The night had fallen over Jotunheim, heavy and silent.
The sky, clear as crystal, stretched across the horizon, revealing a gigantic, radiant moon. Its silvery glow bathed the frozen land in a pale, cold light—strangely beautiful. Shadows danced over the snow-covered mountains, and the giants' fortress seemed more alive under that moonlight than it had been all day.
Atop one of the fortress walls, Eskandor watched the sky with a strange look. He didn't speak to anyone, nor did he wear his usual exaggerated grin. His eyes, reflecting the moon's glow, were half-closed, focused—almost disturbed.
"...It's the first time I've seen anything like this..." he murmured to himself, the words lost in the sharp night breeze. "The moon... it shouldn't be this... big. This bright. And it's not just here... It doesn't feel like it's just in Jotunheim."
Another frost giant, broad-shouldered and with a beard made of bluish crystals, silently approached. He stood beside Eskandor for a few moments before speaking, his voice low and hoarse, filled with respect, but also carrying a hint of unease:
"Shall I... inform His Majesty?"
Eskandor remained silent for a moment. His lips parted as if to say "no," but no words came out. The unease in his chest was growing—an ominous feeling he couldn't ignore. Something was wrong. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones, in the air, in the silence of the stars.
"...I'll go myself."
He turned with determination and descended the wall, his long fur cloak fluttering in the wind as he walked through the frozen passages of the fortress.
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Inside the great hall, all was still.
The mound of snow in the center remained untouched, as if guarding an ancient treasure. Eskandor entered without ceremony, his hurried footsteps echoing against the frozen walls. He stopped in front of the white mound and took a deep breath before speaking, his voice reverent—but not overly so, almost as if afraid of being heard by something other than Uriel himself.
"Your Majesty... forgive my interruption of your glorious rest, so well-earned after a day of brilliant and generous leadership... But... there is something you need to see. Urgently."
His expression, however, was serious. His eyes did not waver, and there was no falsehood in his tone. This was real. And troubling.
The snow moved slowly. A sound of shattering crystals filled the hall as Uriel emerged from the white mountain. His immense body, five meters tall and covered in dark scales that reflected light like carved ice, rose with majesty. He said nothing. He simply cast a direct look at Eskandor, who gave a brief bow and moved to open the great doors of the fortress.
Uriel crossed the hall in silence, with firm steps, his imposing form moving beneath the pale moonlight that now spilled into the hall like a silver mantle.
When he stepped through the doors and into the courtyard, the sight made him stop.
There in the sky… was the moon.
But it was no longer silver.
It was red.
A deep, almost blood-like hue tainted what had once been pure light. The shadows it cast were distorted, elongated, strange. The fortress, the mountains, even the snow... everything looked different under that new shade.
Uriel narrowed his eye. His vision was flawless even in darkness, and yet... the light made no difference to him. Still... he saw.
And what he saw was the void.
No enemies. No creatures lurking.
No traps. No visible threats.
Only snow-covered mountains.
Only a silence so thick, so deep, it felt oppressive.
"...What is this...?" Uriel murmured softly to himself.
Even without answers, he felt it—something was coming.
The red moon seemed to pulse in the sky like a dark heart.
A different kind of cold swept through the air—not Jotunheim's natural chill, but something denser. The snow began to tremble slightly, as if waking from a millennia-old sleep. Small cracks formed in the immaculate white, and then, like a dissonant note in a symphony, it began.
The music.
A slow, macabre chant filled the air like an invisible plague.
It came from nowhere in particular, and yet from all around at once.
_"From blood is born pleasure…
From pain, true power…
Scream, run, beg for salvation…
Nothing will remain, only destruction…"_
The melody was like a collective whisper, deep and distorted, as if a thousand voices were singing at once from within forgotten tombs. With each verse, the snow lost its color. White at first, then pink, until it turned completely red, as if the ground itself was bleeding.
Uriel's single draconic eye widened, sparking with a mix of shock and dread. The ice around him cracked from the sheer tension of his presence.
"...No… It can't be…"
His body froze. He didn't move, but inside his mind, chaos was already reigning.
"...That music… that damned music… I wrote it... in my game.
There's only one boss that appears with that profane hymn..."
His voice came out as a trembling whisper, almost inaudible.
"...How is this possible? I know the system came with me… but… him too? One of my game's bosses… in this world? In the Marvel world…?"
For the first time since becoming king of Jotunheim, Uriel felt fear.
Real, primal, overwhelming fear.
He knew the power of that boss.
And here… he stood no chance. None.
He took a deep breath, forcing down every trace of emotion trying to leak from his skin. No expression crossed his face as he spread his icy wings and beat them hard, lifting into the sky in a whirlwind of snow and wind, soaring above the fortress at slicing speed.
Below, Eskandor watched in silence. He didn't ask anything. He didn't want to know.
Uriel's expression said more than words.
He turned immediately and ran through the icy corridors, shouting orders:
"Gather all who can fight! Now! Bring the weak inside the walls! Hurry, you ice pigs!"
Giants in thick armor began moving, grabbing spears, shields, bows made of frozen bones. War drums began to echo. Even the bravest were trembling.
Eskandor, as he ran and shouted, murmured to himself, with a faint thread of poorly disguised hope:
"May His Majesty not punish me… I'm just… just obeying, just being… loyal..."
But his eyes didn't lie.
He wasn't doing it out of pity or concern.
His thoughts were fixed on one thing: survival.
"If everyone dies… and His Majesty gets hungry… I… I'll be next…"
His whole body trembled just imagining it.
The chill that ran down his spine didn't come from the weather.
From the sky, Uriel soared above the fortress, eyes scanning the horizon. And then he saw them.
Marching slowly but relentlessly across the frozen plains were several lizard warriors.
Their scaly bodies were covered in red and black armor, wielding long spears and shields that looked like they were made from dragon bones.
Their eyes were hollow, and even as they marched, they sang that same macabre song, as if in a trance.
_"In fire we dance, in blood we live,
The end has come, and with it… with it… we win…"_
The sound of their voices echoed like dark thunder over the red snow.
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