At Odin’s words, the Reaper let out a bitter laugh, thin as wind over gravestones, eyes on that pure-white silhouette in the distance, and spoke low.

“Brynhildr’s strikes come after yet land first—no, anytime she attacks, she’s always a step ahead, sometimes several, like a shadow outrunning dawn. That’s the power of rules. You don’t have a chance.”

If she always lands first, what kind of force could stand against it? Imagine it—no matter how you throw a punch, no matter when, her blow is already at your nose, like thunder arriving before the flash.

This isn’t about speed anymore; it’s causality twisted, threads of fate knotted into a blade.

That’s one of the great weapons in the hand of the Valkyrie named Brynhildr, a spear hidden under snow and law.

“Wait, what about Aphelia? You shielded me, then she—”

“Rest easy. Brynhildr can’t kill her—at least this version can’t, absolutely not,” the Reaper said, voice like cold rain on iron.

Around the Reaper, her black robe hung like a barrier, a night curtain blocking Brynhildr’s gaze. She looked, bitter as frostbite, toward where Aphelia had been knocked away. For now, all hope sat on Aphelia’s shoulders, like a lantern before a storm, at least until the plan succeeds…

Damn… it hurts like coals in my gut.

Aphelia clutched her abdomen, a hiss of cold breath slipping through clenched teeth like winter wind.

Outside, nothing seemed broken. Inside, pain burned like a kiln; organs felt cracked like porcelain—no, shattered glass. Brynhildr’s power… how much was that?

Half strength? Thirty percent?

She brushed rubble off her shoulders like dust off wings and floated from the crater, slow as ash rising. Crimson Flame lit along her arms, then spread in all directions like a wildfire finding dry grass.

If the armor no longer holds, then add the Crimson Fire, let soul be the charcoal.

Facing Brynhildr, Aphelia didn’t dare relax; if she could give a hundred, she squeezed out a hundred and fifty, like wringing blood from a stone. The two crimson-robed maidens reappeared, ragged as torn banners, blades in hand, standing at her sides like twin moons, their gazes fixed on Brynhildr hanging in midair.

Noticing the stares below, Brynhildr extended a hand; pale fingertips curled in a taunt, like a swan’s neck bending with disdain.

“Hmph. Valkyrie pride, is it?” Aphelia’s voice was a spark under the wind.

Crimson Flame compressed into Aphelia’s hands. A spear took shape in her grip like a comet given a spine. The two maidens drifted forward, spears in hand, forming a triad like stars in a hunter’s belt.

She still couldn’t parse that last attack, but she refused to dance to the Valkyrie’s rhythm. In a clash of titans, the one pulled into the other’s cadence loses from the first beat, like a drum that breaks on the opening strike.

Aphelia didn’t rush in. She rose back into midair, steady as a hawk, while Crimson Flame spread slowly, trying to reclaim a clean patch of sky in the field the Valkyrie had stolen, like embers eating through frost.

A crimson lance cut across the pure-white domain. The Crimson Flame tried to ignite the snowfield, but the fire guttered, a candle in wind, ready to die. Aphelia shut her eyes and held still, like a blade held at the inhale.

If Crimson Fire burns my soul, then let it burn brighter, like a furnace stoked before dawn.

As if it heard, the dying Crimson Fire flared again, a phoenix feather catching, and pushed back the pure-white domain like tide against chalk cliffs. Aphelia’s form swayed in the wind of it.

She steadied at once, then stepped on the flames like stepping stones, and walked toward Brynhildr, calm as a pilgrim under stars.

“Found a way, but it isn’t the right way…” The Reaper’s face finally cracked, pain and struggle showing like barbed wire under silk. She gritted her teeth; a fist clenched unseen beneath the black robe, tight as a knot.

“What do you mean? Why isn’t it right? What else do you know?” Odin’s voice carried a storm; she strained against the Reaper’s hold like a hawk against tether.

Brynhildr was too strong, already beyond human measure, a mountain that walked. Odin had no reason to leave such a foe to Aphelia alone, and the Reaper’s words brewed a bad omen, like thunderheads rolling in.

“Tearing the domain to break the power is correct,” the Reaper said, voice like iron on stone. “But Aphelia’s burning her soul. Look at her hair tips—silver like frost at the edge of dawn. That’s the color of a soul on fire, and the lifespan that should have been hers…”

She drew an hourglass from her robe, an autumn of glass. Sand began to fall into it from the void itself, a golden rain you could see.

“This is her time. Until she defeats Brynhildr, it won’t stop,” she said, each grain a heartbeat.

“Then give that time back!” Odin roared, thunder in her throat, as the sand fell faster, and Aphelia’s hair slowly bled into silver, like moonlight drowning red.

“That’s impossible. Brynhildr is a god the world acknowledges, the only god here, a crown shaped by law,” the Reaper said, grief heavy as wet cloth. “What Aphelia does is an equal exchange with the world. I’m just the steward; I can’t break that rule. If I did, the world would hand Brynhildr greater power to balance, like a scale correcting a tilt.”

She shook her head, sorrow like a low bell. She could do nothing but avoid being Aphelia’s weakness, and watch the hourglass rise into a dune.

In the air, Aphelia drew near Brynhildr—one more step, and she’d enter range, like a foot over a trap’s line.

Hoo…

Clang!!!

In the space between breaths, the crimson lance and the Silver Lance crossed in the air, steel singing like winter birds. Scattered flames filled the space around them like fireflies; this time, Aphelia didn’t get blasted away. A clear notch marred her flame-forged spear, a bite taken by silver.

“She actually hit her?!” Odin’s eyes widened, stars struck by wind.

Aphelia had truly struck Brynhildr. The lances met. There was a notch in the crimson, but Brynhildr hadn’t forced Aphelia back; Aphelia stood before her, a pillar in a gale.

The unseen counter that arrived first no longer appeared, like a ghost kept outside a threshold.

“As expected. Tear your domain, and you can’t strike with that twisted blow,” Aphelia said with a cold smile, snow on fire. She lifted the crimson spear again. Pain spun in her skull like needles in storm, but her mind stayed clear as a winter lake. Crimson Fire kept burning the pure-white domain and wrestled with Brynhildr for Niflheim’s reins, heat against frost.

Brynhildr frowned, barely a ripple on still water, but she still didn’t attack first. She guarded the air at her side like a queen holds court; unless Aphelia stepped in close enough, she wouldn’t move.

Aphelia used the breath, the space, the quiet. When the crimson spear mended, she aimed straight at Brynhildr’s chest, a thrust like sunrise. This time, the two crimson maidens shadowed her, blades angling at Brynhildr’s neck, twin thorns for a white swan.

The move drew Brynhildr’s attention. The pure-white lance traced a strange path, like a curve cut into water. It didn’t block Aphelia’s thrust; instead, it struck and drove back the two maidens, tossing red leaves from the wind.

Aphelia didn’t waste the opening. Her spear flared hot, forced into Brynhildr’s armor like a brand to snow. Before she could drive deeper, that silver-white armor came alive, clamping the spear-tip like a jaw.

Aphelia withdrew instead of pressing, a laugh as sharp as broken glass. “This is the chance I was waiting for!!”

The spear born of Scarlet Inferno broke apart, collapsing back into scorching flame, the blaze drilling into the armor’s inside like a snake into reeds. Brynhildr blinked, a winter eye thawing; she tried to quench the fire with Aether, a cold well over coals. Aphelia was already at her front, the Crimson Bracer Gauntlets locking onto her arms again like flaming shackles.

“Crushing—Fist!!!”

Her right fist, wrapped in fire, slammed into Brynhildr’s abdomen with perfect aim, thunder under skin. The force and speed cracked the air with a blast, a shockwave that rang, giving Brynhildr a heavy hit and sending her flying—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

Brynhildr flew, like Aphelia at the start, a white star falling. But Aphelia wasn’t Brynhildr; she refused to waste the opening. Crimson Flame ripped open the pure-white domain like a red river cutting ice and surged after.

“Ora ora ora ora ora!!!”

Her flaming fists poured down like shells on Brynhildr’s body, each strike a drumbeat, explosions blooming in the air like summer storms. The two crimson maidens swung twin blades, sealing Brynhildr’s retreat like doors slammed in a hall, forcing her to face Aphelia head-on.

“No way?!” Odin stared, breath held like a string. Minutes ago, Brynhildr had pressed Aphelia down alone. Now Aphelia fought like a descended god, forcing Brynhildr out of her own domain, driving blows into white armor.

Under Aphelia’s barrage, even Brynhildr seemed to show wounds, red on snow.

The Reaper watched, worry shadowing her face like eclipse. “It’s one possibility,” she murmured, voice a moth at a flame, “but what I fear more is—”

Before she finished, the seemingly overwhelmed Brynhildr suddenly clamped Aphelia’s right fist, grip like iron frost.

“Impossible… ngh!!” Before Aphelia could swing again, Brynhildr’s right fist smashed into her face, a hammer on porcelain. In a blink, the storm flipped; the rain of blows fell on Aphelia. The pure-white domain bloomed from Brynhildr’s body like a lily exploding, and hurled the two crimson maidens away.