The ravens flew ahead, always just within sight—guiding, never straying far.
Magnus walked.
No plane. No phone. No trail left behind. For three days, he moved across wild lands and silent backroads, unnoticed by cameras, unseen by drones, untouchable by the eyes of men. The world tried to look away from him. It was instinct, buried in the bones of humanity. A god in plain sight was still a god.
At night, he slept beneath trees older than any road. In the distance, wolves howled—not in warning, but in greeting. On the second day, a storm rose in the north, only to split around him like water parting for a stone.
He spoke little. Thought much.
The runes along his arm pulsed quietly, their glow dimmed but ever present beneath his coat. His left eye—what remained of it—showed him things the living weren't meant to see: spirits watching from the corners of abandoned places, lies tangled like vines around city signs, truths hidden in plain sight.
And Huginn and Muninn flew on.
By the dawn of the third day, he stood at the edge of a concrete river.
New York City.
It rose before him like a modern Jotunheim—steel and glass in place of mountains and ice, humming with ceaseless energy. The smell of gasoline, fried food, and wet pavement filled his lungs. Skyscrapers stabbed the sky. Horns blared like the war cries of some great mechanical beast.
Midgard's heart.
He walked unnoticed among them. His old cloak—fur-lined, rune-marked—was stashed beneath a bridge on the Jersey side. It would return when he called it. For now, he wore something simpler.
A borrowed kindness from a dockworker who didn't quite remember why he gave them:
Faded jeans.
A plain white T-shirt.
Worn, steel-toed boots.
Still, the runes on his arm pulsed beneath the shirt. Still, his presence made people glance twice—and then quickly away, unsettled by something they couldn't name.
The All-Warden had entered the realm of men not with a thunderclap, but with quiet purpose.
Odin's eye walked among the towers.
The city churned around him.
Magnus moved through the streets of Lower Manhattan, eyes scanning towers and people with a wariness born from ancient instincts. Here, the gods were glass and gold, worshiped in numbers, clicked and scrolled instead of prayed to.
But even here—especially here—he could feel the imbalance. The weight of forgotten oaths. The silence of justice unfulfilled.
That's when he heard it.
A scream—sharp, desperate, and real. A woman's voice, echoing down the alley to his right. Not a movie scream. Not a cry for attention.
A cry for help.
Magnus stopped cold.
From around the corner, four men burst into the street, breath ragged, guns drawn. Their eyes were wild with panic, adrenaline, and something deeper—malice. The front man shoved a civilian aside, knocking a food cart into traffic. One of them looked over his shoulder, snarling.
Then they saw him.
Just a man in a white shirt and jeans, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Move," one of them barked.
He didn't.
Another raised his pistol.
"I said move, old man!"
Magnus exhaled slowly. The runes on his arm, hidden beneath his sleeve, ignited—a cold blue light flickering under the fabric like lightning beneath skin.
His voice was calm.
"You're armed, but not ready. You're loud, but not wise. Turn back now... and walk away."
The men hesitated.
Then one opened fire.
The bullet never reached him.
It froze midair—stopped—hovering in front of his chest like a fly in amber. Magnus raised his hand, and the bullet crumpled with a pop, falling to the pavement.
In the next breath, he moved.
Faster than the eye could track, he closed the space between them. His hand grabbed the shooter by the face, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into a brick wall with a crack that echoed like thunder. The man dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The second man raised his weapon—too slow. Gungnir, forged of light and storm, appeared in Magnus's hand with a flash of blinding rune-fire. He hurled it like a lightning bolt.
It struck the pistol, shattering it to pieces—then returned to his grasp before the shards even hit the ground.
The third turned to run.
Magnus reached out—and with a whisper of power, the runes on the pavement glowed. Vines of glowing script surged from the street, binding the man's legs, yanking him to the ground with an audible snap. He screamed.
The last man screamed too—more in terror than anger—and fired wildly.
Magnus stepped forward. The bullets struck him and fell, crushed against invisible armor. He stared into the man's eyes, his voice low:
"You drew steel in a city of shadows. Now you face the memory of wrath."
He struck him once in the chest.
Just once.
The man flew backward, hit a parked van, and crumpled in a heap.
Silence fell.
The woman from the alley slowly stepped into view, her hands trembling, eyes wide. She stared at Magnus like he wasn't real.
"W-who... what are you?"
Magnus looked down at her gently. Huginn landed on a nearby fire escape. Muninn circled overhead.
He offered a slight nod.
"A memory of justice."
He turned, walking into the crowd that began to gather—disappearing before phones could rise. Before questions could be asked. Only the echo of his presence remained.
And in the air, the scent of thunder.
The sirens hadn't started yet. They would.
But for now, the street buzzed with silence and confusion, people peeking from behind corners, whispering to one another, unsure of what they'd just seen—or if they'd really seen anything at all.
Magnus strode calmly through the growing crowd, boots steady on the cracked pavement. Huginn had taken to the sky again, circling like a silent sentinel. Muninn remained perched on a lamppost, watching the scene from above, one glowing eye fixed on his master.
Then—
A hand gripped his arm.
Strong. Young.
Magnus turned, half expecting another would-be attacker.
But the face that met his gaze wasn't hostile.
It was a boy—no older than twenty, lean but sturdy, his eyes sharp with recognition and awe. He wore a beat-up hoodie, a worn satchel slung over one shoulder, and a strange symbol burned faintly into the skin of his neck, almost like a brand. It pulsed with a golden hue Magnus recognized instantly.
Divine power.
The boy looked up at him, breathless.
"You're like me," he said, voice low, urgent. "A champion. An avatar of a god."
Magnus's lone eye narrowed.
He studied the boy for a long moment—his aura, the way the world bent slightly around him. There was something wild in the boy's energy. Something ancient wearing new skin. Not Norse. Something… different.
He didn't answer right away.
But slowly, the All-Warden nodded once.
"Whose name do you carry?"
The boy hesitated. Looked around. Then leaned in and whispered a name Magnus hadn't heard in a thousand years.
The name of a rival god.
Magnus's question hung in the air like a test—a thread pulled tight, waiting to snap.
"Whose name do you carry?"
The boy hesitated only a moment. Then his jaw tightened, and he squared his shoulders like someone who'd been waiting years to say this out loud.
"Zeus."
The name hit the air like a thunderclap—sharp, ancient, and powerful. The crowd behind them didn't hear it, not truly, but something in the world shifted. A few pedestrians nearby paused mid-step, unease brushing their senses like a cold draft through closed windows.
Magnus's eye narrowed.
Zeus.
King of Olympus. Stormbringer. The Skyfather.
A name not spoken with reverence in centuries… and yet, here it was, carved into a mortal soul like a divine brand. The mark on the boy's neck shimmered, crackling with faint arcs of electricity—small, but unmistakable. His body was a vessel barely containing the power that slept inside.
Huginn cawed once from above.
Muninn's head tilted. Watching. Listening.
Magnus looked the boy over again—not just the surface, but deeper. The tension in his stance. The weight of responsibility in his eyes. This wasn't a pretender or a mystic fool.
This boy was chosen.
"You speak his name without fear," Magnus said, voice like distant thunder. "Do you know what that invites?"
The young man nodded. "I didn't ask for this. But I didn't run from it either."
Magnus let the silence linger. The two avatars—two walking echoes of ancient pantheons—stood in the shadow of a deli sign, between a cracked sidewalk and a flickering streetlamp, yet the space between them pulsed with power that had once shaped empires.
Then Magnus spoke, quiet and firm.
"Come with me."
The boy blinked. "Why?"
"Because if the old gods are waking…"
"Then war is coming."
And with that, the All-Warden turned—and the boy, the Avatar of Zeus, followed.
The gods were returning.
And Midgard would never be the same.
The city swallowed them as they turned down a narrow alley—damp, half-lit by flickering neon signs and the low hum of a distant transformer. Trash bins lined the walls. Steam hissed from a cracked vent overhead. Magnus walked in silence, the young man trailing close behind.
Then, the boy laughed.
Not nervously. Not playfully.
But mockingly.
"Too easy," he said, smirking.
Magnus froze.
Before he could turn—before a word left his lips—
CRACK-BOOM!
A bolt of lightning exploded from behind, striking him square in the back. The alley flashed white-hot, the ground shaking with the force of the blast. The impact hurled Magnus forward, crashing him into a wall of wet brick hard enough to crack the stone.
Smoke curled off his shirt. His boots dug furrows into the concrete as he caught himself, half-kneeling, one hand braced on the wall. The air around him sizzled. Steam rose from his shoulders.
Huginn screeched overhead. Muninn dove from the rooftops.
Behind him, the boy's voice shifted—deeper now, distorted. No longer just mortal.
"Odin's chosen... old, tired, slow. You were never going to stop what's coming."
Magnus rose slowly, his shirt burned through, revealing the glowing Norse runes seared into his skin. His one good eye blazed with blue fire. The eye beneath the eyepatch opened—not physically, but spiritually—peering through the veil.
And what he saw was no boy.
He turned his head slightly, voice low and thunderous:
"You are no champion."
Lightning danced along the impostor's arms, coiling like snakes made of storm. His form flickered—not fully mortal anymore. Not fully divine either. A puppet, Magnus realized. A corrupted vessel.
Or worse…
A false avatar.
Magnus's boots ground into the pavement.
Steam hissed from his shoulders. Smoke coiled from the burned fabric of his shirt. Runes blazed along his arm, brighter now—lines of power etched by sacrifice, burning cold-blue with Odin's will.
"You wear his name," Magnus growled, standing tall, "but not his burden."
The alley trembled with his fury.
With a burst of godlike speed, he charged—a blur of righteous force, closing the distance in a heartbeat, Gungnir forming in his hand mid-sprint, crackling with rune-fire.
But the imposter was ready.
"I said—too easy!"
BOOM.
Another bolt of lightning slammed down from above—then another—and another.
CRACK-BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Three bolts in rapid succession struck Magnus square in the chest, exploding on impact like divine artillery. The alley shattered—walls cracked, dumpsters flew, asphalt cratered beneath his boots. The light was blinding, painting everything in white and violet flashes.
Magnus flew backward, crashing through a steel door and slamming into the side of a darkened warehouse with bone-jarring force. Metal warped. Brick exploded. He collapsed to one knee, smoke pouring off his body, ribs scorched, breath ragged.
And still—he rose.
His beard singed. His shirt in tatters. His body burned and bleeding.
But his eye still burned.
The one that could not be deceived.
The one that saw truth beyond illusion.
From the alley, the boy's twisted form stepped through the smoke, lightning curling lazily around his fingertips.
"You're strong. But you're alone."
Magnus spat blood onto the pavement, then slowly stood.
"So was Odin," he said coldly, "when he hung from the tree."
The ravens returned—Huginn and Muninn diving with shrieks of fury, their bodies shifting into bladed wings and crackling shadow, flanking Magnus.
He straightened, gripping Gungnir tight.
"You want a war, false son of storms?"
"Then remember this…"
"The All-Warden stands."
The alley groaned from the force of the lightning strikes. Chunks of brick fell from the cracked walls. Smoke clung to the air like mist over a battlefield.
Magnus emerged from the wreckage of the steel door—smoldering, injured, but unbowed. The runes on his arm pulsed faster now, drawn to his pain, feeding on it. Gungnir pulsed in his grip, hungry for blood.
Across from him, the false avatar grinned, eyes crackling white with stolen power.
"Didn't think you'd get back up," he sneered.
"Then you think too little," Magnus growled—and launched.
The All-Warden closed the distance in a blur, smashing Gungnir downward like a hammer of the gods. The imposter caught it with a shield of lightning—but the force blasted him off his feet, sending him skidding across the alley wall like a ragdoll.
Magnus pressed the assault.
He moved with terrifying precision—an ancient warrior's fury burning in modern flesh. Gungnir swept across the air, slicing through the lightning shield, cutting deep into the false avatar's side.
The boy screamed—but his pain turned to rage.
Lightning erupted from his palms—wild, unfocused, but overwhelming. It slammed into Magnus point-blank, frying the air with deafening crackles.
Magnus staggered—then roared.
The runes on his chest flared to life, absorbing part of the divine electricity and channeling it through his own strike. He spun and drove his elbow into the boy's jaw, sending him crashing through a dumpster, bones cracking as he landed.
The imposter was quick to recover. He hurled a bolt of lightning like a javelin, catching Magnus in the side. Blood sprayed. Magnus hit the ground, rolled, and rose again, bloodied but burning with divine wrath.
"You fight like a thief," he spat. "You don't honor the power you were given."
"I didn't ask for permission," the boy hissed, dragging himself upright. "I took it."
And then he screamed, summoning a storm from nowhere—black clouds swirling above the alley, lightning spears raining down like divine punishment.
Magnus raised Gungnir and roared, runes blazing to full brilliance. The lightning struck him—once, twice, three times—but he did not fall.
Instead, he advanced.
Step by step.
Through the storm.
Through the pain.
"You are not worthy," he growled.
"And I am done humoring gods who pretend to be men."
With one final, monstrous surge of power, he hurled Gungnir like a comet—it pierced the false avatar's chest, exploding in a burst of radiant, sky-fire energy. The force shattered the alley floor, blasted windows across the block, and sent the imposter flying, broken and crackling, into a wall.
He didn't get back up.
Silence fell, broken only by the rumble of dying thunder.
Magnus limped forward, blood dripping down his side. He knelt over the unconscious boy's form, Gungnir returning to his hand.
The divine mark on the boy's neck was flickering now. Not gone… but weakened. As if the power inside him had been shaken loose—uncertain of its vessel.
"You carry a god's name," Magnus said quietly, "but not his spirit."
He turned, letting the imposter live—for now.
As he walked from the alley, the storm clouds above began to part, moonlight breaking through.
Huginn landed on his shoulder.
Muninn circled once and croaked.
The All-Warden looked skyward.
"This is just the beginning."