The creature stood tall—nearly matching Kratos in height, but far less refined. Hulking, hunched, and bulging with sinew, his body looked as if it had been stitched together from muscle and malice. Patches of his skin were bare, pulled tight over cords of vein and meat that pulsed like they had a will of their own. Other parts were tangled in spiked leather and shredded combat gear, remnants of uniforms long outgrown or ripped apart during past rampages.
Bony protrusions jutted from his shoulders, elbows, and jawline—horn-like, jagged things, like a troll that had been half-devoured and spat back out by the realm of nightmares. His face was warped, misshapen by scars and fury, and his eyes burned—not with purpose, but with directionless wrath.
From the edges of the street, behind wrecked stalls and flipped cars, people whispered to one another:
"That's Rauk… he's been seen before—up in Hosu district once…"
"His quirk—it's rage-induced mutation. The angrier he gets, the more... twisted he becomes."
"Not even heroes wanna deal with him when he's like this. He tore apart a whole patrol team last month."
"Someone call Endeavor! Where the hell are the pros?!"
Others just stared, wide-eyed, as the beast roared and pounded a nearby car into scrap, veins glowing like fire beneath his skin.
Kratos, meanwhile, stood still—axe in hand, shield drawn, silent as a glacier before the storm. He studied the creature. Watched. Measured.
The world had gone quiet—at least, from the distance where most of the onlookers now cowered. Civilians pressed themselves behind toppled vendor stalls, shattered cars, mailboxes bent like reeds, and the remains of a splintered bus stop shelter. Phones peeked from trembling hands. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Some couldn't even muster the strength to record, too entranced—or terrified—by the battle about to unfold.
At the center of the chaos stood Kratos—still, steady, and silent. Axe in his right hand, shield firmly braced on the left. His eyes, cold and focused, never left the grotesque creature looming before him.
Rauk—a name whispered with dread among the onlookers who are now huddled behind cover—towered a full two heads above Kratos. Veins bulged and pulsed like writhing serpents beneath cracked skin, patches of iron-hard muscle barely contained under what once may have been clothing. Jagged plates of chitin jutted from his shoulders and arms, spiked and gnarled like blackened bone. His face twisted in a snarl that was more beast than man, teeth bared and froth bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Fury incarnate.
And then—he moved.
With a roar like a grinding avalanche, Rauk raised a gargantuan fist and swung, the air tearing with the sheer velocity of his strike.
With the precision of a man who had dodged death more times than he'd blinked, Kratos pivoted his upper body ever so slightly. The beast's fist whooshed past his shoulder, grazing naught but air and dust.
[Light Runic Attack - Hel's Touch]
In one fluid motion, Kratos raised the Leviathan Axe high. Frost runes carved along its edge burst to life—glowing bright as the sun off snow—and a radiant pulse of light surged outward. Rauk snarled and recoiled, clawing at his burning eyes, blinded and stunned.
That was all the opening Kratos needed.
He stepped in.
[Pride Of The Frost]
First Strike — the axe arced sharply from right to left, cleaving across Rauk's torso with a satisfying crack. The sheer force drove the hulking beast back a few heavy steps.
Second — Kratos moved with purpose, keeping himself at the perfect striking distance. He flipped the axe mid-swing, steel flashing as it swept back from left to right. Rauk grunted, stumbling further, his grotesque bulk struggling to keep pace with the relentless assault.
Third — a diagonal cut from top right to bottom left slammed into Rauk's ribs like a frozen guillotine.
Then came the storm.
Kratos gripped the Leviathan Axe with both hands, his arms flexing with god-forged strength. He twisted—spun halfway—drawing the axe low and behind his back before unleashing it upward in a devastating arc that collided with Rauk's shoulder. At the point of impact, frost erupted like a winter sun, encasing the creature's upper frame in crackling sheets of ice.
The beast howled in fury and pain, but Kratos was far from finished. Though his strikes landed true, the brute's thick hide was slowing the axe's bite—blunting what would've split most creatures in half.
So Kratos lifted the axe again, higher this time, and brought it crashing down with thunderous force. Another explosion of frost followed—wider, sharper—sending shards of rime splintering in every direction. The blow forced Rauk back several more paces, the ground beneath his feet cracking like a spider's web as he took the fifth hit straight to his shoulder, nearly cleaved in two.
And then—the finale.
Kratos inhaled—deep and primal—then loosed a war cry that thundered through the shattered plaza. With one final, feral motion, he raised the axe overhead and drove it downward like the hammer of a forgotten god.
"STOP!"
The voice rang out—sharp, in the same breath, came a sonic boom from behind.
Kratos pondered for only a blink before shifting the trajectory of the falling axe, redirecting its arc ever so slightly.
It struck the ground instead.
The street trembled—then erupted in ice. Frost shattered skyward, engulfing the area in a blinding whiteout. Though the final blow had been tempered, it still carried enough might to freeze the beast solid—trapping Rauk in a thick shell of rime, his form barely visible beneath the jagged, glacial prison.
The last of the crowd that had dared peek from cover ducked back in terror. This was no ordinary hero. This was no debut. This was war itself.
The icy mist clung to the broken pavement like a breath that refused to exhale.
Then Suddenly—BOOM.
A gust of wind and a sharp sonic crack split the air.
"Do not fear, everyone—!"
A voice, bright as brass and booming with confidence, echoed across the plaza.
"Because I! Am! HERE!!"
Even amid the frost and ruin, his silhouette brought a strange warmth to the people hiding behind cars, under awnings, or curled in alleyways. The remaining crowd gasped as they recognized the unmistakable figure now standing a few strides away from the icy battlefield.
All Might had landed.
A moment later, the wind calmed, and he turned his bright, signature smile toward the civilians. "Now, now! Stay calm, everyone. Help is here!" he said with that practiced heroic chuckle as he walked steadily forward. His cape billowed behind him, boots crunching on frozen stone and twisted steel.
Kratos, still gripping the Leviathan Axe, tracked the approaching man with quiet calculation. He did not lift his weapon. But he did not lower it either.
All Might halted a short distance away—close enough to step in, far enough to avoid provoking the icy warrior who had just flattened a villain with the fury of winter.
"A fine entrance," All Might said, smiling as though Kratos had just walked out of a training montage. "Bold, dramatic, quite the impression! Not many heroes make their debut that explosively!" He gave a hearty laugh. "But—ah—I'd recommend keeping the near-executions after the paperwork is done, eh?"
He pointed his thumb toward the frozen Rauk, still encased in jagged sheets of ice.
Kratos offered no reply. His expression remained stone.
All Might's smile widened again, but the sparkle in his eyes dimmed with a hint of scrutiny. "You're a bit older than the usual hero student, but we've seen late bloomers before."
Kratos turned to face him fully. His expression—harsh, unreadable—bore the wear of battles older than the country he stood in. His voice, gravel in a thunderstorm, answered plainly:
"I am no hero."
All Might blinked. That wasn't the answer he expected.
He gestured lightly toward the crowd and the camera drones hovering again above.
"Now, don't worry. If you're just someone who stepped in to help, I'll personally vouch for your intentions. We can sort this out with the police quietly—quickly. Just need a few details."
His words were gentle, not forced—spoken in the calm, soothing tone of someone used to defusing chaos without raising his voice. Yet what struck Kratos wasn't the words themselves, but the presence behind them.
There was... an aura to this man. Not magical in the sense the Spartan had come to know—but pure. Radiant. As if the very essence of calm and confidence flowed from him like sunlight through storm clouds.
Kratos narrowed his eyes.
He could see it. Not just in the man's posture—tall, yet relaxed; powerful, yet careful—but in the way the world around him reacted. The crowd's fear had vanished the moment he arrived. Faces that once screamed in terror now smiled in relief. Children peeked from behind rubble with hope instead of horror. Adults clasped each other's hands with joy.
It wasn't ordinary admiration—it was faith. A kind of worship Kratos had seen in other lands... often directed at false gods. But this? This felt different. Earned, not demanded. These people didn't believe in themselves—they believed in him. The man before Kratos. The so-called, Symbol of Peace, from what he could hear from the murmurs around him.
That confidence—the unwavering certainty in their eyes—Kratos had seen it before. On the battlefield. In the final moments before a charge. When a soldier looked to his commander, not for orders, but for salvation.
And this man? This man carried that burden with a smile.
Kratos' grip on the Leviathan Axe didn't ease. But he studied All Might more closely now—not as a threat, but as a question. A protector? A performer? Or something in between?
Still, he said nothing.
And All Might—ever perceptive—picked up on the tension. His shoulders relaxed just a bit more, his smile softening, his words spoken with even greater care. He radiated no hostility. Only concern.
"If you're not a hero," he said again, "then maybe you're just a good citizen who couldn't sit idle. And that's admirable. But rules are rules... You used what seems to be a powerful Quirk. And without a license, or a registered agency, I need to know more."
Then the smile returned. A flicker of that heroic shine again.
"But don't worry. If you're here to help, then I'll help you too."
And then—
"AH! Finally, someone with manners! I was wonderin' when one of you lot would stop shouting and start askin' the right bloody questions!"
All Might jolted upright, eyes darting around. "Wha—who said that?"
Kratos, unbothered, reached to his belt and unlatched the hilt-shaped object dangling by his side. A tiny head swung free.
Mimir.
A severed head, yes—but alive, glowing faintly with enchantment, and smiling with all the charm of a seasoned tavern bard.
"Alright then, big man with the sunshine smile... Ye've got questions, we've got baggage. Let's unpack this mess one mystery at a time."
All Might recoiled—not in fear, but bewilderment. "Wait, is that... your Quirk? Is that your support gear speaking?!"
"'Quirk', ye say? Huh... haven't the foggiest what that means—but I am Mimir, the smartest man alive! Or… well, formerly alive. Currently a disembodied head full o' ancient wisdom, wit, and the occasional unsolicited opinion."
Kratos said nothing.
All Might slowly straightened. His eyes flicked from the stoic warrior to the talking head and back again.
"…Right," he muttered.
And for the first time in a very long time... All Might didn't know what to say next.