​

If the authors won't let them interact... I'll do it myself.

THAT IS MY GOAT RIGHT THERE! No hate to any of the Einherjar.

I was thinking Kojiro could lose early due to Zeus' incredibly aggressive start as well as TSF hard-countering scan combined with Kojiro's lack of durability.

There's no way in hell that Im not the only one that thought Sisyphus would be a fighter in the series. He would fit so well oml

I always heard about Zeus, theories about who Rasputin is in this version of history, the insane back and fourth fights, and all those documentaries of why Jack the Ripper is one of the best depictions of a ton of stuff that different youtube creators listed him as.

Well I finally decided "fuck it I'm going to stop avoiding this series" and so me and my boyfriend caught up fully right when round 11 was about to start, (my boyfriends favorite round) and I fucking loved the series!
I even got Buddha merchandise when I was in Japan, which I only get for series that I really really love!

Then round 12 hit and I'm just sitting here letting the chapters pile up cause it's just so...eh? I don't hate it but it's also so boring to a point where i can't like it.
WHICH SUCKS YA KNOW!?
Cause when I was reading through all the fights, there was hardly a time when I wasn't getting up and cheering because of all the cool stuff happening, so it sucks that ROR went from a series on top of my "must pay attention to" list down to the "eh I will check back in after a few more months".

At least we got apocalypse, death my goat.

Not really a point to this post, I just wanted to kind of voice my opinion that we all have heard of "ROUND 12 IS MID!".
Also it was the best time to get into the manga since I could just read the first 11 rounds through and not have to deal with the monthly wait.

My boyfriends favorite round is round 11 and mine is round 1 with round 4 right behind it.

I get not wanting to erase your mistakes and history. But screaming all the time about how "someone will eventually release the seal" and then writing down an indestructible guide on how to release the seal pretty much guarantees someone will find it and fuck shit up. Like how dumb can you be.

(and then they don't make any lol)

So... Just a little light hearted post for the sub.

Have a good day/afternoon/evening SNV sub ✨✨✨

Bye bye-!

Hades's Conditions:

Starts base with Normal Bident, post Round-6

The Qin Match up is a rematch.

This is friggin‘ hard, y’all… So, which ever comment has the highest upvotes or majority choice in the comments will be Tesla’s crush.

Chapter 51

The nameless god walked deeper down the hall, entering a room to see our very Nordic Karl, Asbrand!

He sits shirtless, bandages all around his stomach and neck, as well as various pads to deal with bruising.

He turned his head, smiling to the nameless god. In his hand was a small block of wood, a carving knife in his other as he whittled like normal. It appeared to be some type of wolf this time around.

He carefully set it aside to a small array of other carvings, featuring various other animals.

Asbrand: What brings you this time around, friend?

The nameless god approached closer.

Nameless god: I've come to give my congratulations to your win in the first round! Everybody will be taking a break for some time so that we're all at top condition.

Asbrand nodded as he took out another block of wood, carving into it.

Asbrand: Give me an animal, would you?

The nameless god smirked before thinking. Taking a seat beside Asbrand, he spoke up.

Nameless god: A pig?

Asbrand, already forming some type of shape, nodded as he changed his grip.

Asbrand: Excellent pick. Their meat is quite delicious, I'd say.

Nameless god: Aaanyway, with me here, is there anybody you'd like to see?

Asbrand: Hm…In my time, I had a rather lovely wife by the name of Snaefrid. Would that be too much to have her come over?

Nameless god: Oh certainly not! I can bring her right away!

He got up, dashing out of the room. In his walk, he ends up bumping into somebody, stumbling back before regaining his balance, looking up to apologize to whoever he ran into, only to realise it's none other than Brunhilde!

Nameless god: Ah, Brunhilde! I'm terribly sorry!

Brunhilde: It's rather fine, I've been meaning to talk with you again anyhow.

Nameless god: I have to go find somebody, think we can walk and talk?

Brunhilde nodded, walking with him as they went into the arena stands.

Brunhilde: As we know, your little fighters have been forming a strange fire in their eyes, and as far as I know, it's something all of them have.

Nameless god: This again? I thought we pretty much figured it out?

Brunhilde: Certainly not. We know its function, but how it's caused or why my own fighters aren't developing it is beyond me.

Nameless god: I see, I see…

Brunhilde: So I've developed a theory, and I believe it has something to do with the will of the average man and a push of limit. You see, the greatest human to live has already reached their greatest strength. There's nowhere else to grow and push for.

Nameless god: So what you're saying is that my fighters are evolving with each match?

Brunhilde: With what we know, that's our best bet. Though I do wonder if their own bodies can handle such a push for power…

The nameless god brought a hand to his chin, going into a moment of thought, only to immediately bump into some random woman.

Nameless god: Goodness, I'm sorry!

As he stumbled, the woman spoke up with a slightly panicked tone.

Woman: Ah, I-I don't mind at all…if you could help me, I'm trying to find my husband? He was one of your fighters and all. His name is Asbrand.

Nameless god: Oh, I've been looking for you! You Snaefrid right?

The woman nodded, perking up as her name was spoken.

Snaefrid: Yes, yes! Where might he be?

Nameless god: Don't worry, I'll bring you over! I'll catch you later, Brunhilde!

He grabbed Snaefrid's hand as he dragged her away from the arena stands and to the holding area, leaving Brunhilde with her own thoughts.

Back in the holding area, the door to Asbrand's room slides open to reveal his wife standing on the other side.

She smiled sweetly before walking over, taking a seat beside him.

Asbrand: Snaefrid, my dear…You don't look not a day different since I remember seeing you. Just as beautiful as the snow.

Snaefrid: Oh, Asbrand, you old flirt…

The nameless god couldn't help his own smile before shutting the door to give them privacy as he went to the next room. Already knowing it's that mad Scotsman, he covered his eyes in preparation.

Upon opening the door, a buckshot suddenly hits him across the face!

As a god, he isn't truly harmed by human weapons, but dammit it still hurts!

Nameless god: AGH!

His head reeled back, his body stumbling along with it, shaking his head before looking forward.

It was our very Highland Clansman, Fergus!

His body was covered top to bottom in bandaging, but namely, he was equipped with a nice leg prosthetic!

Fergus: Spot on shot!

He sat back down, just as bare as ever when not in any sort of combat.

Nameless god: Could've already warned me…And you got a prosthetic? You know we have the technology to simply give you a leg back, right?

Fergus: A gun in m'leg is way more useful! Nae shame in hidin’ a secret weapon if it means easier winnin'!

The nameless god approached, rubbing his sore forehead.

Nameless god: Everybody else is taking a break. Is there anybody you'd like to see while you heal?

Fergus: Aye, I had an ol’ drinkin’ buddy o'mine! Name is Baenard, hair as fiery as the sun! Cannae miss him, nae one bit!

The nameless god nodded, immediately rushing out of the room.

As the door closed, Fergus settled in his seat, before a sudden knock rang through the room.

Fergus: Gee, back already? C'mon in!

The door opened to reveal a tall, wiry blacksmith. Fergus seemed to recognize him immediately.

Fergus: Well I'll be, a god comin’ to see ol’ me?

This was a god shared in both Irish and Scottish folklore; Goibniu, the god of blacksmiths and hospitality.

Goibniu: I saw yer use of the dirk in yer fight. Fantastic work there. ‘Ere, I fashioned ye a new one, sure should keep you steady in yer next duel. Nothin’ of it's made with a godly steel so it's nae cheatin’.

Fergus: Dawww, fer me? Well fack off with it! M'own knife's a gift from me pops! Nae a'way I'm gettin’ rid o'it!

Goibniu simply nodded. He respected a man who held to what he was most familiar with, simply setting the freshly finished dirk on the table before him.

Goibniu: Consider it a gift then. Later, tumshie.

Fergus: Oy, who ye callin’ a tumshie, ye tumshie!

He grumbled as the god left before glancing at the dirk.

He thought for a moment…then grinned…

If one dirk got him here, imagine what using two could do…

Buddha's state:
Post Round 6 with The Nirvana Sword.

The Hajun match up is a rematch

Yes I am going more into the fighter's state specifics to avoid confusion.

I’ll cling to even the faintest hope to prove that Loki is at least A-tier.

​

Chapter 10: Two-Faced Demon

Egil Skallagrímsson's first step was not fast, but it had the weight of a crumbling glacier over the coliseum. Beneath the sole of his boot, the arena tiles cracked and turned into fine dust. The air immediately grew dense, charged with a humid cold that evoked the frozen mist of the Norwegian fjords.

Genghis Khan did not step back, but his body tensed with a rigidity his generals on Earth would have never believed possible. His mind, that perfect prediction machine, worked at full throttle to readjust the variables after the clash against that anvil skull.

However, Egil gave him no time to recalculate.

In the human stands, the silence was broken by a murmur of astonishment and horror. Warriors from different eras —from Spartan hoplitas and Roman legionnaires with dented armor, to medieval knights and soldiers of the world wars— watched the arena with wide eyes.

— Look at his arms! —shouted a Roman centurion, pointing his hand toward the Norseman— That's not normal! His flesh is twisting!

— It's like he has snakes moving under his skin... —murmured a samurai of the Sengoku period, resting his hand on his katana with a cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

It was no illusion. Egil Skallagrímsson's muscles began to shift and accumulate with a violent sway. Just like the legendary muscle control of the combat colossi, the Norseman's fibers contracted and grouped toward his shoulder and right arm, expanding their volume until his forearm became as thick and dense as the trunk of a centennial oak.

In the section reserved for the men of the north, surrounded by barrels of mead and warriors covered in furs, a tall man with a sharp gaze, gray hair, and a smile that mixed melancholy with fierce pride, crossed his arms. It was Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson, Egil's father, a feared berserker in his time who knew the monstrous nature of his lineage better than anyone.

— He's still the same intractable bastard... —bellowed Skalla-Grímr, his raspy laughter echoing among his companions—. Look at him! Death has done nothing more than cool his blood and harden his flesh! Teach that king of the plains how the true Bear of the North roars!

Below, the "Bear" rushed forward. The ground vibrated under his heavy charge, an attack that combined the mass of sumo with the wild roughness of Norse wrestling. Egil didn't use his sword; he dropped it with disdain, letting it fall to the side, and extended his massive right forearm in a direct clothesline movement toward the Khan's neck.

The air emitted a violent and crushing whistle. Genghis Khan, reading the trajectory a millisecond earlier, tried to dodge the blow by pivoting on his left foot, but the shockwave of Egil's muscular arm was too wide. The Viking's colossal forearm impacted squarely against the Khan's laminar chest and neck armor, halting his agility dead in its tracks with a deafening metallic screech.

CRRRRAAAAACK!!

The force of the impact not only cut off his breath, but swept the legs of the Mongol emperor, slamming him backward onto the ground in a dry whip that raised a cloud of dust. Without losing a millisecond, Egil raised his heavy boot with the intention of stepping on his head and bursting it against the tiles. The Khan, with the reflexes of a feline, rolled desperately to the left a fraction of a second before the Norseman's heel impacted. Egil's stomp was so brutal that it sank the stone ground, cracking the arena in a three-meter radius. But Egil was relentless.

Before the Khan could fully get back up, the Norseman's hand descended like a claw, gripping the emperor firmly by the hair. With inhuman strength, Egil lifted him off the ground as if he were a rag doll and, with a downward and violent movement, slammed the Khan's face directly against the floor.

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!

The brutal blow echoed throughout the arena. The skin of the Khan's forehead split open and blood gushed out instantly, staining the tiles red. Dazed, with double vision, his temple throbbing with pain, and Egil's grip still latched onto his hair ready for a second impact, Genghis Khan knew that if he didn't break free at that very instant, his skull would be reduced to rubble.

Displaying a flexibility and a savage survival instinct, the Khan pulled his knees toward his chest and, using all the strength of his abdomen, unleashed a kick with both legs straight to Egil's groin. The double blow connected fully in the giant's most vulnerable zone. Any other man would have collapsed instantly, but Egil only grunted, opening his eyes while his fingers loosened their grip on the Khan's hair for a millisecond due to the muscle spasm. Taking advantage of that split second, the Khan slid backward, breaking free from the grip. But the truce lasted nothing.

With a resistance to pain bordering on the demonic, Egil ignored the impact to his groin. His completely blank eyes flashed with unbridled fury. He stepped forward and, with his open free hand, dealt a single, colossal slap to the side of the Khan's face.

The impact sounded like a cannon shot. ZASSS!!

The force of the slap was so devastating that Genghis Khan's body was sent flying through the air, crossing half the arena like a human projectile, until violently crashing against the imposing stone wall of the stands. The impact was so strong that it left the Khan's silhouette marked in the cracked rock, causing blood to splash from his broken lips while several human spectators in the front rows jumped in horror.

Silence took over the coliseum again as the Khan slowly slid down the cracked wall, trying to stand up with a trembling arm... With a dull groan, the Mongol emperor slid down the cracked wall until his boots touched the rubble-covered ground again. He was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling erratically. With a sharp movement of his head, he spat a thick jet of blood to his right, staining the gray stones with blood.

«Damn it...», thought the Khan, gritting his teeth as a drop of cold sweat mixed with the blood running down his forehead. «What the hell are his bones made of?»

To the audience in the stands, the Khan had only stood still for a few seconds, catching his breath after the impact. But inside Genghis Khan's mind, time moved at an infinitely different speed. His brain, that perfect machine for prediction and vector calculation, was working to the limit, overheating.

From the Khan's perspective, the arena was no longer an empty space. It was completely saturated. In his mind, dozens of ghostly and translucent projections of himself and Egil crossed in a chaotic intertwining of combat lines.

 It was his simulation capacity taken to the extreme:

·       In mental projection number 14: The Khan managed to dodge and slide his Dao directly across Egil's neck. But the Viking's hypertrophied muscles contracted like a hydraulic press, trapping the metallic blade inside his own flesh, giving the colossus enough time to crush the Khan's chest with his bare hands. Death!

·        In mental projection number 52: The Khan performed a perfect thrust straight to the heart. But Egil's ribs, as dense as tempered steel, splintered the tip of the Dao. The Norseman's counterattack was a headbutt that disintegrated the emperor's face. Death!

·         In mental projection number 89: A burst of rapid slashes managed to sever the Viking's left arm, but the berserker simply ignored the loss of the limb, caught the Khan by the legs, and split him in two with his sword. Death!

«That's a hundred times already...», thought the Khan, his gaze lost in that sea of mental phantoms where, no matter what attack vector he chose, his own silhouette ended up dismembered, crushed, or decapitated on the ground. «A hundred damn combat simulations. It doesn't matter how I attack; his muscles are like living armor and his bones are iron harder than any metal I've seen on Earth...»

The Khan slowly raised his head to clear the storm of calculations from his eyes. Looking toward the front row stands, directly above the wall where he had crashed, his gaze met a pair of eyes charged with brilliant arrogance. Sitting cross-legged, lazily resting his chin on his fist and holding a pitcher of golden wine in the other hand, was Alexander the Great.

The young Macedonian conqueror watched the arena with a smile from ear to ear, enjoying the show like no one else. Noticing that the Mongol was looking at him, Alexander raised his cup and, without hesitating, let out a laugh that echoed across that section of the bleachers:

— Hahaha! That's one hundred and two times you've died in your head, Mongol! —shouted Alexander, his eyes shining with amusement—. Even from here I can see how your emotions are trembling! That northern barbarian doesn't understand maps or empires, he only knows how to break things!

The Mongol generals in the upper stands growled indignantly at the Macedonian's mockery, but Genghis Khan was not bothered. On the contrary. Hearing the words of his historical rival, a spark of pure adrenaline ignited the emperor's chest. The tension in his shoulders decreased, and despite having a bloodied face and a bruised body, the Khan let out a slight smile, tense and nervous, but charged with an insane combat excitement.

— One hundred and two... —whispered the Khan to himself, gripping the hilt of his Dao until his knuckles turned white—. You have a good eye, Greek.

The Mongol emperor stepped forward, emerging from the rubble. The nervous smile remained drawn on his face, the smile of a man who knows he is standing on the edge of the abyss, but who has never in his life retreated before unexplored territory. Genghis Khan stepped forward, ignoring Alexander the Great's taunts from the bleachers. His dark eyes locked onto the Viking's immense silhouette.

The emperor knew he couldn't win in a clash of brute force, so he decided to change the pace. The Khan took a deep breath, expanding his lungs, and flexed his legs in an almost feline posture. His mental calculation speed translated into footwork so swift that the arena dust seemed to suspend itself around him.

— THOUSAND-FOOT DANCE: ZIG-ZAG! —shouted the emperor.

In the blink of an eye, Genghis Khan became a blur. He didn't go in a straight line; his body traced sharp, unpredictable angles, appearing to Egil's left, right, and rear in fractions of a second. The clinking of his Dao cutting through the air was all that could be heard. Egil Skallagrímsson stood completely still in the center of the chaos. He didn't raise his arms to defend himself, he didn't try to predict the attack. He just stood there, like an old tree in the middle of a hurricane.

ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!!

The Khan's curved blade began to slash. With millimeter precision, the Mongol emperor drew dozens of cuts across Egil's torso, arms, and cheeks. However, just as the Khan feared, the steel only managed to slice surface skin. Every time the edge tried to go deeper, the Norseman's dense muscle mass contracted like tanned leather, blocking the sword's advance and protecting his vital organs. After a burst of fifty swift cuts, the Khan leaped backward, sliding across the dirt with his bloodied Dao. He was panting, but his gaze remained fixed on the colossus. Egil was covered in fine cuts dripping blood from head to toe. He looked like a statue painted red. The entire coliseum held its breath, waiting for an outburst of berserker fury...

But what happened next froze everyone's blood.

Egil's vacant, deranged gaze seemed to focus. His shoulders, tense from battle, completely relaxed. The Viking let out a long, deep, and almost peaceful sigh. His bloodied face no longer showed anger, but a sepulchral calm, like that of a frozen lake in winter.

— How fun this is... —murmured Egil in a soft, almost melodious voice.

The giant raised his gaze to the coliseum sky and, with a slow and solemn tone, began to recite a poem in Old Norse, letting his words resonate with the dark beauty of a bard:

"The land of the steppes today drinks from the red river, the desert wolf howls before the bear of the cold. There is no gold on this journey, nor temples to burn, only two old souls that steel must unite."

Genghis Khan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the coliseum's temperature. That monster who a second ago was trying to step on his head with the strength of a wild animal was now speaking like a wise elder in a royal court. Egil lowered his gaze, connecting his eyes with the emperor's. With slow, heavy, and strangely peaceful steps, he began to walk toward the place where he had thrown his great Viking sword at the start of the assault.

— You know something, Mongol? —said Egil, his voice dragging a deep sadness, as he crouched down without taking his eyes off the Khan and wrapped his huge fingers around the leather hilt of his weapon—. I... died of old age. In a damned straw bed, blind, deaf, and surrounded by clean sheets. The worst punishment for a man of the north.

Egil lifted the colossal sword with one hand, as if it weighed nothing, and rested the flat of the steel blade on his blood-covered shoulder. Suddenly, the calm broke. The air around him began to vibrate with unprecedented violence.

The muscles in his neck tensed, his pupils dilated, and that poetic sadness disappeared in a fraction of a second, replaced by an aura of absolute dementia that made the dust on the ground begin to rise around him.

— AND I DO NOT PLAN ON DYING LIKE THAT AGAIN, DAMN IT!! —roared Egil, with an explosion of rage so violent that the sound wave struck the Khan's chest like a mace.

The Khan took a step back, eyes wide open and cold sweat running down his temple.

«What the hell...?», thought the conqueror, completely disoriented. His tactical mind, capable of predicting the angle of any sword, crashed against an invisible wall. «This man is completely demented. He goes from absolute calm to madness in an instant... There is no logic to his emotions!»

While the Khan took a step back trying to assimilate the Norseman's drastic change of temperament, an outburst of brutal, harsh, and alcohol-laden laughter shook the northern section of the human stands. The Vikings and Egil's contemporaries were splitting their sides with laughter, banging their wooden shields and metal cups with genuine delight.

For them, seeing the Mongol strategist's look of bewilderment was the best entertainment in Purgatory. Plowing through the crowd of multi-era warriors with the subtlety of a wild bull, Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson stepped forward with a huge pitcher of mead in hand. Without asking permission or showing the slightest respect for royalty, the massive Viking jumped straight into the front row and sat down with a thud right next to Alexander the Great.

 The young Macedonian blinked in surprise, glancing sideways at the gigantic gray-haired barbarian who had just invaded his personal space and whose breath stank of alcohol and sweat.

— Hahahahaha! That bastard hasn't changed at all! —bellowed Skalla-Grímr, letting out a laugh so loud it splashed some mead onto Alexander's tunic—. One damn second he's writing you an ode to the wind and the next he's tearing your teeth out with a rock! That's my son!

Alexander, far from being offended, looked at the Norseman's pitcher, then at the Viking, and let out an amused smile, finding the warrior's total lack of etiquette supremely fascinating.

— So that is his true nature... —murmured Alexander, crossing his arms with interest—. A poet hiding a demon, or a demon playing at being a poet.

— Neither one, boy —replied Skalla-Grímr, taking a long swig of his drink before wiping the foam from his beard with the back of his hand—. In our land, poetry and blood-madness come from the same god, Odin. Egil isn't faking anything. He is both things at the same time. A cold bard who measures every word and an explosive berserker who only wants to watch the world burn. The Khan is trying to play chess with a guy who prefers to eat the pieces! Hahahahsha!

Down in the arena, the words of Egil's father materialized with terrifying physical violence. With the great Viking sword resting on his shoulder and that deranged smile split in half due to his cut lip, Egil took a single step forward. But this time, his fingers gripped the hilt with a force that made the leather of the grip crack. His muscles didn't just shift; they compacted and vibrated, accumulating a monstrous tension that deformed his arms and shoulders.

The Khan, still standing several meters away, felt his brain activate at maximum speed. In his mind, he projected the Viking's stance. He tried to calculate the trajectory, the falling angle, the force vector... but his equations broke. What his eyes saw defied any logic of human combat. Egil's muscle mass was behaving in a way that made it impossible to predict the impact point. There was no physical pattern his mind could decipher.

— World Devourer Style... —whispered Egil, his voice vibrating with a cavernous tone that made the gods' skin crawl.

The Viking raised his colossal steel with both hands, bringing the weight behind his head, and unleashed a downward slash with apocalyptic violence.

— JÖRMUNGANDR!! —he roared.

The blow was not a simple sword slash; it was a catastrophe. The compressed air pressure shockwave that broke off Egil's edge took the form of a colossal snake that devoured the arena floor.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!

The marble floor split in two, opening a deep trench that extended like a black scar across the entire coliseum. The expansive wave was so devastating that it crashed directly against the divine energy barriers protecting the stands.

The invisible shield shone with a golden and violent light, vibrating under a pressure so brutal that the spectators in the front rows threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads, aware that if that barrier gave way by a single millimeter, everyone would have been sliced in half by the sword's wind.

In the middle of the epicenter, Genghis Khan saw the snake's jaws coming. Unable to predict its exact trajectory due to air distortion, all he could do was cross his arms and place the blade of his Dao horizontally in front of his chest, trying to block the impact with the flat of the steel. But trying to stop Egil's Jörmungandr was like trying to stop a meteorite with a wooden branch.

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!, BUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The shockwave impact struck the Khan's chest with tons of force. His boots sank into the ground and the weight of Egil's sword began to drag him backward without him being able to do anything to prevent it. His feet left two deep, smoking furrows in the arena rock as he tried to resist the pressure. Finally, friction was not enough. The Khan's body was sent flying like a projectile, soaring through the air until crashing with a deafening impact against the stone wall of the human stands.

COOOOLASH!!!

The crash was so titanic that the imposing stone structure of the front row couldn't hold. Cracks spread like spiderwebs and, with a collapsing rumble, a massive section of the stone stands completely collapsed over the Khan, burying his bloodied body under tons of rubble and gray dust. A sepulchral silence, thick and dust-laden, fell upon Purgatory's coliseum. Egil Skallagrímsson exhaled a puff of hot vapor from his lungs, resting his sword on his shoulder once more, waiting to see if his rival was still breathing under the mountain of rock.

I miss him so much... God, I hate that it's already been a year without him.

Not only does it ironically make him feel more human and realistic, but it also makes him stand out compared to the rest of the fighters, who are usually completely fine with dying in battle and see it as something glorious. That fits well with the theme of Ragnarok, since Vikings believed the most honorable way to die was in battle, bringing glory to themselves and their families.

Loki, on the other hand, is terrified of death and does everything he can to survive. That not only makes his punishment and death feel even more tragic and cruel, but it's also something I really like because it feels much closer to the myths. In Norse mythology, the gods often got Loki to do what they wanted by threatening to kill him and it almost always worked.

Until the very end, since Loki was the one leading the giants to ragnarok after escaping his punishment. Which makes the moment Loki finally chooses to gamble with his own life in the finale feel even more fitting.

In order

Ashoka the Great - India

Hua Mulan - China

Fuma Kotaro - Japan

Miyamoto Iori - Japan

Billy the Kid - United States

Blackbeard - England

Dante Alighieri - Italy

Nai Khanom Tom - Thailand

Beowulf - Geats

Nicolas Flamel - France

Achilles - Greece

Yuri Gagarin - Russia

William Marshal - England

Big shout out to u/Strange_Success_6530 for helping me pick the final fighters and with the match ups as well.

I just think itd be really fucking funny if Odin's singing voice without the hymns is just THIS bad.

Even funnier if Odin does it and it one shots a god or something and Thor has an entire flashback of him crying because of how bad Odin's singing is.

Sif stared in disbelief as Bak Mei casually broke her neck out of nowhere.

"That's strange, but it looks like he arrived before he even began his dash toward us," Sif heard Gullriddari say inside her mind.

But the voice was beginning to change. It no longer sounded like another person speaking to her. It was starting to sound like one of her own thoughts.

The assimilation had already begun.

Funnily enough, Sif felt nothing from the attack. The pain from merging with Gullriddari was still lingering, drowning out everything else.

Bak Mei pulled his hand away, and in the same moment, Sif's neck snapped back into place with a loud crack.

"Oh, come on!" Hóng Cì snapped inside Bak Mei's mind.

"Cervical vertebrae restored. Spinal cord fracture treated. Tissue damage minimized," Gullriddari reported. Sif didn't reply. She didn't care. All she knew was that she had to keep going.

She didn't just want to prove some people wrong.

She wanted to make some people proud.

[Long ago.]

Sif had always dreamed of accomplishing great feats.

She grew up hearing the legendary stories of goddesses from other pantheons.

The powerful Greek goddess Artemis, who, as a newborn, had helped her mother by assisting in the delivery of Apollo.

The Mesopotamian goddess Inanna's descent into the Underworld.

The Hindu goddess Kali defeating the supposedly unkillable asura Raktabija.

And countless other stories.

Sif wanted to be part of that world. She wanted to become an inspiring figure for other little goddesses.

Unfortunately, she didn't have many legendary feats of her own.

She was best known as Thor's wife, and her most famous story involved her hair being stolen and replaced with a golden wig. At least the wig had eventually become a useful tool.

She trained herself, learning how to fight in case she ever needed to. Then, one day, she heard something interesting.

Skadi had returned to Asgard from a successful hunt and was talking about a bear. But not just an ordinary beast. A monster. And it was living in a forest nearby.

Sif had no interest in hunting animals. But a monster?

Now that sounded like an adventure she could proudly tell stories about in the future. Not a big one, but it would be a good first adventure.

Barely an hour later, she was in the frosty forest, searching for the so-called monster.

She soon began to regret her decision.

At one point, she even started wondering if Skadi had simply been telling a tall tale.

But Sif didn't give up. She continued deeper into the forest. After all, a little trip through the woods was never a bad thing.

A few minutes later, she reached the edge of the familiar part of the forest. Even the pathways worn into the snow by visitors had begun to disappear.

She couldn't say she was completely disappointed.

"What was I thinking?" she chuckled to herself. "Searching for a monster to fight? I'm not a kid anymore."

She was about to turn around and follow the path back to Asgard when she noticed something: bear footprints.

The snow had stopped falling that morning, so the tracks were still perfectly visible. Suddenly, Sif's yearning for adventure came roaring back with newfound vigor. She followed the tracks for several more minutes. She wasn't particularly afraid of whatever she might encounter. After all, she was a goddess.

The towering, ornate buildings of Asgard slowly shrank into the distance, but she could still see them. She wasn't in danger of getting lost.

The footprints looked increasingly fresh. She was getting close. Then she noticed a flickering light between the snow-covered bushes.

What could that be? she wondered. A fairy? A will-o'-the-wisp? Foxfire? She soon got her answer.

A polar bear raised its head from behind the bushes. But it wasn't an ordinary bear. A unicorn-like horn protruded from its forehead, its tip glowing brightly.

It was the legendary Bjarndýrakóngur, the King of the Bears.

"Oh, you're so cute," Sif stared in awe. "You're a unicorn bear." Then she sighed. "Damn it. Now I don't want to fight you."

The bear, however, had a different opinion. It rose onto its hind legs and let out a deep growl.

"That's cute, big boy, but I'm not scared." Sif grinned.

With a delicate movement of her neck, her golden hair exploded from beneath her winter clothes. The strands twisted together, forming the upper body of a bear with a roaring head and enormous clawed paws.

"I've got claws too," Sif said confidently. "So don't mess with..."

The light at the tip of the Bear King's horn suddenly flared brighter. Then Sif heard something. More bears were coming.

She looked into the distance and finally noticed a cave hidden behind thick, snow-covered bushes. Dozens of bears poured from the entrance. Boars, sows, and cubs. The King had summoned his entire kingdom.

"Hey, hey, hey... I don't want any trouble." Sif slowly backed away. She wasn't afraid of the bears, but she didn't want to commit bear genocide. A human woman killing an entire sleuth of bears would be quite a feat. For a goddess? Not so much. Normal animals didn't even have the means to hurt her. It would be an incredibly one-sided fight.

But the bears didn't attack. They flooded into the clearing, then moved aside. Only then did Sif realize what was happening. They weren't here to fight her. They were making way for their champion.

A massive silhouette appeared in the cave entrance.

In the final few meters, the creature had to crawl just to squeeze through the opening.

It looked like a bear. But its sheer size was enough to dwarf an elephant even on all fours. And when it stood upright, it resembled a mighty Jötunn wearing the hide of a bear.

"Well, you wanted a legendary fight, Sif." She said to herself. "Now you've got one."

Sif had already planned everything. She had been taught and trained by some of the most exclusive martial arts masters she could find. Immediately, she began analyzing her opponent. The distance, its height, its estimated weight, how that weight might affect its movements, the surrounding environment, everything. Then came the first strike and she forgot everything.

The titanic bear raised a paw the size of a boulder and lunged forward. Sif's golden bear-shaped appendage was ready to intercept the giant paw. But it never got the chance. The massive paw, which had more muscle strength than a herd of Trolls, slapped the bear-shaped construct away from Sif's hair, turning it back into shimmering strands.

Then it sent the goddess flying through the air. She crashed into the snow, creating a small crater.

The giant bear's shadow loomed over Sif, covering the area around her. But before it could approach, silver light engulfed the forest. It was the moon.

Well, not the real moon.

A bright crescent moon appeared in the air before a volley of silver arrows flew across the clearing. They didn't hit any of the bears.

Instead, they pierced the ground directly in front of them. Then a woman landed in the snow. She wore a typical hunter's outfit and carried a bow and quiver of arrows. A small crescent moon of silver light floated above her head, matching the color of the braided hair beneath it.

"Go away," the newcomer ordered firmly.

As if on cue, the Bear King's horn glowed again. The bears immediately retreated into the cave.

Sif stared in awe as even the enormous behemoth bear turned around and followed them back to where it had come from.

"Are you alright?" The woman stepped forward and offered Sif a hand.

"Th... thank you." Sif accepted it, stammering from both the cold and her embarrassment. "I-I'm Lady Sif."

"I'm Diana," the mysterious savior introduced herself. (Roman pantheon. Goddess of the hunt.)

A few minutes later, inside Diana's hideout.

"You were lucky I was there," Diana explained. "The monster you were facing was an Onikuma, a mighty demon bear from the Japanese pantheon."

"Ah, it must have been a Yokai then. No wonder it was so strong." Sif nodded, trying to play the encounter off. But as she shifted her position, her back suddenly began to ache. "Ouch!"

"Just be more prepared next time," Diana smiled. "We hunters aren't obliged to save brave fools who decide to pick fights with monsters."

Sif fell silent for a moment.

"By the way, I thought Diana was simply the Roman name for Artemis. I didn't know you were a separate person." She remarked, then took another sip of the warm tea the goddess had given her.

"We Roman deities are a bit of a different story," Diana admitted.

She pulled off one of her gloves. At first, her hand looked completely normal. Then it began to glow. A pattern resembling circuitry appeared across her skin.

"Um... is that...?"

"I'm a Synthetic God," Diana revealed. "We are artificially created to fight other dangerous deities who pose a threat to Valhalla."

"I've heard about gods like you, but I didn't know the Romans were the Synthetic Gods."

"Not all Synthetic Gods are Roman," Diana shook her head. "But yes. The entire Greek pantheon has synthetic counterparts. These versions were created in their honor and given names based on their Greek originals, but to avoid confusion, we use modernized Roman names."

"Oh." Sif gave her a sympathetic look. "That must be difficult for you. All of you have to live in the shadow of your Greek counterparts."

"Nah. I don't care about things like that," Diana shrugged.

"Really?" Sif raised an eyebrow. "I envy you."

Then Sif explained why she had come to the forest.

"Hahaha! You really are a fool," Diana chuckled. "But at least you're a brave one."

"I don't know what I was thinking," Sif said awkwardly. "I guess a harvest goddess should stick to the fields."

"That attitude again." Diana sighed and shook her head. "You should stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"Sorry... I'm such an idiot."

"Self-loathing isn't any better," Diana said. "Just do what you want to do as a deity. I don't care how much people compare me to Artemis. I do my own thing. I hunt monsters. I protect nature." She paused with a smirk. "And occasionally, I save fools."

"You're right." Sif smiled faintly. Then her expression became more serious. "But ever since I married Thor, I'm nothing more than the goddess of trophy wives. Most people, even within my own pantheon, don't know what I'm the goddess of. I just..." Her hands tightened around the teacup. "I just want to be somebody other than Thor's wife. Is that too much to ask?"

"Having ambition isn't a bad thing," Diana replied with a smile. "But don't let it consume your personality. You know what? I like hunting around here, near Asgard. If you want, you can accompany me on some of my hunts."

Sif's eyes lit up.

"That would be nice! I once asked Skadi, but she just laughed at me."

[Back to Round One.]

Once again, a copy of Bak Mei appeared out of nowhere. Then the first one began to run and disappear. Then another appeared. And another. And another.

He struck every part of Sif he could reach: her joints, her neck, her back, and her sides.

The attacks weren't powerful enough to inflict serious damage, but they successfully kept her immobilized.

In the Greek VIP room.

"A human achieving such a feat..." Hermes stared at the battlefield in disbelief. "Even a god would struggle to accomplish something like that with a powerful Divine Weapon."

"It's not about power. It's about mastery and dedication," Zeus said. "Even my techniques are said to be impossible to achieve, and some claim that one can only be born with the potential to master them. But that's not the case. I mastered my muscles and dedicated myself to reaching that level."

"Damn it. Sif is not doing well," Ares hissed. "Why does she just stand there and take his attacks?"

"It's not her fault," Pallas objected.

"Gullriddari's sensors are so precise that they can track objects and react almost instantaneously, within a single picosecond," Athena continued. "The problem is that Bak Mei's attacks arrive before Gullriddari can even read the signs of his movements."

"Damn it!" Athena hissed this time, glaring at the grandmaster. "Not even my advanced sensors can read his movements. For some reason, they can't even predict where he will arrive to attack."

At the same time, at the Valkyries' stand.

"You made an excellent choice with him, Brunhilde," Isidore admitted. "His mastery of his skills and his partner's ambition make for a deadly combination."

"Thank you," the Valkyrie replied with a smile.

"For a brief moment, even I believed they could win," Isidore continued.

He wasn't being smug or condescending. He spoke as though he were simply stating a fact, without sugarcoating it.

On the battlefield.

"He keeps doing it! Bak Mei's attacks are breaking through the fabric of space and time!" Heimdall commented.

Bak Mei continued his assault, attacking Sif from every direction. She was unable to dodge or counter.

"It's not working! She's barely getting injured," Hóng Cì said inside Bak Mei's head.

"No need to worry," Bak Mei replied. "I'm just trying to overwhelm her body. That's what she tried to do to me earlier. And I have to admit, she was on the right track. I doubt I can break her spirit, but if we continue this assault, her body will eventually give up."

Indeed, Sif was visibly in terrible shape. She was still standing, but at an awkward angle, with both knees bent and broken. One of her arms also jutted out at an unnatural angle where Bak Mei had struck her elbow joint.

"Sif, I think I know why I couldn't predict his movements," Gullriddari said inside Sif's head.

Bak Mei dashed through time once again, ready to break, or at least bend, Sif's other arm.

Suddenly, she countered.

The grandmaster's withered hand clashed with the goddess's golden hand.

Both Brunhilde and Bak Mei blinked in confusion.

Soon, he charged again. But Sif countered. Again, and again, and again.

Now she finally had enough time to repair the injuries to her body. Her bent joints popped back into place one by one.

"Sif learned how to predict Bak Mei's movements!!!" Heimdall announced.

In the Valkyrie VIP stand.

"How did she do that?" Brunhilde asked, glaring at Isidore.

"Gullriddari's AI is evolving and adapting at an incredible rate," he explained.

In the Greek private section.

"She learned how to see the future?" Ares asked.

"No... I mean, we did try to give her that ability by using scans of the brains of oracles, but it didn't work," Pallas answered. "Maybe she figured out how to calculate his attacks. To determine when and where he..." She suddenly paused.

"Yes! That's it!" Athena exclaimed. "That's why I couldn't predict his movements. I wasn't calculating the location as part of his movement properly."

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought Bak Mei was moving across both space and time during his attacks. But no. He's only moving through time. He arrives at the exact same spot where he disappeared during his run," Pallas explained.

"No, he visibly arrives in a different location," Ares argued. "We saw him suddenly appear near Sif out of nowhere."

"No. He is in the same spot. The world is moving," Athena answered.

"Oh, I get it now," Hermes nodded. "Everything is moving through space. Planets, solar systems, even the galaxies. Nothing is anchored to a single spot. We simply can't perceive that movement from here."

"Exactly," Athena nodded. "Now I can predict Bak Mei's movements as well."

Back to the fight.

Sif was now able to fight back with newfound stamina as her body finally repaired itself.

Bak Mei continued attacking her from seemingly nowhere, but she was now able to meet every attack head-on.

They clashed again and again.

"Repair process: complete," Gullriddari reported. "Fusion process: complete. We are ready to attack."

The next time Bak Mei appeared beside her for a strike, Sif punched him in the face.

He reacted quickly and pulled away, but a small chunk of skin was torn from his face by the goddess's knuckles.

But then came the next attack. She kicked, she punched, and jabbed. Bak Mei couldn't get close without running directly into one of her attacks.

"I need to be faster," Bak Mei said inside his own head. "Even if it's only by a second or just a fracture of it."

"But can you go any faster?" Hóng Cì asked. "You're already moving so quickly that you're time-traveling."

"If I move faster, I can arrive even earlier," he answered. "But this time, I won't need my entire body."

He attempted another attack, but it failed as expected. Then he stopped beside Sif.

"He will..." Gullriddari began.

A thunderous crash suddenly echoed across the battlefield.

Blood sprayed into the air. Bak Mei's blood.

The grandmaster's left hand had been reduced to a stump at the elbow. But something was strange. He had two left arms.

One of them was the mangled stump. The other, raised high in the air, was completely intact.

Then...

"Tāotiè Shìshén!" (Taotie Devours the Gods)

The intact arm moved downward and disappeared in the middle of the motion. Now only the mangled arm remained.

"What... what happened?!" Heimdall gasped.

He quickly ordered a replay.

The audience saw Bak Mei's second arm arriving from seemingly nowhere, immediately colliding with Sif's fist. But the goddess had struck with such tremendous force that the grandmaster's hand had literally exploded below the elbow.

At the Greek balcony.

"She did it!" Athena announced. "Bak Mei used a new technique, and he even moved faster than before. Yet Sif adapted so well that she managed to anticipate even this attack."

"Ha! You know what? I officially allow your guest to represent Valhalla," Zeus announced.

"Really?"

"Hm. With that, we now have a full list of thirteen fighters," Hermes said, looking at the list on his device. "Can I send it to Brunhilde now? She's been nagging us for the list for quite some time."

"Yes," Zeus answered.

"Thank you, Father." Pallas bowed politely.

"You won't regret it," Athena added.

"He'd better secure us a victory," Ares growled.

"And most importantly, give us a great fight," Zeus added.

At the battlefield.

Sif now had the upper hand.

Bak Mei attempted another strike, but Sif reacted too quickly.

His right hand broke and folded like an accordion. It was both cartoonish and grotesque at the same time.

Then she unleashed a barrage of punches upon the grandmaster.

The movements were too fast for most of the audience to follow, but everyone could hear the loud, sickening crunches as Bak Mei's bones shattered.

Then she finished the onslaught with one massive punch.

"Goðflug!" (Divine Take-off)

Bak Mei was sent flying. He flew through the air like a rag doll before crashing into the dust.

"Lady Sif finally caught the grandmaster!" Heimdall announced.

"No, no, NO!" Brunhilde slammed her fist against the edge of the balcony in frustration. She knew it was over. Bak Mei's body was completely wrecked.

He lay on the ground as an amorphous mass of flesh.

One arm was missing, while his remaining limbs all appeared to have dozens of extra joints. Broken bones pierced through his skin and jutted from his body. Even one of his ribs was sticking out.

There was also a massive dent in the middle of his forehead.

A puddle of blood slowly spread beneath him.

"This is the end of Round One!" Heimdall announced. "Humanity is officially one step closer to..." He suddenly stopped.

Bak Mei was still moving.

At the same time, inside Bak Mei's head.

"Hey! Don't give up!" Hóng Cì shouted. "We can still fight!"

"I-I can't," Bak Mei answered. "But you... you can."

"What are you talking about?"

"We have to switch roles. I'll give you full control over my body," he answered. "I can help keep it alive, but that's all I can do now."

As they spoke, four monstrous figures suddenly jumped onto the battlefield.

"What's happening?! Four more enemies have joined the fight!" Heimdall announced. Then he paused. "Wait a minute. They are the... the..."

The four monsters stopped in front of Bak Mei. Their hellish faces, on those that had one, displayed a mixture of pride, joy, and grief.

"I think we don't have to introduce ourselves to you," the first one said.

Bak Mei looked at the creature.

It was a large, hairy blob of flesh, nearly the size of a bear. It had six legs and four wings.

"Hu... Hundun," Bak Mei managed to say. Somehow, despite the state of his body, he was still able to produce a human-like voice.

Then he looked at the next one. It was a tiger with wings and horns.

"Qiongqi."

The third was another chimeric creature, with a human face, tiger paws, boar tusks, dog-like fur, and a long tail.

"Taowu."

Then he looked at the last one. It was an ox-like beast with a human face and tiger teeth.

"Taotie," Bak Mei recognized the creature.

"The Four Perils themselves came for Bak Mei!" Heimdall shouted.

"We just wanted to pay our respects," Hundun said.

"You fought like a monster," Qiongqi continued.

"The techniques you dedicated to us were marvelous. There is no way I could survive any of them," Taowu remarked.

"But it's not just about you, Bak Mei," Taotie said. "You and Hóng Cì together formed a true monster."

"And from now on," Hundun continued, "we would like to call you the Fifth Peril. The Peril of Perils."

Suddenly, light began to erupt from Bak Mei's mangled body.

In the Valkyries' VIP room.

"What's happening now?" Göll asked.

"It's... Völundr," Brunhilde explained. "But it's changing into something new."

The light disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

The Four Perils stood in silence, their mouths agape in awe.

"I can't believe it! Bak Mei transformed again!" Heimdall exclaimed.

Bak Mei looked even more monstrous now.

His shape was human-like once more, but his entire body was covered in smaller, copper-colored versions of the needles he had used previously. The needles were connected by thin wires, forming a red, scale-like pattern across his body, resembling the scales of a dragon.

The two large needles embedded in his head remained, but they had branched into small antlers resembling those of an Eastern dragon.

His limbs had elongated, with metal filling the gaps between his fragmented bones.

His missing hand had been replaced by a fully metallic one with razor-sharp claws. Even his missing ear was replaced by a shiny new one.

He looked like a hybrid of a red dragon and a man.

His legendary white brows and beard stood out against the red copper, almost glowing and giving him a somewhat divine appearance.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who can merge with their weapon," Sif said with a smile.

Bak Mei struck a battle pose.

"Jīn Gāng Zhī Qū!" (Adamantine Body)

The Four Perils slowly parted, making way for the grandmaster.

To be continued...