AN: Ok So before anyone else gets confused, let me explain 1 thing here. Just like in Canon Games, Kratos and Mimir do speak english. And for the sake of the novel, I have kept the common language of the world to be english.
Now just like in this world, there is a difference between old english and New english. The difference being, new words being invented to use for things that are made in this era. Or maybe people just started using new words from their older counter parts because the new words suit the current world more. So this is why, if Kratos and Mimir don't understand some words, it's because those words were not used in their realm. There was no reason to. Like imagine Freya Calling Kratos Pro Hero instead of Savior Of Nine Realms at the end of GOW: Ragnarok.
So yeah, for now, a lot of words go over the heads of Kratos and Mimir. But don't worry, It's not that they don't understand the rest of the things being said. Like a lot of people, who might not have English as their first language, when you are reading a sentence with some words which you might not know the meaning of, you can still figure out what it means faintly due to the context in which they are spoken.
So, Kratos and Mimir might not understand some words, but they can understand the underlying context and make out things being said instead of going full Neanderthal mode like Ooga Booga Wtf you said??
But yeah, that's all I wanted to explain for this chapter. Hope this clears any sort of misunderstanding that anyone had regarding Kratos and Mimir's Understanding of language.
Ok now back to the Chapter. Enjoy!
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For a moment, the battlefield fell silent once more.
Ice clung to the ruins, the air still thick with chill, but the tension between the two titans—one a god of war, the other a symbol of peace—began to ease, if only slightly.
All Might, ever composed even when the world turned sideways, exhaled with a chuckle. He gave Mimir a skeptical look, then turned his gaze back to Kratos, whose knuckles still whitened around the haft of his axe.
"Well," All Might said at last, dusting his gloved hands together, "I'll admit, talking severed heads aren't part of the usual villain-fighting routine."
Kratos remained unmoved—his gaze still fixed on the newcomer.
All Might lowered his arms, slowly, carefully. His voice softened—not the theatrical boom that rallied civilians, but the tone of a man who'd learned how to talk down a thunderstorm.
"Listen... I don't know who you are. Or where you came from. But you saved lives today. That counts for something."
He stepped forward, placing himself deliberately within Kratos' reach—a gesture of trust, or sheer foolishness. Either way, it drew Kratos' attention.
"I'm not here to threaten you," All Might continued. "You don't look the trusting kind, but you do look a bit lost. So, I'm offering help."
Kratos said nothing.
The tension held.
Then Mimir piped up again, tone casual, though his enchanted glow had dimmed slightly. "He's not great with new people, mind ye. Or people in general. Or... diplomacy. But he's not the enemy. We've just... taken a wrong turn somewhere."
All Might raised a brow. "A wrong turn?"
Mimir shrugged—or did the closest thing a head without shoulders could do. "Let's just say, where we come from, roads don't always lead where ye expect. One moment it's snow, monsters, and misery... next, well—this."
All Might narrowed his eyes slightly, not unkindly. "So you're saying... you're not from around here?"
Kratos' voice, low and gravelled, cut in like a drawn blade. "Mm. We come from a land far away from here."
Mimir's glow flickered as he continued, "Aye, well, to put it simply, we were going about our usual fare, when suddenly, there was this crack in the air. Bright lights. A terrible sound, like the very sky itself was being torn. And then... wham—next thing we knew, we were thousands of meters in the air, flailing like a couple of fish outta water."
He paused, looking mildly uncomfortable for a head with no body. "I'll tell ye, lad—this place? Nothing like home. Everything looks off. Too bright. Too clean. Too... alive."
Kratos nodded, his gaze focused on All Might. "We don't know where we are. Not sure why we're here."
All Might nodded, solemn now. "And yet... here you are. Which means we need to figure out what that means. Together."
He turned slightly, casting a look skyward. Drones still hovered above, though most had pulled back. Police sirens wailed faintly in the distance, drawing closer.
"This place isn't perfect," All Might said, "but we protect our own. And if you've landed in our country by accident, well... then it's on us to find out how. And what to do next."
He extended a hand—not to shake, but to offer a path.
"Come with me. Let's talk. Peacefully. There are people who can help us figure this out."
Kratos stared at the outstretched hand. His gaze was unwavering, like a mountain not yet disturbed by the winds.
He said nothing. But, after a long moment, he exhaled slowly—almost imperceptibly. Then, with deliberate motion, he lowered the Leviathan Axe and then slid the rune-etched weapon into its resting place on his back. This was not an act of surrender. It was simply a quiet gesture—a willingness to listen.
Without a word, he then disarmed the shield as well. The metal clang of it echoed in the silent air as the shield instantly disappeared back into his left gauntlet. The change in his stance was subtle, but it was enough for All Might to notice. The warrior's posture was still firm—still that of a man who was ready to counter at any given moment lest someone dares to make a move—but the tension had lessened.
Mimir bobbed gently at his belt, the light from his enchanted form flickering with amusement. "Well, I'll be... the old bear's actually listening to someone."
All Might grinned, not in the least bit intimidated. "I'll take that as a win, then."
"Mrhm"
Kratos grunted again—this time softer, almost imperceptible, but it carried a weight that could be felt in the air around them. His hand extended, offering a firm but brief handshake.
All Might grinned. "Great. Then let's get moving before the media shows up with more questions than brains."
The three of them—warrior, wanderer, and walking encyclopedia—turned from the shattered battlefield and began the walk toward U.A. High.
Behind them, the ice shimmered quietly in the sun.
Ahead of them, the world waited with its questions.
And Kratos? He walked forward—not as a soldier marching to war, but as a stranger seeking understanding.
For now.
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The great meeting hall of U.A. High was more a war council chamber now than an academic boardroom. A long polished table stretched down the room, surrounded on either side by some of the most seasoned heroes in Japan.
Vlad King sat with arms crossed, glancing sideways every so often at the stranger standing near the end of the room. Present Mic tapped a finger on the table to some silent beat, golden sunglasses betraying nothing. Eraser Head leaned back in his chair, scarf coiled loosely round his neck, eyes half-lidded but alert. Midnight rested her chin on her gloved fingers, ever-curious. Thirteen, clad in her reinforced suit, remained silent, her visor reflecting the room's tension.
Snipe—the sharpshooter hero—sat at the far end, his hat tipped low, fingers hovering near his holsters out of habit more than worry.
And at the head of it all sat Principal Nezu. The tiny, intelligent creature folded his paws neatly over one another, expression unreadable. Curious eyes twinkled behind that ever-present, unsettling smile.
All Might, now in his gaunt, shrunken form, stood beside Nezu—shoulders a little stooped, but his voice still carried the gravity of Japan's former Symbol of Peace. He'd briefed the staff on what little he knew during the walk over, but now, seeing the pale-skinned, crimson-marked warrior standing silently before them… words felt even more insufficient.
Kratos stood still as stone, arms folded, the Leviathan Axe now securely fastened to his back. He said nothing—his presence alone carried more weight than most speeches could. His gaze passed slowly across the room, taking in the postures, the auras, the subtle movements of each "warrior" seated before him.
Mimir, however, was not built for silence.
The disembodied head sat balanced on the edge of the table near Kratos' hip, his eyes narrowed as he looked over at All Might.
"Well," he said, breaking the silence like a hammer on glass, "I dinnae mean to be rude—honestly—but did anyone else just see this man shrink like a deflated goat bladder, or was that just me?"
A few eyebrows lifted. Present Mic snorted. Midnight smirked.
Mimir blinked, glancing around at the awkward stares. "I mean, one moment he's a glowing blonde colossus punchin' a rage-beast in the jaw, and the next he's lookin' like he needs a hot meal and a month's sleep! How in the Nine Realms does that work, then?"
Kratos didn't move, though one eyebrow twitched.
All Might chuckled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's... a long story."
"Aye," Mimir muttered. "We're gonna need a few of those, it seems…"
"I am sure everyone would like to know how a severed head could still talk, but we need to address the bigger elephant in the room. Since everyone is here, let's start the meeting."
"According to Mr. Kratos, he was teleported several thousand meters in the air above Musutafu city. Coincidentally where he fell, there was a Villain attack going on in the city. This footage from the scene today," Nezu said.
He pressed a small button on the sleek black remote, his tiny paws precise. The screen behind Kratos lit up with a sharp electronic hum and a sudden burst of light.
A flicker of warning danced in Kratos' eye.
In a blur of motion, he snatched Mimir from the table and slid back half a step. With a low grind of metal and ancient craft, the Guardian Shield bloomed from his left gauntlet—shkrrk!
A few of the teachers stiffened. Vlad King shifted forward slightly. Ectoplasm's gaze narrowed. Even Eraser Head's usually half-lidded stare sharpened.
"It's alright!" All Might said quickly, his voice calm despite the tension. "It's only a display. Nothing more."
Kratos' golden eyes held a flicker of doubt. But he lowered the shield slowly, sliding it back into place with a quiet click. Mimir gave a slight cough from his hand. "Aye... fair warning next time, eh?"
[CAMERA FOOTAGE – 2:32 minutes. Uploaded anonymously to HeroNet.]
The footage shook—screams echoed around the mic, sharp and close. The camera was held low, peeking past a parked car's shattered window. Cracks spread across the street like lightning frozen in concrete.
High above, the sky shimmered like fractured glass. Then—came a blinding flash.
A human-shaped silhouette plummeted through it like a divine thunderbolt. No cape. No wings. No hint of mortal logic. Just a man-shaped weapon, falling from the heavens.
The person filming screamed as the impact rocked the ground, the image jostling wildly. When the camera focused again, a man stood amidst the settling dust—an axe in one hand, a shield in the other.
A voice off-screen stammered, "Dude, is that another villain—what is that—?!"
Across from him, the mutated villain—Rauk—roared something unintelligible and lunged toward the newcomer. The man dodged easily, the punch flying past his head with terrifying speed.
In one smooth motion, he raised the axe high. Glowing runes carved into its edge burst to life—blazing like sunlight off snow—and a radiant pulse of light surged outward. Rauk snarled and recoiled, clawing at his seared eyes, stunned and blinded.
Then the axe struck.
The first swing arced sharply from right to left, slamming into the beast's chest with a brutal crack. The mic peaked under the force of it. Rauk stumbled—massive, grotesque, layered in bone-like plating and twitching muscle.
The man wielding the axe was titanic. Ashen skin. A beard like a storm cloud. And eyes that didn't flinch.
He advanced—measured, calm—and swung again, this time left to right. The transition between strikes was seamless. Someone behind the camera gasped.
The third blow came diagonal, carving down across Rauk's ribs. The impact blasted dust outward in a wide ripple.
Gripping the axe with both hands, the stranger twisted his body and spun, drawing the weapon behind his back before unleashing it in a brutal upward arc. When it struck—FLASH—an explosion of frost erupted from the point of contact. Blue-white light engulfed the screen, icy particles dancing past the lens.
Rauk screamed in rage and pain.
A voice off-screen shouted, "Was—was that frost?! What kind of Quirk is this? I thought he had some kind of hardening Quirk?!"
The camera shook as the axe was raised again—higher this time—and brought crashing down onto the villain's shoulder. The ground shattered beneath them. Frost exploded in every direction, jagged shards peppering the street. The villain reeled from the force, retreating under the relentless assault.
Then, everything paused.
The stranger inhaled—deep and primal. A war cry curled in his throat.
He raised the axe overhead—
"STOP!"
The command rang out. A sonic boom followed, rattling the screen.
The stranger paused—only for a heartbeat.
Then, the axe shifted—redirected mid-swing. It struck the ground instead.
BOOM.
The camera nearly flew from the holder's hands. Ice exploded upward, swallowing the area in a blinding whiteout. Screams vanished under the roar of freezing wind. When the camera regained focus, the villain was no longer moving.
Trapped. Encased in a jagged sarcophagus of ice, his grotesque form barely visible beneath the frozen rime.
Silence followed. Gasps and shocked breathing could be heard from everywhere.
Then someone near the mic whispered, "That guy just... won? With an …axe? Who is he?"
When the screen went black, the silence returned. This time it was heavier. Weighted.
One by one, the teachers turned their eyes to Kratos. And in that moment, he felt less like a visitor—and more like a question no one knew how to answer.
He stood tall—towering over most of them. His skin was pale as moon-bone, marred with ash and old scars like roads etched across a map of war. A red tattoo ran from his left eye down past his shoulder, a brutal stripe from another life, and his chest bore the hard-earned muscle of a man carved not in a gym—but on battlefields, in the woods, atop mountains. He didn't wear armour so much as carry it—pieces of boiled leather, ancient metal, fur-lined wraps and runes faintly glowing beneath the cloth.
But it wasn't just his appearance. It was the presence. He didn't fidget. Didn't blink much. His eyes scanned the room like a wolf watching a new den—calculating, weighing, prepared. The sort of man who looked at every corner and asked not "what is this place?" but "how do I survive it?"
And then there was the silence.
He hadn't said a word since the video played.
And yet, every teacher in the room could feel the truth of it—
This wasn't a man used to answering questions.
This was a man used to ending them.