Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest

The collision came like the birth of a new star.

Sleipnir's eight hooves struck the crystal floor, each impact creating a thunderclap that reverberated through the bones of reality itself. Odin leaned forward in his saddle, Gungnir extended like the judgment of fate, its point aimed directly at Adam's heart.

Adam met the charge head-on, his plasma blades crossed in an X-pattern before his chest. The chaotic essence in his veins sang with power, but underneath the cosmic energy, his emotions raged like a tempest barely held in check. This wasn't just combat—this was the culmination of every injustice he had ever suffered, every mortal crushed under the weight of divine arrogance, every dream of freedom that had been strangled in its cradle by those who claimed to know better.

The spear and blades met with a sound like reality tearing.

Gungnir's point struck the intersection of Adam's crossed weapons, and for a microsecond that stretched into eternity, neither force gave way. The All-Father's accumulated wisdom pressed against Adam's righteous fury, while Sleipnir's momentum crashed against the absorbed power of three different conflagrations. Sparks of pure energy cascaded around them like fallen stars as divine forces competed for supremacy.

Then physics reasserted itself with violent prejudice.

The impact launched Adam backwards, his feet leaving smoking trails on the crystal floor as he skidded twenty meters before managing to break his momentum. His crossed blades had held, but the shock had travelled up his arms like lightning, reopening wounds that had barely begun to close. Blood sprayed from his lips as the impact aggravated his broken ribs, each breath now a conscious act of will rather than automatic reflex.

But Odin wasn't finished. The All-Father's tactical mind had already calculated seventeen different ways to exploit Adam's momentary disorientation, and he chose the most efficient path with the cold precision of a master craftsman selecting the perfect tool.

Sleipnir wheeled in a tight circle, the war-steed's divine agility allowing it to change direction without losing momentum. As the horse turned, Odin's free hand wove patterns in the air that left trails of burning runes. Not the large, elaborate circles from before, but small, precise sigils that blazed to life and died in the space between heartbeats.

The first rune materialised directly beneath Adam's feet. The crystal floor turned liquid for just an instant—long enough for his right foot to sink ankle-deep before solidifying again, trapping him in place like a bear trap made of living stone.

Adam's eyes widened as he realised the trap, his emotions cycling rapidly from surprise to fury to grudging respect. Odin was still thinking three moves ahead, still finding ways to turn every disadvantage into a tactical opportunity. This was what made the All-Father so terrifying—not just his individual power, but the ruthless intelligence that wielded it with surgical precision.

The second rune appeared in the air beside Adam's trapped form, spawning a construct of pure force that struck him across the jaw with the power of a falling mountain. His head snapped back, fresh blood spattering the floor as the blow reopened cuts on his cheek and temple. Stars exploded across his vision, but through the pain and disorientation, he could see Odin's approach like an avalanche of inevitable doom.

Gungnir thrust forward in a perfect spear-work technique that spoke of ten thousand battles fought across the nine realms. The movement was economical, precise, and utterly without mercy—a textbook example of how to kill a god with minimum effort and maximum efficiency.

Adam threw himself sideways, his trapped foot screaming in protest as divine flesh tore against the crystalline restraint. Gungnir's point passed close enough to his chest that he could feel the runes carved along its length burning against his skin. But the evasion came at a cost—his trapped leg twisted at an unnatural angle, sending fresh waves of agony through his already battered form.

"Mimir!" Adam's voice cracked with strain as he called for aid, but the guardian of the well was fighting his own desperate battle.

From his position near the portal array, Mimir wove defensive spells with both hands while spectral warriors from Odin's army of the dead pressed their attack. Each ghostly figure moved with the skill they had possessed in life, their weapons striking with force that transcended mere memory. Huginn dove and wheeled around Mimir like a living shadow, its claws leaving bloody furrows across his engineered flesh while its psychic cries disrupted his concentration.

"I'm... somewhat occupied!" Mimir replied through gritted teeth, his golden eyes blazing as he poured power into a barrier spell that held back three spectral berserkers simultaneously. One of the ghostly warriors broke through his defenses, its ethereal axe opening a deep gash across Mimir's shoulder that leaked liquid light instead of blood.

Adam felt a spike of something that might have been panic pierce through his battle-focus. Not for himself—he had accepted the possibility of death the moment he chose to stand against the divine order. But the thought that Mimir might fall cut deeper than any physical wound.

That moment of emotional vulnerability was exactly what Odin had been waiting for.

The All-Father's single eye blazed with triumph as he recognised the shift in Adam's focus. This was the wisdom that had made him lord of Asgard—not just the ability to see his enemies' weaknesses, but the tactical genius to exploit them at the right moment.

Sleipnir charged again, but this time Odin's attack came from an unexpected angle. Instead of another direct spear thrust, the All-Father dropped his reins and stood in his stirrups, his weathered hands gripping Gungnir like a staff. As the war-steed thundered past Adam's trapped position, Odin swung the divine weapon in a wide arc that utilised both the horse's momentum and his own considerable strength.

The spear's shaft struck Adam across the temple with the force of a meteor impact. His vision exploded into white-hot stars as the blow rattled his consciousness like dice in a cup. Blood—his own blood—filled his mouth as he bit down hard on his tongue, the taste of copper and starlight mixing on his palate.