“Growing weaker… So it’s really like you guessed—the World Tree’s taken a mortal wound? Then we need to move, fast.”

Aphelia blurted it, fear tightening like a cold rope around her ribs. She didn’t want to drift blind in the void. She hadn’t even grasped how to cross these skewed times. In that boundless, muddied emptiness, losing your way without a guide was a fate worse than death.

“It may not be fatal yet,” Odin said, voice like old stone under moss. “The World Tree’s power is weak. We need to descend to the next layer to learn what the humans did. But if it can funnel that many giants, it’s taken serious damage.”

The ash-blue Aether tugged like a tide, and in a blink they were back above that vast, dim ocean.

Hovering over the waters again, Aphelia felt it—an obvious presence, like a black banner of death rippling in an unseen wind.

“Roads between the layers are few,” Odin murmured, thunder under cloud. “Beyond the World Tree, only a handful exist, mostly inside the Divine Realm. For us, only the Sea of the Underworld remains.”

As his words fell, the gray sea heaved in answer; beneath them, a vast hole yawned open like a hungry mouth.

“This is the path from the first world down. Through the Sea of the Underworld, we can go straight to the third layer—the Land of the Dead—Niflheim.”

Watching the churning waters, Odin urged, “Move. If we wait for them to catch up, there’ll be another fight.”

“Go? How?”

She stared at the bottomless black pit beneath her; her heart had no anchor. She’d gained strange power, but hardly mastered it. A wry smile tugged like a crack in porcelain.

Before she could stall, a huge force shoved her down from behind, playful as a bully wind. Uroboros’s schadenfreude-laced voice drifted from her back.

A heavy drop hammered her gut; Aphelia and the others vanished into the ocean’s gaping maw.

The giants of the Divine Realm noticed, of course. Odin snorted, then casually hurled several massive spears of Thunder at the rushing giants. He leaped after, diving into the yawning hole.

This time, the giant legion didn’t throw lives away. Several elites led them. They raised power against the ash-blue thunder spears; strange forces met Aether midair. Blinding Thunder burst like shattering glass.

A sea of lightning sprayed across the sky. It didn’t smash into the legion, but it bought time, clean and sharp.

To the elites, the broken storm meant little. Yet to shield the legion, they halted, raised barriers, and caught the storm in their nets.

By the time they reached the sea, the great hole was gone. In its place lay a darker surface, clouded like a sky smothered by black stormclouds.

“Dammit. They slipped away again.”

The leader among the giant elites scowled. He punched a nearby colossal trunk; it snapped clean in half, the crack echoing like late thunder.

A human elite among them snorted, more amused than concerned by Aphelia’s escape. “Run to the Land of the Dead all you like. Even Odin won’t sprout wings there.”

“The Land of the Dead’s rules bind everyone. Death is equal—god on high or ants below. She thinks she’s safe by hiding there? With that one who rules the Land of the Dead, she’s doomed.”

They stared at the surging, dim sea. Thin smiles, cold as iron, curved their lips.

Beneath the dark sea, through the vast hollow, Aphelia was first to arrive at their destination—the so-called Land of the Dead—Niflheim.

“Is this place… truly the Land of the Dead?”

She froze, staring at a revel alive with drums and lanterns. People streamed past. Music and fireworks flared. Someone even set a flower crown on Aphelia’s head, then laughed and vanished into the current before she could speak.

“Hey—”

She reached out, but the crush shoved her aside. She could only stare, helpless, and sigh as confetti chased the air like bright moths.

No one cared what she wanted. They kept celebrating, sometimes showering her with glitter and petals. They seemed lost in pure, unbroken revelry.

One phrase fit: utterly unrestrained. In a sense, they’d let reason slip its leash. In that, they weren’t much different from the dead…

After several tries, Aphelia fought free of the crowd, only to be swept to a golden, resplendent palace.

Clearly, this palace was the heart of the revel. Laughter inside boomed louder; fireworks burst like scattered stars. Yet some instinct flinched—something inside scraped against her bones.

Crimson Fire and ash-blue Thunder flickered along her fingertips. Her power felt intact. Aphelia eased the golden doors open and peered within.

“How…”

She froze in the doorway, then turned back. Outside was normal—cheers, laughter, and firecrackers braided together like ropes of sound.

But inside—the place roaring loudest—stood no one. The hall lay empty, barren as a wind-scoured plain.

Compared to the glossy festival outside, the golden palace bore years of weathering—ruin flaking like old paint—yet the din still poured from it.

Instinct screamed to slam the doors. Such extreme dissonance stank of traps; anyone with half a brain knew trouble was coiled here.

Yet…

“I really am courting death,” she muttered, a bitter smile like a cut in silk.

Aphelia stepped into the desolate hall and pulled the gilded doors tight behind her. The feeling was a thorn; not looking would fester forever.

And the truth matched that gut-echo.

“Yo~ isn’t this Ophelius? It’s been a long time. So long I almost can’t count the years.”

From the desolate throne, a figure Aphelia knew too well rose, clapping softly. A taunting smile. A chill that crawled like frost.

“The Demon King?!!”

Aphelia stared at the young man on the throne, disbelief cracking her voice.

“Why? Seeing me here is rare?” He tilted his head. “Ophelius… no, these days I should call you Lady Aphelia, shouldn’t I?”

His gaze roamed like over a sculpture—bold, yet impeccably polite. From on high, the Demon King appraised her like a wandering prey, unaware of the trap until the fall.

Be afraid. Regret. Shrink from your own ignorance. The more you fear, the more I thrill, dear Hero.

Watching Ophelius’s trembling frame, the Demon King’s smile deepened. He waited for her mind to crack. Yet the sweet fruit swayed so close, his glee already spilled over.

So he stepped down from his barren throne, plucked a dusky violet that clung stubbornly to a crack in the stone, and came to Aphelia.

“Don’t you want to know why you went to the Demon World… and met Sigdrifa?”

At that, Ophelius trembled harder, emotions swarming like hornets under a lid.

“Yes. That’s it, that’s it. The agony tastes bitter, doesn’t it? Choosing between reason and rage twists like wire, doesn’t it?”

As the root of Aphelia’s tragedy, the Demon King was delighted. He had no qualms wrecking her last defenses, eager to lay that single straw across the breaking spine.

Aphelia shook harder. Power leaked around her like heat haze, clamped tight. The sight made the Demon King’s eyes crinkle to slits.

He leaned toward Ophelius’s ear, voice sweet as syrup. “I know everything about you. Because I died by your hand on purpose—just to drag you into this hell.”

When he said it, his heart nearly leaped from his chest. He could almost see the girl shatter—tears like rain on pear blossoms—then storm him with a hurricane of attacks, only to learn the despairing truth: in the Land of the Dead, the dead don’t die again.

Ah—just imagining it thrills me to the bone, better than sex by miles. Forcing a doll to the brink and watching it break…

“Could you stop fantasizing? I’m literally standing right here, Mr. De-mon—King?”

Aphelia laughed instead of fuming, slinging an arm over her old enemy like a friend. A lick of Crimson Fire flared at her fingertips, an inch from his face.

“Aphelia, is that supposed to be a threat?!”

The Demon King snapped, cold as iron, unmoved by her Crimson Fire. His narrow eyes flashed feral, the ruthless warlord stepping out of memory like a shadow.

“Yeah. I’m threatening you. Problem?”

She kept that bright smile and pressed the Crimson Fire closer to his throat. The scent of singed hair drifted into the air.

They stood locked, neither yielding. The Demon King kept his pride; power stirred faintly around him—right up until the Crimson Fire actually burned.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow! Lady Aphelia, please, let go—spare my humble life!”