Valdris: The Fallen Who Rises
Book : A Broken Blade Reforged
Prologue
The sky was a dull, indifferent gray, the kind of overcast afternoon that mirrored exactly
how I felt on most days. A heavy, suffocating blanket of apathy that I had learned to wear
like a second skin.
My name is Austin. I'm twenty-two years old, and if you were to ask anyone who knew me—
or thought they knew me—they'd probably tell you I was a pretty normal guy. A bit quiet,
maybe. A bit too invested in my video games, my books, and the endless hours I spent
hunched over a keyboard typing out fanfiction, escaping into worlds where the rules made
sense and the heroes actually won.
I was a massive nerd, the kind who didn't just read stories, but dissected them. I spent
hours pouring over the grimdark lore of Warhammer K, memorizing the history of the
Primarchs and the Horus Heresy. I was obsessed with Tolkien's Middle-earth, to the point
where I had actually researched the theoretical metallurgy and runic enchantments
required to forge a Ring of Power, Celebrimbor-style. Useless knowledge in the real world,
my parents always said. Just another way to waste time.
They'd tell you I loved food, that I was always down for a burger or a slice of pizza, and that i
had a decent sense of humor.
They wouldn't tell you about the mask.
Because the mask was flawless. I had spent years perfecting it. The easy smile, the casual
shrug, the carefully modulated tone of voice that said, Hey, I'm fine. Everything's fine. It was
a survival mechanism, a way to keep the world at arm's length so no one could see the rot
underneath.
The truth was, I was drowning. I had been drowning since June of .
That was the month my dad died.
He wasn't just my father; he was my world. We did everything together. I was a mega nerd
about this game called Destiny, a game about dead warriors resurrected by a giant machine
to fight a cosmic war. I had even gotten him hooked on it. We'd spend hours running strikes
and raids, laughing until our sides hurt. He was the one person who always made me feel
like I was enough.
And then he was gone. I had tried to help him. I had tried so damn hard. I can still
remember the terrifying, frantic desperation of that day, the feeling of his blood on my
hands as I tried to save him.It didn't work.
I remember walking out back after the paramedics had taken him away. I remember
standing at the hose, staring blankly as the water washed his blood off my skin, watching it
swirl down the drain. I remember walking back inside, the house suddenly feeling like a
tomb. I walked into the living room, stopped in front of the wall next to the TV where we
used to play Destiny together, and I destroyed it. I put nine holes into the drywall before my
knuckles were bruised and bleeding, screaming until my throat was raw.
That was the day the real Austin died. The depression that followed wasn't just sadness; it
was a heavy, leaden weight that dragged me down until even the simple act of breathing
felt like a chore. It was the constant, gnawing voice of self-doubt whispering that I had
failed him, that I would always fail, that every attempt to be better was just a pathetic joke.
And beneath the depression? Rage. A cold, locked-away fury at the world, at the unfairness
of it all, at the people who hurt me and the people who didn't care enough to stop them. I
kept that rage buried deep, locked behind a mental vault with a combination I swore I'd
never use. If I let it out, I didn't know if I'd ever be able to put it back.
So, I smiled. I laughed at the right times. I played my games, I wrote my stories, and I
existed in a state of numb endurance.
That was my life, right up until five minutes ago, in the year . Six years of numb
endurance.
I had been walking down the street, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my hoodie,
the familiar weight of my phone bumping against my thigh. I was headed to a friend's
house. We had plans to hang out, maybe play a few rounds of that new co-op game that
had just dropped. It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday.
I was about halfway there when I heard my name.
"Austin!"
I stopped, turning around. The voice was familiar, though it was the last one I expected to
hear right now.
It was my sister, Stephanie. Or Steph, as she insisted everyone call her.
She was standing a few yards away, wearing a loose-fitting jacket and a smile that didn't
quite reach her eyes. Steph had always been difficult. That was the polite word my
parents used. The clinical word was schizophrenic. She had struggled with it for years, her
reality often fracturing in ways that left the rest of us scrambling to pick up the pieces.
But lately, it hadn't just been the illness. It had been him.
Gage.
Her boyfriend.I hated Gage. The word 'hate' felt too small, too insignificant for the visceral disgust I felt
whenever I looked at him. He was a parasite, a manipulative, smooth-talking sociopath who
had recognized the cracks in Steph's mind and crawled inside them. He didn't want to help
her; he wanted to control her. He fed her delusions, twisted her thoughts, and isolated her
from anyone who tried to point out how toxic he was.
Including me.
"Steph?" I asked, pulling my hands out of my pockets. "What are you doing out here? I
thought you were supposed to be at work."
She took a step closer, her head tilting slightly to the side. Her eyes were wide, the pupils
dilated, fixed on me with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
It wasn't a look of sisterly affection. It was the look of a predator studying a meal.
"I took the day off," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I needed to see you, Austin. I needed to
know."
"Know what?" I asked, my brow furrowing. My instincts were screaming at me that
something was wrong. The air felt too still, the street too quiet.
"What it tastes like," she whispered.
I froze. "What?"
"Human flesh," she said, her smile widening into something grotesque and entirely devoid
of sanity. "Gage said Gage said you wouldn't mind. He said you're my brother, so you
have to share."
A cold spike of adrenaline slammed into my chest. This wasn't just a delusion. This was a
psychotic break, and Gage had pushed her right over the edge.
"Steph, listen to me," I started, taking a step back, my hands coming up in a placating
gesture. "You need to calm down. Where is Gage? Did he give you something?"
I never got the chance to hear her answer.
I didn't hear him approach. I didn't see the shadow fall over me.
All I felt was the sudden, explosive agony as something heavy and unforgiving slammed
into the back of my right knee.
The crack of bone was louder than a gunshot.
My leg buckled instantly, the joint shattering under the immense force. I screamed, a raw,
tearing sound that ripped from my throat as I collapsed onto the concrete. The pain was
blinding, a white-hot flare that erased every coherent thought in my head.
Before I could even register what had happened, the weapon—a sledgehammer, my brain
dimly supplied, noticing the heavy iron head as it swung back—came down again.This time, it hit my left knee.
Another sickening crunch. Another scream that tasted like blood and copper.
I hit the ground hard, my face scraping against the rough pavement. I couldn't move my
legs. Below my thighs, there was only a fiery, agonizing void. I gasped for air, my vision
swimming with black spots as I tried to push myself up on my elbows.
"Good boy, Gage," Steph's voice floated above me, sickeningly sweet.
I managed to turn my head, my vision blurring with tears of pure agony. Gage stood over
me, the sledgehammer resting casually on his shoulder. He looked down at me with a
smirk, his eyes dead and cold. He didn't look angry. He didn't look crazy. He looked bored.
"Told you it would be easy, babe," Gage said, his voice a lazy drawl. "He's weak. Always has
been."
"You you son of a bitch," I choked out, coughing as a wave of nausea washed over me. "I
swear to the All-Father, I will kill you and drag you to the depths of Helheim."
Gage just laughed. It was a short, dismissive sound. "Sure you will, Austin. Sure you will."
He stepped back, gesturing to Steph with a flick of his wrist. "He's all yours, babe. Just like I
promised. Find out what he tastes like."
Steph stepped into my line of sight. In her right hand, she held a hunting knife. The blade
was long, serrated, and gleamed dully in the overcast light.
"Steph, no," I gasped, trying to drag myself backward with my arms. My shattered knees
screamed in protest, sending fresh waves of agony crashing through my nervous system.
"Steph, please. It's me. It's Austin. Don't do this."
She didn't hear me. Or if she did, she didn't care. The sister I knew was gone, buried
beneath layers of madness and Gage's poisonous manipulation.
She dropped to her knees beside me, her eyes completely vacant.
And then she brought the knife down.
The first strike caught me in the shoulder. It burned, a sharp, searing pain that cut through
the dull ache of my ruined legs. I cried out, trying to bat her hand away, but my movements
were sluggish, uncoordinated.
The second strike hit my ribs.
The third caught my bicep.
"Steph, stop!" I screamed, my voice cracking.
She didn't stop. She didn't even blink. She just kept stabbing, her arm rising and falling in a
rhythmic, mechanical motion.
Four. Five. Six.The pain became a continuous, overwhelming roar. I couldn't distinguish one wound from
the next anymore. It was just a symphony of agony, a chorus of tearing flesh and spilling
blood. I felt the warm, sticky wetness soaking through my hoodie, pooling on the concrete
beneath me.
"Fascinating," Gage murmured from somewhere above. "Look at how much he bleeds."
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
My vision was failing. The edges of the world were turning dark, closing in like the aperture
of a camera. I couldn't feel my arms anymore. I couldn't feel my legs. I could only feel the
cold, hard ground and the rhythmic, jarring impact of the blade.
Twenty-five. Twenty-eight. Thirty.
The final strike was the deepest. She drove the blade directly into my chest, just inches
from my heart. The air rushed out of my lungs in a wet, ragged gasp. I stared up at the gray
sky, my vision swimming.
Steph pulled the knife out with a wet shhhk sound. She lifted it to her face, her eyes wide
with manic curiosity, and touched her tongue to the blood-stained steel.
She frowned. "It just tastes like pennies," she said, her voice echoing as if from a great
distance. "Gage, you lied. It doesn't taste special at all."
"Shame," Gage replied, his voice equally distant. "Well, leave him. He's done. Let's go get
some real food. I'm starving."
"Okay," Steph said cheerfully.
I heard their footsteps retreating, the sound fading into the suffocating silence of the street.
They were just walking away. Leaving me to die in a puddle of my own blood, like roadkill.
I lay there, staring up at the sky. It was getting darker. The cold was seeping into my bones,
a deep, bone-chilling numbness that started at my extremities and worked its way inward.
So this was it.
This was how it ended. Not in a blaze of glory, not saving the world, not even surrounded by
people who loved me. Just bleeding out on a dirty sidewalk because my sister lost her mind
and her boyfriend was a monster.
The mask I had worn for so long finally cracked, shattering into a million pieces. And from
the wreckage, the rage poured out.
It was a dark, consuming fire, burning away the apathy, burning away the depression. I
hated them. I hated Stephanie for being so weak. I hated Gage for twisting her. I hated the
world for letting this happen.
That traitorous bitch will pay, I thought, the words echoing in the hollow cavern of my
fading mind. If it's the last thing I do. I will make them pay.But the rage wasn't enough to stop the bleeding. It wasn't enough to keep my heart beating.
The darkness finally closed in, swallowing the gray sky, swallowing the pain, swallowing the
rage.
There was only black.
I don't know how long I floated in that void. Time didn't seem to exist there. It was just an
endless expanse of nothingness, a silent, empty sea.
I should have been dead. I knew I was dead. You don't survive shattered knees and thirty
stab wounds, especially not one that close to the heart.
But then, the darkness began to shift.
It wasn't a sudden explosion of light. It was a slow, creeping warmth, like the first rays of
dawn breaking over the horizon. The warmth seeped into the void, wrapping around me,
pulling me upward.
And then, I heard a voice.
It was deep, resonant, and ancient. A voice that sounded like grinding tectonic plates and
howling winter winds.
"Not yet, young one," the voice rumbled. "Your thread is not yet ready to be cut."
Suddenly, the void tore open.
A swirling vortex of energy erupted before me, a maelstrom of violent blues and blinding
golds. The sheer force of it pulled at me, dragging my consciousness toward the center.
I tried to fight it, but I had no body, no limbs to struggle with. I was just a spark in the dark,
caught in the gravity of a dying star.
As I was pulled closer to the portal, a figure emerged from the swirling light.
He was massive, towering over me like a mountain. He wore armor that gleamed with an
inner light, intricately carved with runes that hurt my eyes to look at. A heavy, fur-lined
cloak billowed around his broad shoulders. In his right hand, he held a spear. It wasn't an
ordinary weapon. It pulsed with a terrifying, raw power, the air around the blade crackling
with unseen electricity.
I knew that spear. I had read about it in a hundred different myths, a thousand different
stories.
Gungnir.
I looked up, my gaze traveling past the spear, past the armor, to the man's face. He was old,
his skin weathered and lined with centuries of wisdom and war. A thick, gray beard covered
his jaw. But it was his eyes—or rather, his eye—that held my attention.His left eye was covered by an ornate eyepatch. His right eye, however, burned with a fierce,
piercing intelligence. It was an eye that had seen the birth and death of stars, an eye that
looked right through the void and saw the shattered, broken soul of a twenty-two-year-old
boy.
Odin. The All-Father.
He reached out, his massive, gauntleted hand closing around the ethereal essence of my
being.
"You have suffered much, Austin," Odin said, his voice echoing in the space between us. "A
life defined by pain, hidden behind a fragile mask. I have watched you. I have seen the
darkness that threatened to consume you, and I have stayed your hand when the despair
grew too heavy."
I stared at him, my mind reeling. He had been watching? The times I had stood on the edge,
the times I had stared at a bottle of pills and wondered if it was worth the effort to keep
going he had been there?
"Why?" I managed to project the thought, my voice soundless in the void.
"Because I saw the fire beneath the ash," Odin replied. "I saw the rage. The refusal to yield,
even when the world offered you nothing but cruelty. You were broken by those you should
have been able to trust. But a broken blade can be reforged. It can be made stronger."
He raised his hand, and a surge of golden light erupted from his palm, washing over me.
"I grant you my blessing, Austin," Odin proclaimed, his voice ringing with absolute
authority. "The power of regeneration. The resilience of the Aesir. Your flesh shall mend,
your bones shall knit, and death shall find you a difficult prize to claim."
The golden light seeped into me, burning away the cold, burning away the lingering echoes
of the pain. It felt like liquid fire in my veins, a terrifying, exhilarating rush of pure vitality.
"Now," Odin said, his single eye narrowing. "Awaken. Your new life begins."
He hurled me toward the swirling portal.
The transition was violent. One moment I was floating in the ethereal void, and the next, I
was slammed back into the physical world with the force of a freight train.
Gravity reasserted its hold on me, and I hit the ground hard.
The first thing I registered was the cold, polished stone beneath my cheek. The second
thing was the smell. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood and the damp scent of city
concrete. It was the crisp, clean scent of ozone, pine, and something ancient and magical.
I gasped, my lungs expanding as they dragged in a desperate, ragged breath of air.
I was alive.I pushed myself up on my hands, my muscles trembling with exertion. I looked down at my
body. My hoodie was shredded, soaked in a horrifying amount of my own blood. My jeans
were torn where Gage had shattered my knees.
But the pain the pain was changing.
It wasn't the blinding agony of dying. It was a strange, intense itching sensation,
accompanied by a sickening series of pops and cracks.
I watched in morbid fascination as the ruined flesh of my legs began to knit itself together.
The shattered bone fragments shifted beneath my skin, grinding and snapping back into
place. The stab wounds on my chest and arms bubbled, the torn muscle fibers weaving
together like a time-lapse video of a healing wound.
Within seconds, the worst of the injuries were gone. My knees felt solid. My chest, where
Stephanie had nearly pierced my heart, was smooth, save for a jagged, pale scar that
remained as a grim reminder of her betrayal.
I was healed. Odin's blessing. It was real.
I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position, my head spinning. I was in a massive hall. The
architecture was breathtaking—towering pillars of white stone, intricate tapestries
depicting epic battles, and a ceiling that seemed to stretch up into the heavens themselves.
And standing a few feet away, watching me with an amused expression, was the All-Father
himself.
He looked exactly as he had in the void, though in the physical world, his presence was
even more overwhelming. The sheer magical pressure rolling off him made the air feel thick
and heavy.
"Well," Odin rumbled, leaning heavily on Gungnir. "That was an impressive display of
resilience. How do you feel, young man?"
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the sheer impossibility of the situation. I had
been murdered by my sister. I had died on a dirty sidewalk. And now, I was sitting in what
looked like Valhalla, talking to the chief deity of the Norse pantheon.
"My my name is Austin," I stammered, my voice raspy and unused. I tried to stand, my
newly healed legs trembling slightly under my weight. "You're you're the All-Fathe—"
That was as far as I got.
The adrenaline crash hit me like a physical blow. The exhaustion of dying, the shock of the
resurrection, and the overwhelming presence of the god standing before me all
compounded into a single, massive wave of fatigue.
My vision swam, the grand hall spinning wildly around me.
"Ah," Odin noted, his tone mild.My eyes rolled back in my head, and I collapsed, hitting the polished stone floor with a dull
thunk.
"Well, that was unexpected," Odin murmured, stroking his gray beard as he looked down at
the unconscious boy.
He turned his gaze toward the shadows of the hall, where a figure stood at attention. She
was clad in intricate silver armor, her long, pale silver hair cascading down her back. Her
expression was stoic, her posture rigid with discipline.
"Rossweisse," Odin called out, his voice echoing in the quiet hall.
The Valkyrie stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Yes, All-Father?"
"Please escort this extraordinary young man to my wife, Freya," Odin instructed, gesturing
to Austin's prone form. "See that he is cleaned up and tended to. He has had a rather trying
day."
"At once, All-Father," Rossweisse replied. She moved with effortless grace, easily lifting the
young man into her arms despite his size. She didn't question the order, nor did she
question where the blood-soaked human had come from. She simply bowed again and
carried him away.
Odin watched them go, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips.
He turned back to the spot where the portal had been, now nothing more than a faint
shimmer in the air, already fading. He tapped Gungnir against the stone floor, the rhythmic
clack echoing through the empty hall.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself. "Very interesting."
He had seen the boy's thread in the tapestry of fate years ago—a fraying, fragile thing,
constantly on the verge of snapping. Time and again, Odin had intervened, subtle nudges
from across the dimensional divide. A moment of unexpected kindness from a stranger
when Austin was at his lowest. A phone call at just the right moment. A sudden, inexplicable
hesitation when the boy's hand had reached for the pills.
Small miracles. Invisible hands.
But the attack had been different. The thread hadn't just frayed—it had been severed. Cut
clean by the betrayal of blood. And in that severing, Odin had seen something remarkable.
The thread didn't dissolve. It burned. It caught fire, blazing with a furious, golden light that
refused to be extinguished.
That was when Odin knew. This boy was not meant to die in that world. He was meant to
burn in this one.
The All-Father chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that shook dust from the ancient rafters. He
turned and walked deeper into the hall, Gungnir's tip leaving faint, glowing runes on thestone floor with each step.
The supernatural world was about to get very interesting.
The darkness that took me wasn't the empty, terrifying void I had floated in before. It was a
deep, restorative sleep. The kind of sleep you fall into when your body has nothing left to
give, when every ounce of adrenaline has been burned away and all that remains is the
desperate need to heal.
But even in that sleep, my mind wouldn't stop working.
Dreams flickered behind my closed eyelids, disjointed and chaotic. I saw the gray sky of my
old world, the cracked pavement where my blood had pooled. I saw Stephanie's vacant,
manic eyes, and the glint of the hunting knife. I heard Gage's bored laughter. The memory
of the sledgehammer crushing my knees echoed through my subconscious, a phantom
pain that made me twitch in my sleep.
But then, the dreams shifted. The gray sky was torn away, replaced by the swirling, violent
colors of the portal. I saw Odin's single, piercing eye, felt the crushing weight of his
presence, and the burning, liquid fire of his blessing surging through my veins.
"A broken blade can be reforged. It can be made stronger."
The words echoed in my mind, a mantra of survival. I wasn't dead. I had been given a
second chance. A new life in a world I had only ever read about in fanfiction and seen in
anime. High School DxD. A world of devils, angels, fallen angels, and mythological gods. A
world where power dictated everything, and where a normal human was nothing more
than collateral damage in a supernatural war.
But I wasn't a normal human anymore, was I?
I had Odin's blessing. I had regeneration. I had survived an execution that should have left
me as a stain on a sidewalk.
The rage that I had kept locked away for so long—the cold, dark fury that had finally
shattered my mask—was still there. It hummed beneath the surface of my consciousness, a
coiled spring waiting to be released. I wasn't going to hide it anymore. I wasn't going to
smile and pretend everything was fine.
Gage and Stephanie had taught me a valuable lesson. Weakness invited cruelty. If you
couldn't defend yourself, the world would tear you apart just to see what you tasted like.
I wouldn't be weak again.
Awareness returned slowly, like a diver swimming up from the depths of the ocean.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was intoxicating. A blend of jasmine, sandalwood,
and something distinctly floral that I couldn't quite place. It was a far cry from the metallictang of blood and the stale air of my bedroom.
The second thing I noticed was the softness beneath me. I was lying on something
incredibly plush, wrapped in sheets that felt like spun silk. The contrast between this and
the cold, hard concrete of my death was so jarring that for a moment, I thought I was still
dreaming.
I groaned, the sound rough and dry in my throat, and forced my eyes open.
The light in the room was soft and golden, filtering through sheer curtains that billowed
gently in a warm breeze. I blinked, my vision slowly coming into focus. I was in a massive,
opulent bedchamber. The walls were draped in rich fabrics, the furniture carved from dark,
polished wood.
I tried to sit up, and my body immediately protested.
It wasn't the sharp, agonizing pain of shattered bones or punctured organs. It was a deep,
pervasive ache, like I had just run a marathon while carrying a car on my back. My muscles
felt leaden, exhausted from the rapid, unnatural process of knitting themselves back
together.
I pushed through the ache, forcing myself up onto my elbows. I looked down at my chest.
My ruined, blood-soaked hoodie was gone. I was wearing a loose-fitting tunic made of soft,
white linen. I reached up with a trembling hand and pulled the collar down.
There it was. The scar.
It sat right over my heart, a jagged, pale line against my skin. It was the only physical
evidence that Stephanie's knife had ever touched me. I traced the line with my fingertips,
feeling the slight ridge of the healed tissue.
My knees.
I threw the silken sheets back and looked at my legs. They were whole. The skin was
unblemished, the joints perfectly aligned. I tentatively bent my right knee, wincing at the
stiffness, but there was no pain. No grinding of bone fragments.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. It was real. All of it.
"You should not push yourself so soon, young one."
The voice was smooth, melodic, and carried an undertone of undeniable authority.
I snapped my head up, my heart hammering in my chest.
Sitting in a high-backed chair near the window was a woman. Calling her beautiful felt like
an insult to the word. She was radiant, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders like
spun sunlight. She wore a flowing gown that seemed to shift and shimmer with every
breath she took. Her eyes, a deep, mesmerizing blue, were fixed on me with a mixture of
curiosity and amusement.I knew who she was. You didn't read as much mythology and fanfiction as I did without
recognizing the Norse goddess of love, beauty, and war.
Freya.
"I... I'm sorry," I managed to croak out, my voice sounding incredibly small in the grand
chamber. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Freya laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Intrude? You were carried into my chambers
unconscious and covered in your own blood, courtesy of my husband. If anyone is
intruding, it is Odin, for dropping his latest project in my lap without so much as a word of
explanation."
She stood up, moving with a grace that was entirely inhuman, and glided across the room
toward the bed.
"Rossweisse told me you had a trying day," Freya continued, stopping at the edge of the
bed and looking down at me". Though judging by the state of your clothes when you
arrived, 'trying' seems like a rather inadequate word."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I... I died."
Freya's expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained sharp. "Yes. I can see the
echoes of death clinging to your aura. But you are not dead now. Odin's blessing is strong
within you. The All-Father does not hand out his favors lightly. Tell me, Austin—for that is
the name Rossweisse gave me—what did you do to earn the attention of the chief of the
Aesir?"
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking slightly. "I didn't do anything," I whispered.
"I was just... walking down the street. My sister and her boyfriend ambushed me. He
smashed my knees with a sledgehammer. She stabbed me thirty times."
I looked back up at Freya, the memory of the betrayal burning in my chest. "They left me to
die. And then... I was in the dark. And Odin was there. He said he had been watching me. He
said he saw the fire beneath the ash."
Freya studied me in silence for a long moment. Her gaze felt heavy, as if she were peering
straight through my skin and examining my soul.
"The fire beneath the ash," she repeated softly. "Yes. I can see it. You are a human, but your
spirit is fractured. Broken by those you trusted. But in that breaking, something else was
released."
She reached out, her cool, delicate fingers brushing against my cheek. The touch sent a jolt
of energy through me, a startling contrast to the lingering numbness of my near-death
experience.
"You are angry, Austin," Freya said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You are
furious at the world that broke you.""I am," I admitted, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I didn't try to hide it. I didn't put
the mask back on. There was no point in lying to a goddess. "I want them to pay."
Freya smiled, a sharp, predatory expression that reminded me she was not just a goddess of
love, but a goddess of war. "Good. Anger is a powerful motivator. It will keep you alive in the
days to come. Because the world you have entered is far more dangerous than the one you
left behind."
She pulled her hand back, turning and walking toward a small table near the window. She
poured a goblet of water from a crystal pitcher and brought it back to me.
"Drink," she commanded gently. "Your body has healed, but it requires sustenance."
I took the goblet with trembling hands and drank deeply. The water was cold and crisp,
instantly soothing my parched throat.
"Where exactly am I?" I asked, handing the goblet back. I knew the general answer—the
Norse realm in the DxD universe—but I needed to know the specifics.
"You are in Asgard," Freya replied, setting the goblet down. "Specifically, you are in my
personal estate. Odin believed it would be the safest place for you to recover while he
attends to... other matters."
She sighed, a hint of exasperation creeping into her tone. "My husband is a complicated
being. He sees the threads of fate, the grand tapestry of the universe. He brought you here
for a reason, Austin. You are a wild card. An anomaly thrown into a world that is already
teetering on the brink of chaos."
I frowned, my mind racing as I tried to recall the timeline of the DxD universe. If I was here,
in Asgard, what was happening in the human world? Had the canon events started yet? Was
Issei Hyoudou already a devil? Was the peace treaty between the three factions in motion?
"What year is it?" I asked urgently. "In the human world, I mean."
Freya raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. "Time flows differently across
the realms, but in the human world you are familiar with, it is currently the year ."
.
My breath hitched. The canon events of High School DxD didn't begin for another ten years.
Issei Hyoudou was just a kid right now. Raynare hadn't even thought about coming to
Kuoh. The peace treaty between the three factions was still a distant dream.
I wasn't at the starting line. I was ten years early. Ten years to prepare. Ten years to train, to
grow stronger, to build my own foundation before the world descended into chaos.
"You know something," Freya observed, her eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn't a question.
She could read the realization on my face."I... I know stories," I said carefully, choosing my words. I couldn't exactly tell a Norse
goddess that her entire existence, and the existence of every devil, angel, and god in this
universe, was a light novel series in my old world. "Where I come from, there are myths.
Legends about this world. About the factions. The devils, the angels, the fallen."
Freya's expression turned thoughtful. "Interesting. The All-Father did say you were
extraordinary. If you possess knowledge of the factions, it will serve you well. Ignorance is a
quick path to death in this realm."
She walked over to a large armoire and opened it, pulling out a set of clothes. They weren't
the ornate, glowing armor of the Aesir, but rather a simple, practical outfit—dark trousers, a
sturdy tunic, and a leather jacket.
"You cannot stay in my bedchamber forever," Freya said, tossing the clothes onto the foot of
the bed. "Once you are dressed and feel capable of standing, you will join me in the
courtyard. If you are to survive in this world, you must learn to control the blessing Odin has
given you. Regeneration is a powerful tool, but it will not stop a devil from incinerating you,
or a fallen angel from piercing your heart with a spear of light."
She turned toward the door, her silken gown trailing behind her. She reached the heavy oak
threshold and paused, her hand resting lightly on the brass handle.
Slowly, she turned her head to look back at me over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were
piercing, holding the weight of centuries of war and prophecy.
"One more thing," Freya said softly, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "The boy who died
on that sidewalk Austin. He was weak. He allowed himself to be broken by those he
should have trusted. That boy is dead, and he must remain dead."
I stared at her, the truth of her words settling over me like a heavy mantle. She was right.
Austin was the mask. Austin was the victim.
"You are in Asgard now," Freya continued, her tone shifting from gentle to commanding.
"You are forged from the All-Father's blessing. You are no longer Austin."
She held my gaze, and when she spoke her next words, they felt less like a suggestion and
more like a divine decree.
"From this day forward, you are Valdris. The fallen who rises."
A shiver ran down my spine, the name resonating deep within my chest, right beneath the
jagged scar. Valdris. It felt heavy. It felt powerful. It felt right.
"Get dressed, Valdris," Freya ordered, a small, proud smile touching her lips. "Your new life
begins today. Do not waste the second chance you have been given."
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the grand chamber.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the clothes on the bed.This was real. I was in Asgard. I had Odin's blessing. I was about to be trained by Freya, the
goddess of war.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet touching the cool stone floor. My
knees held my weight perfectly as I stood up. I took a deep breath, the scent of ozone and
magic filling my lungs.
The depression, the crushing weight that had defined my existence for so long, felt distant.
It wasn't entirely gone—I knew it would always be a part of me—but it was no longer the
loudest voice in my head.
The rage had burned it away, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve.
I walked over to the bed and picked up the dark tunic.
Stephanie and Gage had tried to end my story. They had broken my body and left me to die
in the dirt. But they had only succeeded in breaking the mask. They had set me free.
I pulled the tunic over my head, hiding the jagged scar over my heart.
I was in a world of monsters, gods, and magic. A world where power was the only currency
that mattered.
I didn't know what Odin's grand plan for me was. I didn't know how my presence would
change the timeline of the DxD universe.
But I knew one thing for certain.
I was never going to be a victim again.
I grabbed the leather jacket, sliding my arms into the sleeves, and turned toward the door.
I caught my reflection in a polished bronze mirror mounted on the wall beside the armoire.
For a moment, I didn't recognize myself. The face staring back at me was the same—same
dark eyes, same jawline, same messy hair—but something behind the eyes had changed.
The hollow, defeated emptiness that had lived there for years was gone. In its place was
something sharper. Harder. A cold, quiet intensity that I had never seen in my own
reflection before.
I held my own gaze for a long moment.
"Valdris," I said quietly, testing the name on my tongue as if hearing it for the first time. It
felt different. It felt like it belonged to someone who mattered. Someone who couldn't be
broken.
I thought about my old world. About the friends who would wonder where I went. About
my parents, who would find my blood on the sidewalk and never know the truth. About the
stories I had been writing, the fictional heroes I had poured my soul into, never realizing
that I was writing my own escape.A pang of grief hit me, sharp and unexpected. I wasn't just leaving behind the pain. I was
leaving behind everything.
But I couldn't go back. Even if I could, what was there to return to? A sister who wanted to
eat me and a boyfriend who watched it happen for entertainment?
No. That world was done with me, and I was done with it.
Austin died on that sidewalk. Freya was right.
I straightened the leather jacket, squared my shoulders, and turned toward the door.
My name is Valdris. The fallen who rises.
And the game had just begun.