Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 1161 The Journey to Valhalla (Part 2)

The frail old woman's head only reached Salomon's chest, and her steps were unsteady; she looked older than everyone else in the hall. No matter how much the king boasted about the old woman's identity, Salomon was still a two-meter-tall giant. He was unwilling to participate in such a dishonorable battle, nor did he want to harm such a frail old woman. But this was the final challenge; he had to win, or he would remain in Val'raha.

"Are you ready, madam?" Salomon assumed a fighting stance, relaxing his shoulders to avoid causing the old woman too much harm. "I'll be gentle; I won't hurt you."

Upon hearing this, the old woman laughed, revealing her toothless, withered gums. Then she lunged forward with astonishing speed. She crouched down and locked Salomon's leg with her arm; Salomon immediately felt his leg weaken where the old woman touched him, her seemingly frail, thin arm possessing astonishing strength.

Salomon immediately changed his approach, trying to push her or back away to trip her, freeing himself from her grasp and causing her to fall to the ground. However, she remained as firm as a rock, completely unmoved. The old woman's strength traveled up Salomon's spine, causing his knees to bend. Salomon used all his strength to push her, but he still couldn't stop the old woman from lifting him up and jumping on top of him. The old woman, who looked no heavier than a sheep, was actually making it hard for him to breathe.

The warriors began to count down, banging their glasses on the long table with a loud crash, and even the ghosts in the corridor howled. Exhausted human servants weaved among the warriors, pouring wine and serving them meat; often, the glasses were empty the moment they were filled, forcing them to make multiple trips while carefully avoiding tripping over the broken bones on the ground. When the count reached one, the old woman staggered off Salomon's chest, as if Salomon had accidentally broken her bones, and it was she, not Salomon, lying on the ground.

"Best of three, the old maid wins the first round!" The king laughed heartily. "Give this kid some mead; he definitely hasn't had enough, otherwise how could he not even beat an old maid! Drink up, drink up, don't keep the poor old maid waiting too long!"

Salomon got up from the ground, took the mead, and drank it all in one gulp.

The second round began. This time, Salomon didn't underestimate his opponent. When the old woman tried to push her way in with the same trick, Salomon nimbly grabbed her shoulder. Those thin shoulders and slender bones couldn't be stronger than a steel bar, but when he grasped them, he found the old woman's shoulder as solid as the Himalayas where he had grown up. The old woman gripped his biceps tightly, pushing him with a terrifying, monstrous strength, as if she weren't an old woman but a ferocious beast from the galaxy. Despite Salomon's best efforts to resist, the old woman's strength relentlessly tormented his bones, muscles, and internal organs. At that moment, he felt as if he were once again standing in the heavy snow outside, weakness and cold seeping into his body from the outside in, stiffening his joints, blurring his vision, as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on him, forcing him to kneel on one knee.

The soldiers banged on the table and began the countdown.

Only when the old woman let go did Salomon, covered in mud, reeds, and ice shards, stagger to his feet amidst the warriors' laughter.

"You've lost again, human king!" the king roared. "The finest warrior among humans couldn't defeat an old woman? Boy, I'll add another rule. If you can defeat her this time, I'll declare you the winner. You have one last chance, what do you say?"

In the third round, Salomon struck first. When he pushed the old woman's shoulder, it was as if he had struck a war engine; the strength to lift a mountain couldn't budge her an inch. He exerted all his might, only managing to force her to take a slight step back. Even so, the fur-clad warriors present gasped in astonishment, and the white-haired king on his throne rose in surprise. It was the old woman's turn to retaliate. She used the same tactic, grabbing Salomon's shoulder, and then the power drained from him. Wrinkles crept onto his once youthful face, calcium escaped from his increasingly fragile bones, and the long black hair hidden beneath his wolfskin hood turned gray from the roots.

Death knocked on his door, and inevitable aging caught up with him. The king of the dead breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on his throne.

Salomon stared into the old woman's hollow, murky eyes, so close to his own. He straightened his back, his spine creaking painfully. His expression wasn't one of forced ferocity, but rather a calm tinged with anger; he'd sensed something was wrong the moment he arrived on this snowfield. "I refuse," he whispered to the old woman, then his eyes flashed with a blinding light. "Whatever tricks you're up to, I refuse." A heat far exceeding that of a furnace erupted from the air around him; the ice formed from mead on the reed-covered ground began to melt, wrinkles faded from his face, his gray hair returned to its black, and his bones grew strong once more.

He slowly stood up, and with a strength he seemed to possess from nowhere, he gradually pressed down on the old woman's arm. He struggled to his feet and hurled the old woman, known only as the Elderly, to the ground, smashing the granite into pieces. The previously boisterous warriors suddenly lost the courage to meet his gaze. No one banged their glasses on the long table anymore, and even the ghosts in the dark corridor stopped their whispers and watched him nervously.

"I know who you are. You are aging. No one can defeat aging, not even for anyone. Those who die of aging are your servants. I will not be your prey except for me!" Salomon spat at the old woman lying on the ground, then looked at the King of the Dead on the high platform. "I observe ancient customs, yet you have repeatedly mocked me." He accused the King of the Dead, "Just like how you used the irresistible, unstoppable force of aging against me. You had your warriors bring me goblets filled with the ocean, deceiving me into trying to drink the entire ocean. I drank three sips and the entire sea level dropped. Your wolf is Helheim itself, unshakeable death, the end for all."

The King of the Dead picked up his spear and rose from his throne. His face, beneath the eagle-helmet, rapidly decayed, revealing yellowed bones. "Then who am I! Answer that question, human king!"

"You are Odin, you have violated ancient customs, you are cursed!"

A blinding flame gathered in Salomon's hand; the scorching holy sword instantly ignited the reeds spread on the damp earth, illuminating the dark corridor. Ghostly creatures shrieked and fled. Hundreds of warriors clad in wolf skins rose simultaneously, grabbing their weapons from the pile. In their haste, they overturned long tables and benches, spilling mead and meat. Salomon kicked over Frech, who was swinging his giant axe at him, then severed the axe-wielding arm with his longsword. Weapon-wielding warriors swarmed forward, giant axes, longswords, warhammers, and shields crowding every inch of space before him—they let out chilling, bestial roars, their twisted shadows transforming into wolf-like monsters. The wolf skins gradually merged with their bodies, altering their bones and muscles, turning their fingers into claws and their teeth into fangs.

These half-human, half-wolf warriors grew increasingly ferocious and bloodthirsty. Their chilling howls echoed throughout the hall. The sorcerer wielded his weapon, fighting fiercely. He severed the werewolves' longswords, thrusting his holy sword through shields and piercing the shields of the warriors beginning to mutate into wolves behind them. He killed Sigmund, his sister's child, and Sinfulut, as well as the giant wolves Frech and Kili. For every one he felled, another half-wolf warrior pounced. The ground, damp with wolf blood, froze, only to melt again from the heat of the holy sword.

The sounds of clashing weapons and furious shouts replaced laughter and drinking; the aroma of roasted meat and mead was replaced by the stench of the dying man's excrement and entrails. Salomon climbed the platform over wolf carcasses, approaching Odin, the Lord of the Dead, who remained unmoved by Salomon's carnage, his rotting eyes fixed on him.

"Tell me, why did you want me here?" Salomon's expression was ferocious as he crushed the head of a half-wolf warrior. His bloodlust and ferocity were not much less than those of the werewolf warriors. His wolfskin coat was covered with greasy blood and stains of dark mead, and his feet were covered with crushed, chopped, and trampled bone fragments and bits of flesh.

"As you said, the rulers of the old era should die." Odin's voice hissed from his broken trachea and rotting cheek. "This world is about to be destroyed, and my people will all perish. Asgard's ascension has failed; the future belongs to humanity. I see in you the potential to defeat our great enemy, and I want to make a deal with you. No tricks, no deception; you have earned my respect."

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)