Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 1159 The Journey to Valhalla (Part 1)

Only after stepping out of the area shrouded by the runes did the summer sea breeze of Northern Europe return, like stepping out of an air-conditioned room and standing in the scorching afternoon sun; the originally cool sea breeze now carried a hint of warmth.

Cassirios was astonished to find that the sun had already sunk below the horizon, and the time he had perceived in the cabin was only a dozen minutes. If it weren't for the lingering smell of cigarette ash and blood on Salomon walking beside him, he would hardly have believed what had just happened. However, no matter how much Cassirios pressed Salomon about what had happened in the cabin, Salomon remained hesitant, as if he didn't know how to tell the story.

In fact, the moment he stepped across the threshold, he knew what he was about to face. Even so, his pride supported him as he walked in to confront the former overlord. Inside was an endless expanse of snow, the ice and snow even reaching his knees. With each step he took, the snow and ice were compressed into crystals that made a soft, crackling sound.

It was an indescribable calm, the sound of death, a serene stillness under the gray sky, death overwhelming everything in the real world. He took a deep breath, the icy air filling his lungs, his moist eyes instantly freezing and then melting—he could hear his own heartbeat, his own footsteps. From here, every direction was covered in snow, stretching to the gray horizon where it met the deep purple sky. The fierce cold tore at his skin and hair, the extremely low temperature scratching at his lungs and heart like claws probing into his body. An ordinary person would freeze to death in this snow in seconds, unless one possessed a special physique like his to survive here wearing only a thin layer of clothing.

Salomon knew this wasn't real; it was just an illusion, the effect of Odin's power overflowing from the outer dimension into the real world. But when he looked down, he found his neat and clean clothes had transformed into a poorly tailored wolfskin coat that reeked of animal flesh, and his exquisite handmade leather shoes had become short boots supported by animal hides. When he looked up, he saw that the constellations he recognized in the sky were haphazardly sketching the fates of the dead that shouldn't have appeared.

A wolf, a wolf near the horizon, sat atop a snow-covered rock, waiting for him. Its grey-black fur almost blended into the night, its hot breath condensing into white mist in the frigid air. Salomon walked over, and the wolf turned and leaped into the desolate plains stretching towards the horizon—seeing this, Salomon immediately followed. It was as if he had lost all his strength; only his long-strengthened body was still supporting him as he pulled his legs out of the snow and strode forward in this extreme cold. The ice and snow froze his toes, the icy air tore at his throat, and the smell of blood rose in his throat. He chased the incredibly fast wolf for hours without stopping, the temperature continuing to drop, and he couldn't see the sun. Only when frostbite began to spread beneath his skin, and a long-dormant exhaustion began to overwhelm his muscles, did the wolf gradually slow down.

It was a longhouse resembling an overturned, gigantic ship, thick snow covering the sloping roof tiles. Wolf head carvings adorned the sharply angled pillars, and thick smoke billowed from the tall chimney in the center of the roof. Firelight streaming through the open door cast a flickering silhouette on the dark snow. A wolf sat waiting for him in the firelight. Salomon stretched his frozen limbs, then pushed open the door and entered with the wolf—the spacious hall was full of life. An astonishing number of long tables were placed in the space between two rows of vine-covered pillars. A bonfire made of burning coal stood in the center of the house, roasting a slain beast over it, illuminating only the hall and not the corridors on either side. However, this was no ordinary hall; shadowy figures dwelt in the shadows beyond the firelight's reach.

A group of savage warriors, reeking of blood and greasy sweat, gathered around a long table. They devoured meat from huge platters and drank mead from goblets, their footsteps shuffling and their conversations buzzing. Some armored warriors sat at the far end of the table, where piles of bloodstained weapons emitted an astonishing stench and ferocity. Gnawing bones were scattered everywhere, even on the reed-covered mud floor. The sour mead seeped into every fiber of the wooden table, and the intense heat of the roaring fire only amplified the stench in the hall.

On a high platform at the top of the hall stood a long table and a wooden throne engraved with heroic reliefs. An elderly king with white hair sat on the fur-covered throne, holding a golden spear. He was much taller than ordinary people; the fiercest and strongest warriors at the other tables could only reach his chest. Although the king looked very old, his every move was extremely majestic. At his feet lay a sleeping giant wolf, its fur the same color as the wolf that had led Salomon here.

The king seemed unaware of Salomon's arrival until he pushed aside the fighting warriors and stepped down from the platform, standing in the blood of the defeated. Only then did the warriors notice his presence; a thousand pairs of fierce, yellowish eyes fixed on him. The ghosts living in the darkness fled the hall in fright, sending up a gust of cold wind that caused many warriors to grumble.

"I am the god of war, the god of storms, the master of the spear, the god of the dead, the king of the undead, the god of knowledge, the king of the gallows, the father of magic, the father of all gods." As the aged king spoke in Ancient Norse, sparks erupted from the burning coals, as if the very air itself vibrated with his voice. He leaned down, looking at Salomon below the platform, his sharp eyes fixed on the young man's face. "Who has come to my hall to challenge me?"

"I am Salomon of the Earth, Lord of Kamar-Taj, Holder of the Holy Sword, King of the Immortal City, Emperor of Latvinia, and future Lord of Mankind," Salomon said humbly. "I do not know why I am here, but I know I must be here."

"Are you a king too?"

"That's right."

"But you don't look like one at all. You have no armor, no weapons, you look like a poor, country hunter." The king pointed to Salomon's tattered fur coat and said slyly, "No matter how many titles you have, I have far more names you've never heard of, names heavier than the most magnificent mountains in the world, and you look so frail. This is my hall, and you dare to challenge me here!"

“I am not challenging you, Father of the Gods. I merely wish for your hospitality, to offer a stranger the warmth of a hearth—an ancient custom. Besides, I am also a king; we are equals, and you have no reason to refuse me.” Though unaware of the situation, Salomon answered according to the traditions he had learned in Asgard. “Furthermore, we are not enemies. I am unarmed and open. If you refuse to offer me warmth, your fate will be shrouded in the shadow of an ancient curse.”

The priest, adorned with antlers and amulets, whispered in the king's ear. After a while, the king reluctantly nodded.

"Today we welcome a new guest!" The white-haired king's voice boomed like thunder as he addressed everyone in the hall. "Though the priest has proven his worth, the living cannot set foot in my palace, Valhalla. He must prove himself worthy of the warmth of my hearth. If he fails the trial to prove himself, then anyone who defeats him will receive my gift." The warriors pounded their fists on the long table, roaring loudly. Some impatient warriors had already put down their meat, reaching out their greasy hands to pick up the weapons and shields that lay aside, while others were throwing punches at their companions in a fight for a spot. The king, wielding a spear, laughed heartily and gestured for the restless warriors to quiet down.

"But before that, we must show our guests the proper respect." The king gestured for his servants to bring a huge platter and place it before Salomon, himself, and the warriors. Only then did Salomon realize that the contents of the wooden platter were not simply roasted meat, but a human leg roasted black. "This is the flesh and blood of a coward," the priest said from the side. "This is the best food to nourish the warriors' bodies."

"No," Salomon said, barely containing his anger. "I refuse."

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(End of this chapter)