploded across the horizon—a crater dozens of meters deep spread out beneath their feet. Mountains trembled. Forests bent low. The sea itself hissed and retreated.
Tyr staggered back, armor cracked, ichor bleeding from his mouth. Niklaus fell to one knee, panting, blood and power dripping from his gauntlets.
Their eyes met.
"We were holding back," Niklaus said.
"Yes," Tyr replied, straightening, lightning crawling across his sword. "No longer."
The storm calmed for a heartbeat. And then the full wrath of myth was unleashed.
-----
The frozen landscape of Norway, already reshaped by divine war, groaned beneath the weight of titans. Snow-blanketed mountains had become craters, trees centuries-old were ash, and the fjords churned with chaotic waves, reflecting the fury above. Thunder bled from the heavens as Tyr and Niklaus clashed—sword against fist, myth against myth.
Their battle was not a mere duel. It was an epic—a tapestry of fury, valor, and divine wrath woven in blows that split glaciers and roars that shook the firmament.
Niklaus, his gauntlets aglow with the burning essence of the Nemean Lion, weaved around Tyr's blade with a predator's grace. Each movement spoke of years as a warrior, and the echoes of the Labors lent his body a grandeur both monstrous and regal.
Tyr, the One-Handed, embodied discipline and ancient wrath. His sword, forged of starlight and bound by sacrifice, cleaved through the mist with sharp notes of runic energy. With every clash, Norse war chants whispered from the folds of his presence.
"Blood spilled in honor,
Blood spilled in debt,
A hand lost, yet not regret,
By wolf and fate I was betrayed,
Yet in battle, my oath is repaid."
Tyr's authority, Hand of Sacrifice, surged. His strikes grew heavier, more decisive, empowered by the myth of losing his hand to Fenrir. Each swing now bore the weight of martyrdom and ancient duty, bypassing magical defenses to strike directly at the essence of a foe's resolve.
Niklaus twisted aside, feeling the blade nick the spiritual lining of his Authority. The damage wasn't physical. It was personal. A reminder that even gods who lose can still strike deep.
"So this is what it means to carry sacrifice," Niklaus muttered, breath fogging with frost and fire. "Then allow me to answer with storm and silence."
He raised his fist.
"By desert wind and bloodied dusk,
By sand and death, and traitor's husk,
I claim the storm, Set's burning breath,
Let thunder rise and curse bring death!"
He activated Storm Crowned Tyrant, an Authority usurped from Set. The skies above churned black. A blood-red moon pulsed behind the clouds as lightning danced to Alexios' call. The battlefield darkened. Static cracked across the broken fjords. The air became thick with sand, summoned from another world, another age.
With a leap, Niklaus vanished into the storm, using Desert Sovereign's Step—another Authority of Set—to disappear and reappear behind Tyr. His gauntlets slammed down like twin meteorites. Tyr caught one strike, but the second shattered a hill behind him.
Tyr leapt backward, raising his sword high.
"Father of War, lend me your rage,
Let the sky burn and fate disengage,
With Odin's eye, and Heimdall's horn,
Let all realms witness the wrath reborn!"
He invoked Aesir's Legacy, temporarily channeling the battle prowess of both Odin and Heimdall. His perception sharpened. His sword gleamed with knowledge and sight beyond sight. A slash carved a horizontal scar across the air—a blade of divinity that unraveled distance itself.
Niklaus was struck and flung across the landscape, crashing into the side of a mountain. Debris buried him.
But the silence lasted mere seconds.
With a roar, the rocks exploded outward. Golden flame and black sand coiled around Niklaus. His eyes gleamed with unbowed fire. One gauntlet was cracked, but his grin was broad.
"You've seen gods bleed, Tyr," he said, rising. "But have you ever seen them break?"
He took a stance, body glowing.
The ground cracked. Niklaus combines the strength of Herakles and Set's territorial dominance. The terrain itself obeyed him, launching boulders and spikes of stone in sync with his movements. His blows now carried seismic fury.
Tyr tried to counter, swinging with divine speed, but Niklaus moved with brutal, dancer-like finesse. He began chaining the Authorities:
Nemean Gauntlets hardened his strikes beyond magic or matter.
Erymanthian Charge boosted his momentum.
Set's Sovereign Gale disrupted Tyr's footing with violent whirlwinds.
They fought in a blur—Tyr slicing through tornadoes, Alexios crashing through divine wards. Blood spilled. Not just ichor, but myth—the essence of two legends unraveling one another.
And then the moment came.
As they stood at opposite ends of a shattered valley, both battered and burning, their eyes met.
No more words. Just fate.
Tyr raised his blade, now sheathed in the shared flame of Aesir's Judgment—a combination of his own legacy and the wrath of his All-Father.
Niklaus crouched.
His gauntlets sparked. Sand and flame swirled around him. From his core, three Authorities surged together: Nemean Gauntlets, Set's Divine Wrath, and Herakles' Invincible Drive.
Tyr charged.
Niklaus leapt.
Their blows met.
The shockwave was cataclysmic.
The sky cracked.
The earth split.
Clouds were rent like paper, and lightning was swallowed by the light.
Tyr's sword shattered.
Alexios' gauntlet pierced through.
The Norse war god's eyes widened—not in fear, but in awe. "Well struck," he whispered.
Then silence.
Tyr crumbled, his divine essence scattering like frost before a sunrise.
Niklaus landed, kneeling as the storm calmed. Behind him, the rift in the sky began to mend.
He exhaled.
The battle was over.