Hermes, far away in Vanaheimr, keenly sensed that the moment had arrived.
The chaos in Ásgarðr had reached its peak; Odin was exhausted, and the gods were distracted by sorrow and anger—the perfect moment.
Thanks to his speed and stealth abilities, he quietly infiltrated Ásgarðr, targeting the sun and moon hanging in the sky, illuminating the Nine Realms.
Without attracting the attention of any god, Hermes, the most skilled thief, unnoticed by the gods, stole the sun chariot driven by Sól and the moon chariot driven by Máni, along with their luminous cores.
The light vanished from the sky.
No warning, no gradation, as if someone had instantly extinguished the lamp of the universe.
Infinite darkness shrouded the heavens, filling the air—heavy as ashes, and viscous as a deathly mist that never dissipates.
The starlight also seemed faint and distant in this absolute darkness.
This was the Fimbulwinter, the prelude to the prophesied Ragnarök—the endless, long winter that had arrived early and violently under Hermes's influence!
Having lost the sun's warmth, the extreme cold became like a wave of death, frantically rolling in from every corner of the world, especially from Niflheim.
Wind and snow relentlessly howled from all sides, and the wild, cold wind carried a bitter chill beyond the imagination of any living being.
The piercing cold could make mortals feel as if their lungs were being sliced by ice blades with every breath, and could make hot tears freeze into icy rims the moment they spilled from their eyes.
And the most desperate part was that all living beings knew: there would be no spring to break this bitter cold.
No summer to nourish life, no autumn to bring forth fruit.
Only winter, one after another, monotonous and brutal, cycling endlessly.
Everything withered, life was cut off, and hope was like something frozen at the bottom of the ice, never seeing the light of day.
Immediately after, following the darkness and intense cold, even more brutal catastrophes ensued.
The earthquakes caused by the imprisoned Loki became more violent and frequent after the loss of the balance of order between heaven and earth.
The earthquake approached.
Mountains trembled and collapsed with wails, and the earth split into bottomless ravines.
Forests crumbled in sections, and the shelters in the mortal realm that had survived the cold were also completely destroyed in the collapsing sky.
The entire world was on the verge of destruction in violent convulsions.
The prophecy was fulfilled at this moment—
all chains and shackles would be broken.
All of them.
Among them, of course, was Gleipnir, which bound the god of trickery.
The cage was shattered, and the shackles were no longer in place.
Within a matter of days, Loki was free.
His wild laughter reached its peak with the earthquake, intertwining with the darkness and cold piercing the world, proclaiming that the stage for Ragnarök was fully set.
This was the beginning of the great end.
The sky, shrouded in eternal haze and piercing cold, was torn apart by some invisible force, like rags!
Amidst the cries of hundreds of millions of children simultaneously, the fire giants of Múspellsheimr, these 'sons of Muspell',
on the divine ship Skíðblaðnir, which had been 'sent' by Hermes, poured forth from the cracks in the torn sky like a rain of burning meteors!
They followed their leader, the fire giant Surtr.
This enormous flame giant held a sword renowned throughout the Nine Realms.
The sword's blade burned with extraordinary flames, its light incredibly dazzling, containing the supreme heat that could burn all matter and laws. No mortal, or even ordinary god, dared look directly at its edge, as if at first glance their soul could be burned to nothing.
This army of destruction set foot on the Bifröst, the rainbow bridge to Ásgarðr.
However, this beautiful Rainbow Bridge, which once connected heaven and earth, could no longer withstand such a powerful aura of destruction.
As the fire giants and their steeds landed, with every hoof-fall, the Bifröst trembled violently, and the once bright and cheerful colored ribbon rapidly dimmed at a visible speed, finally turning to an ashen gray.
The peerless rainbow vanished.
Meanwhile, all the frost giants who had survived the Fimbulwinter converged in a white, cold stream of death.
They followed the enormous and brutal leader of the frost giants, Hrímgrímnir.
He embodied the harsh winter, the king of ice and snow, and the giants under his command were the merciless warriors symbolizing cold and silence in this final battle.
And at this moment, when heaven and earth were turned upside down, the Vanir clan, which had been coldly observing, finally showed their fangs under the leadership of their God-King 'Narcissus' (Hades).
Narcissus used the spatial passage built by Athena—a 'rainbow bridge', resembling a huge, tangled vine.
Through this bridge, Narcissus personally led the elite divine army of Vanaheimr, and... the legions of the dead from the Underworld marched towards the battlefields of Ásgarðr!
Narcissus appeared at the edge of the chaotic battlefield, his voice calm, yet clear to every Æsir, especially Odin:
"Come, let us continue our unfinished war."
The moment Odin saw the Vanir appear, his eyes filled with astonishment.
He had thought the Vanir would at least remain neutral, perhaps even share a common hatred when facing the Giant Alliance.
He never expected Narcissus to choose to enter the fray at Ásgarðr's weakest moment!
But in an instant, a twisted relief appeared in Odin's heart.
This was it... It was all right.
Since the Vanir were participating in the war, even if Ásgarðr were to be destroyed in the future, Týr, who was closely connected to the Vanir, could logically integrate into the Vanir and survive.
His bloodline, the last spark of the Æsir race, might still be inherited.
Recalling Ares's unusual closeness with Týr, Odin was confident that Týr would not be mistreated in Vanaheimr and could live a relatively peaceful life.
"Only..." an indescribable grief and regret flickered in Odin's heart.
I'm afraid I'll never get to hold a grandchild from Týr.
At the same time, in the Vanir camp, Freyr and Freyja had returned.
In Freyr's hand, he tightly gripped the magical sword Tyrfing, stained with divine blood.
The tragedy of the past and future, now facing the object of his affection (Frigg) as an enemy, left his emotions, long unable to settle, full of contradiction and pain.
At this moment, a sorrowful thought came: it was Frigg!
She desperately pleaded with Freyr, begging him to help Ásgarðr and her, for Baldr's sake!
Freyr's body trembled violently; on one side was his former lover, and now, sworn loyalty to his God-King and his own clan.
He sank into absolute confusion, and Tyrfing in his hand seemed even heavier.
Narcissus took all this in with his eyes and did not force Freyr, only conveying a calm thought from the past: "Do as you wish, Freyr."
For Narcissus (Hades), Ragnarök had arrived, and the fall of Ásgarðr was a predestined inevitability in the long river of fate.
Freyr's personal choice—whether to participate in the war or be an observer—had no substantial impact on the final outcome.
He led the Vanir and the forces of Hades not for plunder or simple destruction, but for troop training.
To temper the Vanir in a real war of destruction, to adapt the legions of Hades to combat, and to gain experience for trials the world of Chaos might face in the future.
As for whether the enemy was a fire giant, a frost giant, or an Æsir?
For him, there was little difference; they were all excellent whetstones.