Valkyrie Sania descended into the Lanic Gaxy like a bde splitting the void. Her wings shimmered with the frost of a thousand winters, eyes glowing with the light of Odin’s hall. Below her, the battlefield was already scorched — the remains of a fallen empire scattered across dead stars and broken moons.

  But this was not a rescue mission. It was a gathering.

  She called forth the faithful.

  From orbit, warships shaped like runes split open. Within them, 82,000 Norse Marines stepped out — once mortal, now reborn as warriors of Valhal. These converted soldiers had turned their backs on old oaths and pledged themselves to Odin. Behind them came others — battalions from lost worlds, survivors of forgotten wars — all drawn to the promise of eternal battle and rest in the halls of the Allfather.

  They marched through the Gates of Valhal, not built of gold, but of burning starlight and the bones of Titans. Inside, they knelt and praised the one-eyed god. The twelve yers of the defensive line stood in silence — ancient, automated citadels, watching over the transition between war and waiting.

  Sivia, gatekeeper of the eternal rest from the Angelic Dominion, spoke only once.

  "Your journey is done. This will be your eternal hall of sleep until I call you. Until you defend your new home."

  And just like that, the souls began to surrender. Minds quieted. Bodies faded into light. Dreams repced orders. The warriors rested — but not as men rest. They rested as weapons waiting to be drawn.

  One soul lingered.

  Lucius, once a captain in the 9th Norse Marine Corps, could not fully surrender to Sania’s blessing. Where others saw peace, he saw flickers — strange realms in the dark, like sparks in an oil spill.

  He saw downward.

  Into the 0-dimensional realms. Realms so fractured and small, each existed on the back of a single worshipper. Warped religions, each with fewer than a thousand followers. Dead gods whispering from colpsed space. Lucius wondered why they were allowed to exist at all.

  The thought itself was a crime.

  A dark eye opened across dimensions. Something old. Something broken. Something is still watching.

  It stared into Lucius, and he almost ceased to be.

  Then — light. Victoria, another Valkyrie, shattered the connection. She cshed with the dimensional will in silence, a battle fought not with weapons, but with concepts: divine faith, antimatter, holy matter, death itself. The fabric of reality bent. Victoria called down the raw essence of Odin — holy faith-matter, bck void-matter, null-space-matter. It poured into the fight like oil over fme.

  It recoiled. It blinked.

  Victoria turned to Lucius. Her voice was calm, but edged like a sword.

  "These are the lowest realms. They hold no weight, but they influence. They push higher realms into chaos. The only true equality exists in the mortal pne. Outpost Twelve. Sixty million pnets made from faith. That is where the bance lies. But not for now. You are in the Fourth Dimensional veil. You will fight again when your Valkyrie calls you."

  She rested her hand on his chest and whispered an old blessing.

  Lucius fell. Not in defeat — but into sleep.

  And the stars around him went quiet once more.

  Victoria arrived with judgment.

  Her armor shimmered in yered energies — divine gold beneath celestial bck. The battlefield, somewhere between gaxies and dimensions, bent in her presence. She hovered above the wreckage of a dead system, surrounded by ships the size of continents.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Before her were 250,000 ships carrying the faithful. Each vessel brimmed with souls — some who worshipped Odin, others who followed Aros, the silent fme-god of origin. Each ship held 1,152,000 warriors, awaiting their fate. In total, 288 billion souls — champions of two great pantheons, now standing before forces that none of them truly understood.

  They were not yet judged — but they were being watched.

  Before them, the Low Dimensional Gods stirred. These were the fragmentary deities — strange, unstable, some no rger than thought, others bloated by twisted belief systems. Their realms flickered like corrupted data, realities powered by barely a handful of followers. Dangerous in their unpredictability. Desperate for attention.

  Above them, the Mid-Dimensional Gods stood. They were steady. Ancient. These were the architects of the mortal realm, the gods who created the rules — physics, time, death, faith. One concept, divided into countless forms. Akina Wang was among them, her presence burning like Nullity fire. Her gaze alone made the souls tremble.

  Lucius had once said her nullification aura could strip sanity from a god. Now, every soul present felt it — a pressure on the edge of non-existence, as if they could be erased before the first star had formed.

  But there were gods even beyond Akina.

  Above the mid-dimensional pne, Higher Dimensional Realms floated — orderly, brilliant, serene. Their gods did not speak. They simply existed, pouring stability downward. These were not creators. They were sustainers. Guardians of structure. Their light touched all things — even those that rejected them.

  As Victoria watched, the judgment began.

  Odin’s followers stood tall. Their ranks were disciplined. Sania’s blessing still flowed through them. The worshipers of Aros, in contrast, burned with inner fire. Their souls pulsed like living suns — warriors of entropy and rebirth.

  And yet, both stood equally small before what towered above.

  High gods feasted — not on bodies, but on belief. The collection of one trillion souls in a single moment triggered celebration across higher pnes. Entire realms ignited with light. Concepts rejoiced. Divine thrones pulsed brighter.

  Only one god did not feast.

  The Reaper of the Underworld watched from the depths of a forgotten realm. Where others hungered for worship, he gathered the discarded. His eyes were orbs of shadow. Of the ten he once wielded, seven remained — each one absorbing death matter from those deemed unworthy by higher gods. These were the lost, the faithless, the shattered — and they were his.

  He raised one hand.

  In the distance, seven bck suns flickered. The underworld swelled, not in numbers, but in depth, reaching into the cracks between dimensions, anchoring itself more firmly within the lower pnes.

  The Reaper smiled.

  “Even what they forget has a pce,” he whispered.

  Back on the battlefield, Victoria turned her gaze skyward. She raised her spear and spoke a single word.

  “Ready.”

  And in that moment, the souls aligned. A trillion warriors, faithful to two pantheons, now stood between judgment and destiny. Some would ascend. Some would fall. Some would sleep until the next war.

  But all had been seen.

  Victoria passed through the veil with a trail of cold light at her back. The shift into the Mid Dimensional Domain wasn’t physical — it was a pressure behind the eyes, a taste of ancient heat in the bones. The realm around her ignited into view: towers of molten crystal, rivers of sunfire, clouds that flickered like furnace smoke.

  This was the Fire Realm.

  And it was alive.

  Before she could speak, a figure nded in front of her — half-silhouette, half-supernova. A catgirl, her tail flickering like a live wire, hovered with burning wings that spread into twelve shifting arcs of heat. In her left hand, she held a katana forged from liquefied fme, ever-changing in shape. In her right, a sword that shimmered with the calm intensity of a dying star.

  Victoria didn’t reach for her weapon. Yet.

  Then the sky brightened again — this time with the arrival of something far older.

  A twelve-winged being descended, fme pouring from its form like waterfalls of liquid gold. Its face was veiled in light. Its voice crackled like a colpsing sun.

  "Do you carry an invitation from Saigo no Honoo, First Fme, Final Ember?"

  Victoria stood straight, her armor reflecting the shifting light around her.

  "I was sent as an inspector. To determine if any born here carry traces of fme matter collected from mortal realms. We suspect migration — maybe even infusion of borrowed spirit."

  For a moment, neither the angel nor the catgirl moved. Then, heat deepened in the core of the realm. A presence stirred.

  He arrived.

  Saigo no Honoo — the First Fme, the living pilr of fire with 36 wings trailing infinite heat — approached without sound. His body was not humanoid, but fluid, more like a shaped inferno made aware. Each wing fred with a different color of divine combustion: sor, volcanic, ethereal, underworld, reactor-core white.

  "Ah, the inspector," Saigo said, amused. His voice sounded like an old war hymn pyed through wildfire.

  "Come to check the numbers? The growth? The purity?"

  He pointed upward.

  A fming eye opened in the sky — not with malice, but with sheer volume of being. It stared down at Victoria, and she instinctively resisted, locking her core, steadying her soul. Information poured in like va into gss:

  Popution Increase: 14.45%.Dominant Race Growth: Fme Rabbits — 50%.Newborn Races: 47 unique fme-born strains created from localized mortal realm emissions.Language Maturation: 15 fme-years required to form high speech in six-yer dialects.

  The fme-eye blinked once. Then vanished.

  Saigo no Honoo tilted his head, wings folding like firestorms put to rest.

  "We’re expanding faster than expected. The fme rabbits have a strange affinity for learning — possibly due to their memory retention during reincarnation cycles. We're tracing the cause back to remnants of a colpsed culinary cult from the mortal realm. Don’t ask."

  Victoria raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The angel beside her chuckled — something that sounded like heat hissing off steel.

  "And your weapon stockpiles?" Victoria asked.

  The catgirl raised her bdes.

  "In development. Some are born from concept-forged embers. Others, like mine" — she lifted the katana — "are inherited from the Ember Vault. This one remembers a thousand past wielders."

  Victoria nodded. "This report will do. But tell Saigo — if any more migration happens, especially soul-fragments from dead fme worlds, I need to know. No one wants a godborn uprising seeded by something we missed."

  "You’ll have it," the angel said.

  Saigo no Honoo simply smiled — an expression made entirely of heat and trust, which is to say: it burned.

  As Victoria turned to leave, the sky pulsed once — a silent nod from the Fire Realm itself.

  And then she was gone.

  Victoria’s message came with urgency etched in light: “Part of the First Progenitor is stirring. Warp Gaxy. Chaos God territory. I want confirmation. Sania, you're going.”

  She didn't hesitate.

  Sania descended through the barriers of reality like a bde cutting silk, moving past dimensions where faith held power, past the realm of holy order, past even the flickering false heavens. She dove into the rot and boiling pressure of what the gods called the Low Realm, but what the ancients knew as something far more dangerous:

  The Endless Blood Dimension.

  She nded silently in its lowest yer — a pce so dense with crimson that light couldn’t escape. Here, the ground bled. The air tasted of iron. Every breath was like drinking history's worst wars.

  Sania opened her divine eyes.

  Above her, hanging in a sky of arterial bck, was the Blood World Tree. Its roots twisted from the mortal realm, pulling blood from a thousand battlefields, feeding yer upon yer of this dimension. The more blood spilt across gaxies, the more vast and complex the Endless Blood Dimension became.

  She stepped toward the Blood Birth Lake, its surface calm like a whisper before a sughter. The ke fed into seas, and those seas bled into oceans that housed horrors unnamed by most tongues.

  And then, they rose.

  The Lesser Unknown Walkers.

  Formless and armored in bleeding mist, halos of bck-and-red circled their heads. Their swords were carved from condensed nightmare and molten memory. They moved like a swarm of wrath—uncounted trillions.

  But it wasn’t chaos. They were organized. Their rage had rhythm. Their faith had direction.

  Sania watched as one of them — suddenly, impossibly — flinched.

  A soul from another universe had entered it. Transmigrated, unknown, uninvited. A cosmic mistake or a hidden war gambit. But it didn’t matter.

  The Endless Blood Dimensional Will noticed.

  It opened its Wooden Eye, gnarled like ancient bark but formed from coaguted blood. It blinked once and began annihiting the foreign soul—not out of anger, but principle.

  The Will hated svery, it cimed.

  But only when it affected its kind.

  This soul, though, had a history — in its past life, it had never freed demi-humans, snakekin, harpies, and other shunned races. That truth boiled up like rebellion, and something strange happened: as the Eye crushed the soul, the Walkers paused, as if something from another world reminded them of what freedom once meant.

  The soul, before destruction, seeded something within them — a spark of memory, or defiance.

  The Will flinched.

  It would not destroy them. Not yet. But it would make a bargain.

  A new yer would be carved into the dimension — one governed by this soul’s twisted morality, empowered by tribute. Blood tributes. In exchange, the soul would grow stronger, mutated by war and ideology, and eventually be allowed to rule… if it bled enough.

  The Wooden Eye closed.

  Sania, unfazed, turned her gaze deeper — her divine sight cracked the skin of the world. She found something beneath the soil and bone: Fragments. Shards of the very destroyed soul. Each one used to forge a hundred rulers — each one bound to defend the dimension. A blood legion, created not through belief, but necessity.

  Then the realm shifted.

  From behind the horizon, two figures emerged.

  The first: Yaroshi, the Endless Blood Dimension’s First Progenitor — towering, flesh braided from screams and red ash. He grinned, mouth full of fangs carved from broken oaths.

  The second: the Blood Sun — no mere star. It bzed with a higher-dimensional presence, eclipsing even the World Tree in authority. It pulsed with sovereign heat, burning ideas into w.

  Yaroshi ughed. It was a sound that caused the Lake to ripple and the Walkers to still.

  "The Tree is the administrator," he said, gesturing casually. "It manages. It grows. But that—" he pointed to the Blood Sun, burning behind them like a judgment older than death—" that is the true Will. That is the Eye that never closes."

  Sania said nothing.

  But her eyes narrowed.

  She had the confirmation Victoria needed.

  The Endless Blood Dimension was not just active. It was expanding. Aligning itself with higher realms. Preparing for something beyond invasion — something permanent.

  She turned, wings unfolding, ready to report.

  And far behind her, deep in the seas of blood, the soul that shouldn't have existed stirred again.

  It wasn’t done.

  Sania descended again.

  From the Blood Birth Lake, she moved through a rift carved by discipline, not chaos. The Endless Blood Dimension wasn’t a mess of gore and screaming madness. It was organized. Every drop accounted for. Every soul tracked. Every nightmare tallied.

  She crossed into Layer 2, where the air thickened with spiritual pressure. Structures made of hardened bloodbone formed outposts and towers. Crimson fog rolled like mist through broken gates, and sigils of blood lit the walls with an eerie, intelligent glow.

  There, they waited.

  Guardian Walkers — rger, older, more rigid than the Lesser Unknowns. Their forms were humanoid but vast, armored with yered bonepte and crowned with blood wings that extended with every step. Each carried a sword and shield, both formed from pressurized, divine blood. Their shields pulsed with a rhythm synced to the dimension itself.

  They patrolled in silence, then stopped as Sania passed.

  One stepped forward.

  “Divine outsider,” it said, its voice like a bde dragged across wet stone. “We’ve logged your presence. You are not unpermitted, but not expected.”

  Sania gave a nod, eyes glowing with seer-light. “I came to inspect. Reports say the walkers have increased. I want numbers.”

  The Guardian Walker turned. Its wings fred, not in threat, but data transfer.

  “Walker births: Up 50%. Source: Nightmare-triggered spontaneous formations.”

  Sania raised an eyebrow. “Expin.”

  The Walker gestured toward the mist below. “The nightmares of existing Walkers—particurly trauma of being drained or forgotten—manifested into new beings. Self-replicating predators. We call them: Blood Bats.”

  Below the surface, Sania now saw them.

  Winged creatures, crimson-furred with exposed skeletal chests, sharp-veined wings, and glowing bck eyes. They flew in silent swarms, and when they bit, blood vanished — but not spilled. Consumed. Absorbed. Multiplied.

  “Each Blood Bat, upon draining a being, splits itself into twelve,” the Walker continued. “The Greater Blood Bats — their queens — give birth to one thousand with a single gallon of blood. However, they require death to be reborn and re-enter the Blood Cn’s cycle.”

  Sania stepped forward, watching them swirl like thoughts inside a disturbed mind.

  “Blood Cn?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the Guardian. “A vampire-like race. These bats cannot maintain physical form in this realm without blood from the mortal pne. Without it, they become thought. Shadows. Echoes. But with enough mortal blood, they take form… and status.”

  Sania’s eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me they’re only one year old?”

  “Correct,” said the Guardian. “Born from the nightmares of being drained. Fear made flesh.”

  “And their limit?”

  “They possess only three forms,” the Walker said. “Bat and two humanoid. No fourth. No hybrid. Their evolution is intentionally stunted by the Will of this realm.”

  Sania looked upward through the blood clouds. Somewhere beyond this yer, the Blood Sun still bzed.

  She understood now. The Endless Blood Dimension didn’t just grow from battle. It evolved from fear. From memory. From psychic residue of trauma — war, sughter, resurrection, and despair. And the Will of the realm not only allowed it...

  It harvested it.

  She turned back to the Guardian Walker.

  “I want a name for every Greater Blood Bat. And I want the tracking tethered to a mortal realm blood flow index. This isn't random. Something’s being pnned.”

  The Guardian bowed. “The order will be followed.”

  As Sania rose from the yer, her wings dragging streaks of clean white light through the red air, the Blood Bats below twisted, paused — and then, as if hearing her thoughts, scattered into the distance.

  She didn’t chase them.

  Sania returned to Valhal—not the one sung in mortal sagas, but the true seat of the 4th dimension. The skies shimmered with translucent yers of faith-energy, and the Gates of Valhal pulsed with the slumbering power of 82,000 Norse Marines, waiting for the next call to war.

  She stepped onto the Echo Fields, where sleeping souls rested in divine stasis. Twelve yered shields surrounded the realm. Each one hummed with Odin’s will.

  As she entered the Hall of Briefing, her divine armor slowly dimmed, a sign of peace, not submission. Her voice cut through the heavy air:

  “The realms remain stable. Growth within expected bounds. The Fme Pne reports 14.45% increase, no dimensional warping. Blood Pne is...active, but within parameters. The only anomaly is a strange emission of yered energy—uncimed dimensional echoes bleeding into baseline reality.”

  She paused.

  “Something is birthing energy—possibly realms—without clear origin.”

  Before anyone could respond, a fracture in the space formed like a blooming lotus, and through it stepped Akina Wang—Guardian of the 4th Dimension.

  Her presence warped the atmosphere. Her gaze, lined with nullity, saw through time and potential.

  Without a word, Akina raised her hand. From the gap between ideas and matter, she wove a spirit. Nullity spun around her fingers and formed into a 12-winged angel, bzing with restrained, order-born fire.

  “This angel will build an outpost in the mortal realm,” Akina said ftly.

  But the angel, eyes flickering with calcuted logic, spoke:

  “With respect, Creator. To establish true hold, I need a universe. The rivals I face—Chaos Gods—do not py fair. They cim souls by force, even without worship. Pandora reported it at the Five Millionth Concve.”

  The room went silent at the mention of that ancient gathering.

  Akina didn’t hesitate. She gathered Nullity matter—pure unformed potential—and walked to the edge of a Void Pne, a realm that births lesser voids in endless succession. She poured the Nullity into one.

  It responded. Grew. Expanded into the 6th Dimension.

  From it, Heaven's Seraphim rose.

  Their wings numbered from 0 to 144, each feather a scripture of her will. A divine blueprint unfolded above them:

  Every 2 wings granted command over 20 legions of angels.

  Ranks are locked to purity, loyalty, and the number of rebirths in light.

  Akina addressed the pantheon watching beyond time:

  “These are my angels. Not made of light—but of Nullity. They do not burn away to return to me. They endure. And they cannot be reversed into demons by the Chaos Gods.”

  The universe shook as the Dimensional Gate roared open, pulsing like a heart.

  They passed through realms ruled by Aros, a god of bance and radiant w. His cosmos tilted, permitting Akina’s new warriors access to the Mortal Realm—the contested ground of soul war.

  Archangel Pandora stood waiting, joined by her assistant, Anna Bke, a mortal-adjacent artificial being enhanced with divine protocol.

  But the 144-winged Seraphim, shining with rank and yered holiness, studied Anna coldly.

  “These are fwed copies. They do not return to source. They do not radiate creator's will. They are puppets of design—not spirits of destiny.”

  Anna flinched.

  Akina, calm but absolute, stepped forward.

  “That is why my angels must fight. When light is torn away and made into shadow, it feeds the Chaos Gods. My angels are permanent will—not energy to be twisted, not light to be devoured.”

  From far across the dimensional divide, the names whispered in the dark—Beelzebub, Lucifer, Lilith, Satanel—echoed with ughter.

  War was coming.

  But this time, the angels weren’t just burning lights in the sky.

  The southern sector of the Warp Gaxy boiled with rot and entropy.

  A Gate of Nullity, etched with living stars and silence, split the heavens. Born from ceaseless prayers and Akina Wang’s divine architecture, it opened a channel into one of the most cursed zones in the known universe—the blight-scape just south of Beelzebub’s festering empire.

  Out from this divine breach came legions.

  At the center, a Seraphim with 144 wings, each pair singing the ws of higher-order will. She did not step onto the battlefield. She descended like w itself.

  Behind her flowed the Lake of Nullity, a birthing pool of divine matter from which angels of various ranks emerged every second. Each angel was a fragment of divine will, sculpted into reality through Akina’s Nullity Spirit Creation—immune to corruption, immune to soul-tampering, bound only to their creator.

  Their target?

  The Fly Hounds.

  Twisted, hellish monstrosities—five-footed canine-insect hybrids, their stomachs ced with void bile and their tongues split into drilling teeth. They bred from consumption—every mortal devoured became two more.

  Worse still, above them floated the abominable Fly Pgue Mother. Her bloated, half-melted form stretched over five kilometers, erupting every fifteen minutes with five million pgue flies, their buzzing forming a chorus of suffering.

  Below her crawled Fly Makers, cursed flesh-creators whose breath spawned infestation. For every corpse they absorbed, a thousand flies burst out. Only mortals could be infected. Only mortals could be reborn as twisted Fly Makers.

  Not divine constructs.

  Not angels.

  The Seraphim’s legions knew this well. They advanced, not in fear but with precision. With every movement, twenty-legion commands of 12-winged angels deployed, cutting corridors through the hellspawn with Void-Gospel weapons—bdes that erased soul imprint, not just flesh.

  The battlefield became a chasm of order against endless decay.

  Then came the screech.

  Reality trembled as The Fly Dragon appeared—a warbeast of pestilence from the deeper warp. A draconic juggernaut, its wings insectile, its breath a pgue of bck vapor capable of turning mortals and those made by mortals along with being's made by God's servants are the only kin that turn into demons, warping their very flesh nto something unrecognizable while their souls are turned prisoners for not following these gods of chaos.

  But when the bck pgue touched the Seraphim’s army?

  It did nothing.

  The angels did not fall.

  The pgue coiled against their divine essence and scattered. Corruption could not infect what was never mortal to begin with. Their creators would have had no entropy, no cracks for decay to creep in.

  The Fly Dragon screamed in rage—an animal before a wall it could not break.

  The 144-winged Seraphim spoke only once:

  “Mortal souls are not yours to digest.”

  She raised twelve swords. With a single divine gesture, a nullity-lit halo widened around her. The ws of demonic conversion were overwritten in that region. Mortal souls, when killed here, passed directly into the heavens—untouchable by the pgue cycle.

  Even death became a weapon of salvation.

  And the war for the Warp Gaxy’s soul burned brighter.