They turned in unison, like twin reeds touched by wind, and met only Aphelia’s gentle answer.

“You go first. And please don’t ever shove me into the brambles again!”

After all those bad encounters, Aphelia refused to take point on those two ever again, fear pulsing like a drum in her chest.

Deep in Niflheim, beside a rippling, jewel-bright river, three white-robed maidens laughed softly, their smiles like moonlight on water, and the river mirrored the trio easing into Niflheim.

Once they slipped through the barrier, a world unlike the stone-wild wasteland opened, fresh as dawn dew.

Emerald grass rolled like waves, giant trees speared the sky, and the forest breathed with life, nothing like a Land of the Dead—more alive than the woods they’d seen on the Third Layer.

“Odin… is this really the Land of the Dead you told us about?” Aphelia’s voice was a hush, like leaves touching.

She tasted the air and the glow around them, and the feeling was all forest—no conjured veil, no trickster’s circle, only living green.

She breathed the cool sweetness, like spring rain through chest and bones, and her shoulders loosened; even Uroboros seemed to sink into the calm like a stone into clear water.

Odin didn’t share their ease; she sighed, the sound thin as a winter reed, and leveled her spear toward the trees like a silver ray.

“This is the Land of the Dead. This is its heart. The other places aren’t like this. This is where the dead persist. If it were all this beautiful, we shouldn’t call it the Land of the Dead.”

“Fair enough… then who are we here to find?” Aphelia’s smile flickered, shy as a lantern in mist, tension finally letting go.

“It’s a long tale. Let’s walk while I talk…” Odin’s words moved like a stream under shade.

“The core of the Land of the Dead—Niflheim—guards the World Tree’s road to the Second Layer. It’s the RhineFairies’ home, the only place left that the dead can’t step into.”

They drifted through the green, their feet soft as shadows, small creatures darting in the underbrush like sparks; no beast dared set eyes on the three so-called weak women.

“Nowadays? So there used to be another such domain in the Land of the Dead?” Aphelia plucked a fruit like a light off a branch and bit, juice bright as sun.

“You’re bold.” Odin tapped her forehead, a quick knock like a pebble on bark, then answered with a breath like old smoke.

“Yes. Back then, the Valkyries’ temple also anchored the Land of the Dead. Not just here—temples stood even in the human world, like stars over two skies. Sadly… before it all went wrong, that valiant Valkyrie had already left with the Valkyries.”

Memory tugged her gaze far, and her sigh fell like a leaf, warm and regretful.

“Left this world, as in…?” Aphelia’s question rose like mist over a brook.

“Literally. We never saw it coming. The Valkyries vanished overnight, like snow melting without sun. The temples all held strong spatial ripples. We could only conclude they exited this world.”

“Why leave? Weren’t they your people?” Uroboros cut in, her words sharp as flint.

“Of course not.” Odin shook her head with a small smile, firm as iron under silk. “They’re human, through and through.”

“They proved humanity’s worth to Asgard, a bright banner for mortals. Even the giants, once mankind’s sworn foes, stepped lightly. The Aesir gave them respect.”

“So I don’t know why they left. Maybe they refused to stand between two tides, and chose silence over awkward war.” Her helpless pain showed like rain smearing ink.

Aphelia suddenly caught a thread. “Odin, do you still remember the leader’s name and face?” Her voice trembled like a string plucked once.

Such a simple question froze Odin mid-reverie, her fondness hardening like frost. She’d forgotten.

“Sorry, Aphelia… somehow it’s like I never saw her. I can’t hold her name or face. Beyond the memories of fighting side by side, there’s only a blurry white silhouette.”

They stopped by a clear-running river, light skimming its skin, and decided to rest while the current hummed.

“All forgotten, huh. It’s fine… then do you remember a Valkyrie named Hrok? She usually used a longsword, and carried a…” Aphelia’s words trailed like smoke.

“…a massive black coffin, right? When I met her, she didn’t use a longsword yet. It was a mace, blunt and brutal—a butcher’s choice on the field.” Odin smiled, memory rising like sparks.

Aphelia’s eyes narrowed to blades, and she flicked a glance at Uroboros; Uroboros whistled, casual as a wind through reeds.

“So you do know her… wait, Miss Odin, are we talking about the same person? The Hrok I know wields a longsword, and her swordplay’s peak-level.” Aphelia’s doubt quivered like a bowstring.

“She’s the same no matter the weapon.” Odin shook her head and explained, calm as a still lake with force beneath.

“She’s a master of weapons. Even generals of the Asgardian Realm admire her control. From short to long, cold steel to Rune-forged arms, she handles all like a dancer with rain.”

“If she wants, she’ll carve a sword wave out of a mace. No problem.” Odin’s tone held a spark, like steel kissing stone.

She pinched her spear, slashed the air, and—whoosh—no Aether ripple, no Rune trace, a blade of wind jumped out and cleaved a boulder, blasting it to dust like storm-sent sand.

“This, without Aether or Runes, is the strongest I can do. I have to use my spear, my life-bound weapon. But Hrok?”

Admiration lit Odin’s eyes like morning on steel.

“Whatever she picks, she hits harder than this. That huge black coffin carries the concept of ‘weapon’ itself.”

“The concept of weapon?” Aphelia’s brows knit like two wings. If it’s a concept, isn’t Hrok already a True God? Concepts belong to True Gods.

“Yes. That coffin is her exclusive weapon, a full embodiment of the concept of Weapon. If she wants, any arm is hers to draw. With her skill, she’s a butcher on the field. Almost no one can catch her on that front.”

Odin sighed, the sound thin as twilight wind; for all that power, the path ran one way, rigid as a blade.

“Without the Valkyries’ shelter, she’d never have grown this far. By the way, Aphelia, did you know them? You seem familiar.” Her question floated like a net across water.

Aphelia stiffened, then answered, voice steady as a lantern held high. “In the pieces I’ve recovered, there’s info about them. Maybe we crossed paths. I don’t know as much as you.”

“If this helps your memory, that’s best. But now’s not a time for memories. The light’s slipping. We need to move.” Odin’s tone cut like a crisp bell.

Aphelia and Uroboros frowned in unison, eyes lifting to the bright sun like mirrors, checking their heads were clear, then back to Odin.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.” Odin’s wry smile bent like a reed, then she led them toward the far mountain, a pale blade on the horizon.

With her taking point, the other two couldn’t lag, even if her words felt like mist you couldn’t hold.

“This is the Land of the Dead, a world born at dawn and dead by dusk. Even as the Aesir’s leader, I have to follow the RhineFairies’ rules. If we don’t reach the Rhine River before night, I’ll fuse into the death-rule like ash in rain.”

Clearly, finding the RhineFairies came first, the thought beating like wings. But Uroboros raised a hand, catching a ripple in the air.

“Odin, didn’t you say this Land of the Dead is born in the morning and dies by evening?” Her voice sharpened, a blade under velvet.

As they were about to sprint, black power rose around Uroboros like smoke from a deep fire, and she watched the path ahead with a hunter’s patience.

“Exactly. The rule here is dawn-born, dusk-dying. By day, life flips the ledger; the living return for a brief sunlit span. By night, death owns the long hours; each side can only exist in its time.” Odin’s words moved like water under ice.

“Then it looks like the rule’s been broken.” Uroboros smiled coldly, power tapering into keen arrows, all aimed at the shape hiding in the greenery like a shadow under leaves.