The battlefield stretched like a nightmare frozen in time. Scattered across the shattered earth were the mutilated bodies of government soldiers, their forms twisted into grotesque parodies of life. Limbs lay severed and discarded, some faces frozen in final, silent screams—skin ripped open to expose shattered bone and pools of dark, coagulated blood that oozed slowly into the cracked dirt. The air hung thick with the metallic stench of iron and burnt flesh, mingling with acrid smoke that rose in sickly tendrils from smoldering ruins and charred debris.
Some of the fallen were half-buried beneath the wreckage of collapsed market stalls, others grotesquely skewered on shattered wooden beams, their tattered uniforms soaked in grime and congealed blood. A faint echo of distant screams and clashing steel drifted through the haze, a haunting reminder that the battle was far from over.
At the center of this carnage stood Aksel, his body bruised and battered but his spirit unbroken. His eyes darted across the scene, taking in the devastation, before settling on the figure facing him: an old man named Typheous. Though aged, Typheous carried an aura both majestic and terrifying. His eyes burned like molten coals beneath heavy, furrowed brows, and deep lines etched his face—a map of centuries steeped in violence and unyielding will. The cold power radiating from him was palpable, a force that crushed hope and commanded submission without a word.
"You've survived what should have shattered even the strongest," Typheous said, his voice a low, gravelly growl that rumbled like distant thunder. Each word landed heavy, deliberate. "Look around—my crew fought with me. They bled like rivers, shattered like glass. Now, they lie torn and broken, just like these cowards."
He gestured dismissively at the mangled corpses littering the ground, a grim smile twisting the corners of his cracked lips.
"Government dogs," he spat. "Butchered like animals. Their screams still echo in my mind. Their lives ended in ruin, but their deaths forged the path for what comes next."
Stepping closer, Typheous's presence seemed to darken the very air, thickening it with tension. Beneath his scarred skin, faint crackles of unseen power hummed and danced, an ominous energy barely restrained.
"I am Typheous," he declared, voice dropping even lower. "Called an Elder God not because I am divine, but because I wield fragments of that power—shards stolen from the very essence of the gods themselves. It's both a curse... and a weapon."
His gaze locked onto Aksel's like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.
"I offer you a place among my shattered crew. Join me, and you will taste that power. Become more than flesh and bone—become a force that will tear this broken world apart and rebuild it anew."
Aksel's breath hitched; his grip tightened around his weapon's worn handle as the weight of the offer pressed down on him.
"And if I refuse?" he asked, voice tense and uncertain.
A slow, dark smile crept across Typheous's face, chilling and merciless.
"Then you die alone," he said, voice like a curse. "Swallowed whole by the chaos that devours everything weaker than us. This world burns, and only those who embrace the fire survive."
Raising a trembling hand, veins glowing faintly beneath scarred, weathered skin, a crackling aura of raw, tempestuous energy pulsed around him. The air shimmered with the promise of devastation and rebirth.
"Come with me, or fall to ash," Typheous warned. "The choice is yours, warrior."
The camera shifts upward, leaving behind the devastated battlefield below. The multipurpose ship glides silently through the thick, misty air, its massive hull cutting smoothly between drifting clouds. Sunlight filters through the haze, painting the sky in pale gold and gray.
On the open deck, Freya giggles as she chases after Lara, her small feet barely touching the wooden planks. The gentle hum of the ship's engines mingles with the wind, creating a soothing lull beneath the endless sky. Their laughter is a fragile bubble of innocence in a world torn apart.
Nearby, Erik stands motionless, eyes locked on the horizon. The silhouette of the next island rises faintly through the swirling clouds mysterious and untouched, whispering secrets just waiting to be found. His jaw tightens as determination settles over him like armor.
The ship tilts slightly, soaring higher, carrying them away from ruin and toward the unknown. For now, a fragile peace surrounds them a brief pause before the storm of their journey resumes.
AS Erik walked towards the deck of the airborne ship, eyes scanning the horizon where the faint outline of a massive island began to take shape through the mist. His mind wandered to the future—what to name this vessel that carried their hopes, and the crew he longed to build: fierce warriors, wise scholars, and daring explorers bound by a shared purpose.
What name could capture the storm in our souls? The fire that will reshape this broken world?
Before he could settle on an answer, Lara approached, her expression sharp and practical.
"We need more than dreams, Erik," she said. "We need money, supplies, and strong hands to join us."
She pointed toward the island growing beneath the low clouds.
"That's Ithaca part of the kingdom of Midgard. Ancient beyond reckoning, but alive with secrets and power."
Erik focused on the island now visible beneath them. Ithaca rose like a titan's monument from the sea, its jagged silhouette crowned with towering spires of white marble and granite. The structures were etched with carvings of gods, beasts, and heroes timeless stories etched into stone. Massive columns stretched skyward, framing colossal temples, and weathered statues guarded every entrance, their gaze both eternal and unyielding.
The city itself was a maze of wide plazas and narrow, winding streets, where stone towers clustered like giant sentinels, their pointed roofs piercing the mist. Faded murals on vast walls told tales of ancient wars, gods' triumphs, and the ceaseless battle between order and chaos.
Though untouched by time's decay, Ithaca felt alive—breathing with a pulse older than any man could remember, a place forged in the age when gods walked Midgard and kingdoms rose and fell on blood and fire.
"The legends say Ithaca holds wealth lost to history, and secrets that could change everything," Lara said. "If we reach it, we might find the means to rebuild… and survive."
Erik's jaw clenched, resolve solidifying like forged steel.
The ship tilted, descending toward the island's ancient cliffs.
The ship surged forward, slicing through thick mists that clung like ancient veils to the island's craggy shores. Below, waves battered the jagged cliffs with relentless fury, sending spray soaring into the humid air.
Massive stone arches, carved with intricate runes and guarded by towering statues of winged beasts, marked the entrance to a sprawling harbor. The harbor basin was hewn from the living rock, shaped by hands long vanished but still echoing with their strength. Weathered docks stretched outward, lined with giant stone moorings shaped like dragon heads and lion paws.
The city's skyline loomed spires and towers of white marble rising into the sky, crowned with ornate friezes and mosaics shimmering faintly under the dull sunlight. The air was thick with the scent of salt and old stone, a timeless aroma that whispered of forgotten power.
As the ship glided closer, the deep silence was broken only by the wind and the distant, haunting call of seabirds circling overhead. The walls of Ithaca loomed massive and unyielding, etched with murals of gods locked in eternal battle and heroes whose names had been swallowed by history.
Erik's eyes narrowed. The island was no mere refuge
The ship's prow dipped, descending toward the ancient docks.
The name of the ship could wait.
For now, Ithaca awaited.