Beneath a blood-red sky, with distant thunder rumbling and the acrid scent of sulfur thick in the air, Thanatos faces his final destiny.
He stands in the vast and desolate Sograt Desert, where the sand still bears the weight of countless battles. Four centuries ago, the Aesir and Vanir gods waged war against Surt here, defeating the Lord of Muspell and banishing him to the abyss from which he came. But the time for vengeance has arrived at last. Surt has returned, bringing with him the promise of destruction and an army of demons. This time, Midgard stands abandoned by the gods. And now, the last bastion against Surt's wrath is nothing more than a single man—Thanatos.
The sands tremble, as if boiling under the sheer presence of the demonic giant. Surt, a towering nightmare of searing darkness, looms above, his many burning eyes fixed upon the lone mortal who dares to stand against him. His massive, claw-like fingers stretch forward, radiating an infernal heat that distorts the very air, making the desert itself seem ablaze.
Thanatos, clad in gleaming silver armor that reflects the flames of his foe, stands resolute, his crimson cape billowing behind him like a war banner. In his hands, he grips his greatsword, knowing that the weight of Midgard's fate rests solely upon his shoulders—he is the last and only hope.
Surt eyes the lone warrior with disdain, his voice thundering across the wasteland like a death sentence.
"Puny mortal, what chance have you? I am Surt, Lord of Muspell! You are... nothing!"
Thanatos does not answer. His unwavering gaze speaks for him. Then, with a battle cry that cuts through the scorching air, he charges forward.
The clash begins with a ferocious impact, the sound of steel against steel ringing through the Sograt Desert. For ten days and ten nights, the battle between the lone Paladin and the Demon King will rage, each strike carving history into the land and deciding the fate of Midgard.
But the path that led Thanatos to this legendary battle began in a much different place.
Long before he bore a sword or became humanity's last protector, he was just a defenseless child, abandoned to fate.
On a cold, silent night near Prontera, the capital of Rune-Midgard, a village lay in ruins—its homes reduced to ash, its people massacred. Amid the smoldering wreckage, a single, fragile cry echoed through the darkness—the wail of an infant, weak and helpless in the heart of devastation. Surrounded by the dead, his fate was as uncertain as the ashes carried by the wind.
Dagrík, his armor stained with the blood of battle, surveyed the scene with a hardened gaze. The weight of his many scars seemed heavier as he took in the loss, the brutality of it all. A warrior tempered by war, he rarely hesitated in the face of destruction. But even he could not ignore the sound that pierced the silence—the desperate cry of a survivor.
Liv was the first to move. Her boots, which had crushed the charred earth with heavy steps, now softened as she approached the source of the crying. The swordswoman, with her short brown hair and weary eyes, knelt down and found the infant swaddled in scorched rags, his face still wet with tears. His tiny body trembled, yet in his gaze burned a resilience far beyond his years—a flicker of defiance that stirred something deep within her.
She lifted him into her arms, heedless of the surprised looks from her companions. Her expression softened with a warmth none of them had ever seen before. A decision was made in that moment, a fire lighting in her eyes as she held the baby close.
"Dagrík, we can't leave him here. He needs us," she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute.
Dagrík watched her in silence, arms crossed, his sharp gaze locked onto Liv and the child. He was a man of duty and discipline, and he knew well that fate was rarely kind to those who embraced weakness. But something about the infant—this tiny life that had survived fire and death—challenged him.
After a long pause, he stepped forward, peering down at the baby, now calm in Liv's embrace.
"Thanatos," he finally declared, his voice carrying the weight of a decree. "If death itself brought you here, then let that be your name."
Silence fell once more, broken only by the soft rhythm of breath. The child, now named, rested safely in the swordswoman's arms. And for the first time in a long while, Dagrík felt a whisper of uncertainty in his battle-hardened heart—a shadow of a new destiny, both for him and for his clan.
Dagrík was more than just a leader; he was the foundation upon which his clan stood, though as unyielding as a blade of steel. His cold and pragmatic nature had earned him both fear and respect, and his strict discipline extended even to his personal relationships. In Thanatos, he saw a reflection of his own childhood—a past scarred by the memory of his parents' murder, a youth stolen by the sword and relentless training. This silent connection led him, however reluctantly, to assume a paternal role. But his way of showing care was through expectation, through discipline, through forging strength in fire.
From the night the Skuggulfr clan took Thanatos in, he was raised not with the warmth of a home, but beneath the shadow of war and rigid training. Liv, however, loved him as her own, surprising even the most hardened warriors with the depths of her devotion.
Liv bore the marks of a harsh life, a past shaped not by choices of her own, but by the cruel hands of fate. Forced into prostitution at an early age to survive, she knew the weight of judgment, the sting of loneliness. And when she discovered she was infertile, the dream of motherhood—a fragile ember of hope she had always clung to—was cruelly snuffed out.
It was only when she found Thanatos that she felt a second chance. Caring for him became her purpose, a way to turn her past wounds into the strength to protect and nurture the boy she now called her son.
Within the clan, Kjetil quickly became a constant presence in Thanatos' life. With his ever-present smile and open arms, he was a source of warmth and levity amidst the clan's rigid discipline. Kjetil was not only the one who brewed the potions that strengthened warriors—he also cooked the meals that brought them comfort. He would often hoist Thanatos onto his shoulders, running through the fields with the boy's laughter ringing through the camp, coaxing grins even from the most stoic of warriors.
Thanatos grew up in a world preparing for endless battles. From his earliest years, whispers of the war against the elves drifted like ominous winds through the camp's tents and firelit gatherings. He was trained with strict discipline by Dagrík, cradled with love by Liv, and guided with patience by Kjetil, who taught him the secrets of nature and the power of healing herbs.