The wind blew cold that morning in Asgard.

The sound of hammers echoed in the distance—a constant, metallic rhythm, almost like the pulsating heart of the new city. The sun, still pale, slowly rose behind the rebuilt walls, casting its light on the scaffolding, the golden banners, and the emblem fluttering above the main fortress: the symbol of a raven

enveloped in ancient runes.

Strax sat on the edge of a high roof, legs crossed, his black cloak billowing behind him like a living shadow. From there, he could see almost the entire extent of the city. The new districts, the makeshift tents, the columns still being erected… and, in the center of the training yard, more than fifty men awaiting instructions.

It was a curious sight—a sea of ​​warriors from all corners of the continent. Mercenaries, former soldiers, adventurers without a banner, and even some fugitives seeking a new beginning. They had all heard the same rumor:

"The Lord of Asgard is recruiting. Gold, glory, and power for those who survive."

Strax took a deep breath.

The air up there was lighter, almost too cold.

But inside him… there was fire.

Since the fall of the Beast Monarch, everything had changed. The land, once covered in ruins and ashes, now flourished under his command. Kaelthur was dead.

Asgard had been born in its place.

And with a city, would come a kingdom.

With a kingdom, would come order.

And with order… would come a legacy.

He knew what he needed to do.

The wood creaked slightly under his boots as he stood up. From above, he looked like a raven observing his warriors. Below, the training field teemed with energy. Men and women of different races—humans, elves, dwarves, even a few orcs—formed disorganized ranks, wielding worn weapons, incomplete armor, but with eyes alight with the same desire: to belong to something greater.

"Samira did her job well," he murmured, looking at the horizon.

The vampire had been sent weeks ago to Athenion, spreading rumors that a new power was rising in the north. A power that challenged the crowns and paid three times more than any regular army.

The result was before him: fifty warriors.

Fifty swords ready to fight… and perhaps die.

Strax jumped from the rooftop.

The impact echoed through the courtyard like muffled thunder. The ground cracked slightly where he landed, and an almost reverent silence spread among those present. Everyone turned their faces at the same time—some out of respect, others out of pure instinct of fear.

The black cloak opened behind him, and golden eyes gleamed in the sunlight.

A man? A monster? A god?

No one knew for sure.

Strax walked slowly to the center of the courtyard, his boots crushing the dust under his steps. The murmurs ceased. Only the distant sound of torches and the wind persisted.

He stopped before the group.

"Fifty-three," he said, without raising his voice.

Even so, everyone heard.

"Fifty-three people who left their homes, their loyalties, their debts and came here in search of something… better."

A brief murmur ran through the group. Some nodded, others simply watched in silence.

Strax looked at each of them—trained eyes, bodies marked by scars, but also inexperienced young people who barely knew how to hold a sword.

The diversity pleased him. It was a raw mass, ready to be molded. "I don't promise easy glory," he continued, his deep voice resonating like a drumbeat.

"Here, you will fight. You will bleed. You will die, perhaps." A slight smile crossed his lips. "But if you survive... you will be remembered."

He gestured with his hand.

Across the courtyard, two men pushed a large banner forward. The black cloth unfurled, revealing a golden symbol: a spear piercing a circle with ancient runes.

"This will be the emblem of the new Order," he said firmly. "The Order of the Einherjar."

The word echoed among them. Some exchanged confused glances. Others whispered the name, savoring the sound as if they sensed the weight it carried.

Strax looked up at the banner, and for an instant the sun seemed to shine brighter upon it.

"The Einherjar," he explained, "are warriors who do not fear death, because they have already died in life. They are those who are reborn on the battlefield and who fight not for a throne, but for an ideal."

He paused.

"Eternal victory belongs to those who do not retreat."

The silence that followed was dense, reverent.

Strax took a step forward.

"Here there are no kings. There are no nobles. There is no pure blood," he said, his gaze burning like golden fire. "There is only strength. And will. If you think titles are worth more than scars, you can leave now."

Nobody moved.

The wind blew, fluttering the banners. Dust rose lightly from the ground, creating a golden aura around him.

One of the older mercenaries—a burly man with a gray beard and scars—raised his voice:

"And what do we gain if we stay?"

Strax looked at him, and the man felt his heart clench.

That gaze seemed to pierce his soul.

"A place in Asgard," Strax replied. "Gold, yes. Weapons, yes. But above all... meaning."

He raised his finger and pointed to the horizon. "While the world bows to kings and lords, we will build something that will not die when the body falls. A story. A name that will echo when the world forgets the empires that rule today."

The veteran swallowed hard.

And then he knelt.

The others followed. One by one, as if a primal instinct compelled them.

In a few seconds, all fifty warriors were on their knees before him.

Strax remained silent, observing them.

His expression was serene—almost divine.

"So it begins," he thought.

"The foundation of what will endure when the gods fall silent."

From atop the walls, Monica watched in silence. The wind stirred her white hair, and a small smile formed on her lips.

"So that's it..." she murmured. "He's creating his own soldiers."

Kali was beside her, leaning on her spear, still with the same bored look.

"And the worst part... is that it will work," she said, sighing. "That madman knows how to manipulate people."

"Not 'people'," Monica replied. "Everyone."

Below, Strax opened his arms, and his voice echoed through the courtyard:

"From this day forward, you are no longer mercenaries. You are no longer vagabonds, nor dogs of war. You are Einherjar." "However," Strax continued, his tone cutting through the air, "you're going to have to... fight me a little. You know, I can't let everyone in; I need the right ones."

A murmur ran through the ranks. Some faces paled; others hunched even further, hands clenched on their sword hilts. Expectation turned into electric tension. Strax took a step forward; the ground seemed to accept the order and trembled beneath his feet.

"Horses, shields, and diplomas don't make an Einherjar," he continued, the words slow and sharp. "Men fall much faster than they think. Here, you have to prove that you don't back down when the world wants to swallow you."

Kali jumped down from the walls with a dry thud, her spear crossed under her arm like a scepter. Her golden eyes swept over the group, assessing, measuring. She smiled wryly—a smile that promised efficient pain.

"Training?" a young man murmured, trying to sound confident. "We thought it was just contract and plunder."

Kali tilted her head. "Contract and plunder come later. Now comes pain and discipline."

Strax snapped his fingers. At the dry sound, two men opened a side door. From inside, they dragged out straw dummies, sandbags, old armor, and a circle of stones where newly carved runes gleamed like amber. There was also a wooden ramp and a shallow tank where murky water could be seen, covered with blades attached to chains—a test of courage and balance.

"You can come," Strax announced. "All at the same time. You can come and attack me..."

"You can come," Strax announced, his deep voice reverberating in the air. "All at the same time. You can come and attack me."

The words hung over the courtyard like a sentence.

For an instant, no one moved. The wind blew, carrying the dust, swaying the black banner of the new order.

Then, one of the warriors—a tall human with a shaved head and a scar on his eyebrow—advanced, sword in hand.

"You asked for this!" he shouted, trying to incite the others.

The shout was the trigger.

Five others followed him, then ten, and in a few seconds a dozen warriors were running towards the man in the black cloak.

Strax didn't move.

He simply breathed.

The air seemed to change—heavy, dense, charged with power. The dust on the ground floated, slowly swirling around him, and the golden gleam in his eyes became a beacon.

When the first blow came, Strax raised one hand.

The blade met something invisible—a wall of energy—and shattered like glass. The warrior was thrown backward, crashing against a pile of wood.

The second tried to come from below, aiming for his legs. Strax spun his body and kicked him with enough force to send him flying three meters.

The third and fourth attacked together—one with a mace, the other with two daggers.

Strax smiled.

One step. One blow. A dry impact echoed, and both fell, coughing blood, not understanding what had hit them.

The entire courtyard watched, paralyzed between fear and fascination.

It was more than strength—it was mastery. Strax didn't just fight; he danced with war.

"Continue," he ordered calmly. "If you stop now, you don't even deserve the ground you're kneeling on."

The others hesitated, but pride overcame fear.

In a few moments, the rest launched themselves at him—screams, steel, dust, and rage.

Kali, to the side, simply sighed and rested her chin on her fist. "He loves to dramatize."

"He's testing more than strength," Monica replied, with a slight smile. "He's seeing who continues even knowing they're going to lose."

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