Hela's height was remarkable, even among the women of Asgard. Rowe had always been shorter than her, resembling a younger brother in stature.
He had grown accustomed to looking up at her—both literally and figuratively—but now, everything had changed.
Standing before her, tall and broad-shouldered, Rowe's new physique exuded power. Hela's expression flickered with subtle complexity. Beyond the surprise in her emerald eyes, there was something else—an emotion too vague to define.
"What about you?" she finally asked, the astonishment in her voice still apparent.
Rowe smiled softly, igniting a flame in the palm of his hand as he responded, "Lord Týr's blessing. The fire has reborn me."
"Wow, fire power!" Fairwind exclaimed beside them. "Hey, by the way, are your clothes fireproof? If not, wouldn't you, like, burn right through them? I mean, not that I mind either way…"
Rowe: "…"
Hela cut in sharply, "Fairwind, by order of Commander Odin, I appoint you deputy captain of the Thirty-Fourth Combat Unit. Dismissed."
"Understood, Your Highness." Fairwind saluted and exited swiftly, still muttering to himself.
Only Rowe and Hela remained.
A silence hung between them, tension masked by calm.
Then Hela smiled faintly. "I wasn't surprised you awakened your divine power. That seemed inevitable. But such a transformation… You're beginning to resemble a true Asgardian warrior."
Before Rowe could respond, his eyes drifted downward to something beside him.
A hammer.
Its design was simple, with a square head and a short leather-wrapped handle—unmistakable. This was no ordinary weapon. He recognized it instantly from countless stories passed down from future generations.
It was Mjolnir.
The hammer of Thor.
So… it had finally been forged.
Hela followed his gaze and smirked. "My new weapon. I call it Mjolnir. Curious to give it a try?"
Rowe was momentarily stunned. Hela playing a prank was… new.
But curiosity surged in his chest. Could he actually lift it?
"Seriously?"
Hela nodded, her expression unreadable. "Why not?"
Eager, Rowe stepped forward and gripped the handle.
Nothing.
He clenched tighter with both hands, his muscles taut as he poured all his strength into the effort.
Still nothing.
No movement. Not even a tremble.
What the Hel? My heart is pure! I'm practically a saint!
After several more tries, he sighed and let go, defeated.
Hela pursed her lips to suppress a smile. "It's enchanted by Father's magic. No one unworthy can lift it."
"Ah," Rowe said with a slight chuckle. "That explains it."
They spoke a bit longer until Hela changed the subject. "You're now a recognized soldier in the Legion. Per regulation, I'm assigning you as vice-captain of a combat team. Any preference?"
Rowe considered for a moment. "Actually, before I came here, someone entrusted me with watching over their runaway son. His name is Brunnock. If possible, I'd like to be placed in the same unit."
Hela flipped through a nearby data slate. "Coincidentally, Brunnock is already in Heimd's unit."
Perfect.
"Then I'll assign you there," she confirmed. "You're now the vice-captain of the Heimd squad."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Rowe left the command center in a bright mood. On his way out, he playfully tapped the round head of the small rock-eating creature Shilut.
Maybe it was just the happiness in his heart, but Shilut's head felt unusually smooth today.
Arriving at the squad barracks, Rowe spotted Brunnock after only a few glances.
Clad in polished armor clearly superior to standard issue, Brunnock sat solemnly on a rock, carefully cleaning his blade like a seasoned veteran.
At least he looks the part, Rowe mused. But the way Brunnock held the sword exposed his lack of experience.
"Brunnock."
Brunnock glanced up but didn't recognize him. "Who are you?"
Rowe pulled a shield from the Sanctuary Space. "Your father asked me to deliver this."
Brunnock blinked in surprise, accepting the shield. He immediately noticed the words engraved on the front—Go Home.
His face fell. "That old man…"
Rowe sat beside him. "You know, Brunnock, blacksmiths aren't meant for the battlefield. He's truly worried about you."
"I'm not a blacksmith," Brunnock replied stiffly. "At least, not anymore. I'm a warrior now."
Rowe respected the conviction. He remembered Brunnock's obsession with warriors, and suspected the boy had been planning to flee for some time. He chose not to press further.
"Well then, stay close to me during battle. I'll do my best to keep you alive."
Brunnock frowned, clearly not thrilled at being treated like a fledgling.
Just then, a tall figure approached.
Heimd.
He stopped before Rowe, sizing him up. "You're new?"
Apparently, he didn't recognize Rowe either. Not surprising—Rowe's appearance had changed dramatically.
In the nearby shadows, Shilut nibbled on rocks, oblivious to the scene.
Rowe smiled and decided to keep his identity hidden. "Yes, sir. Name's Turalyon. Vice-captain of your squad now."
"Turalyon?" Heimd tilted his head. "Strange name. I have a friend who looks a lot like you. You two should meet sometime."
Rowe laughed it off. "Guess I have one of those faces."
The first day in Odin's camp passed quickly.
Heimd, for all his perception, didn't seem to suspect anything. He repeatedly commented how much Rowe resembled his old friend, even comparing their voices.
By the second night, during dinner, Heimd was at it again.
"I'm telling you, Turalyon, you and my friend are almost identical. Height, face, speech… eerie."
Rowe chewed his roasted meat in silence, barely reacting.
Then the camp alarm rang out.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
Torches flared, horns blared, and warriors scrambled to formation.
"Kill them all!" came the rallying cry.
A massive wave of enemies descended—frost giants, trolls, and a smattering of demons. Easily in the thousands.
For races like the Asgardians and Frost Giants, this was a large-scale war. Ordinary worlds often fell to squads a tenth this size.
"Kill the gods!"
Heimd's squad was pitted against a unit of trolls. Among them lurked two unfamiliar demons. Judging by their warped forms and obsidian skin, they resembled Muspelheim's lesser fiends.
Rowe's grip tightened on his flaming weapon.
The war had begun.
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