Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest

The plasma blade met flesh with the sound of reality screaming.

Adam's weapon carved through Odin's throat, divine ichor erupting in a golden arc that painted the crystal floor in liquid starlight. The All-Father's single eye went wide—not with fear, but with the stunned realisation that he had finally encountered a variable he couldn't account for: absolute, suicidal determination.

Odin tried to speak, tried to voice some final curse or proclamation, but only wet gurgling sounds emerged from his severed windpipe. His weathered hands flew to his throat, divine fingers desperately trying to hold together the gaping wound that Adam's blade had carved from ear to ear. Golden blood poured between his fingers, each drop hissing as it struck the crystal floor.

But Adam wasn't finished. The spear still buried in his chest sent waves of agony through his entire being with every heartbeat, but he ignored the pain with the single-minded focus of a predator delivering the killing blow. His free hand shot forward, fingers curled into claws, seeking the one prize that would ensure Odin's defeat was absolute and irreversible.

The All-Father's remaining eye—that blazing orb of accumulated wisdom that had stared into Mimir's well and drunk from the waters of cosmic knowledge—met Adam's bloodied fingers as they plunged into the socket. Odin's body convulsed as Adam tore through muscle and nerve, his weathered face contorting in a silent scream of agony that no sound could express.

The eye came free with a wet, tearing sound. Viscous fluid—part blood, part liquid light—streamed down Odin's cheek as Adam held the organ aloft like a trophy. The All-Father's wisdom, his foresight, his ability to see through deception and perceive the threads of fate—all of it now rested in Adam's gore-slicked palm.

Odin's body swayed on his feet for a moment. His mutilated face turned toward Adam, and through the ruined socket and torn throat, something that might have been recognition flickered in his fading consciousness. Then the All-Father, lord of Asgard, wielder of Gungnir, orchestrator of fate itself, toppled backwards like a felled tree.

The impact of his body hitting the crystal floor sent shockwaves through the ruined hall. The death of Odin—the last pillar of the old order, the final guardian of divine tyranny—reverberated through the nine realms like the tolling of a cosmic bell.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. The spectral army that had been pressing its attack against Mimir simply... ceased. One moment, they were there—dozens of ghostly warriors swinging ethereal weapons with the skill they had possessed in life. The next moment, they were gone, fading like morning mist before the rising sun. Their anchor to the world of the living had been severed with Odin's death, and without the All-Father's will to sustain them, they returned to whatever realm awaited the honored dead.

Huginn released keening cries that spoke of more than animal grief before he, too, began to fade. The raven had been an extension of Odin's consciousness, and with its master's death, it could no longer maintain its existence in the physical realm. It dissolved into wisps of shadow that dissipated on winds that blew from nowhere.

Even Sleipnir, the eight-legged war-steed that had carried gods into battle since the dawn of time, stood motionless beside his fallen master. The horse's supernatural vitality was ebbing visibly, his coat losing its divine luster as the magic that had sustained him for eons began to unravel.

Ragnarök was complete. Not in the way the prophecies had foretold—not with fire consuming the nine realms or the Midgard Serpent rising from the depths—but with the simple, brutal fact of the All-Father's death. The twilight of the gods had come not as a cosmic catastrophe, but as a single plasma blade drawn across an ancient throat.

The old order was dead. What would rise from its ashes remained to be seen.

But Adam barely registered these cosmic implications. His vision was graying at the edges, his consciousness flickering like a candle in a hurricane. Gungnir's point still protruded from his chest, and every heartbeat sent fresh blood streaming down his torn flesh. The divine spear's runes pulsed with their own malevolent life, actively working to prevent the wound from healing and ensure their victim's death.

His legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees beside Odin's corpse. The plasma blade in his good hand flickered and died as his concentration finally shattered. The victory was his, but it might very well be a pyrrhic one—he had killed the All-Father, but the effort might have cost him his own life.

"Brother!" Mimir's voice cut through the haze of pain that was rapidly consuming Adam's consciousness. The wise jotun rushed toward him, his golden eyes wide with horror as he took in the gaping wound in Adam's chest. "By the roots of Yggdrasil, what have you done?"

Freed from his battle with the spectral army, Mimir dropped to his knees beside the wounded god-slayer. His engineered hands hovered over Gungnir's shaft, afraid to touch the weapon but knowing it had to be removed before any healing could begin.

"This is going to be painful," Mimir said, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "The spear's runes are designed to prevent healing, to ensure that any wound it inflicts proves fatal. I'll need to counteract that magic while simultaneously pulling it free, and then heal the damage before you bleed out entirely."

Adam managed a weak nod, his teeth gritted against the constant waves of agony radiating from the wound. "Do it," he gasped, each word sending fresh spikes of pain through his punctured lung. "Just... do it fast."

Mimir's hands began to glow with runic power, but this wasn't the flashy, aggressive magic he had wielded against Odin's army. This was healing craft of the highest order—subtle, precise, and incredibly demanding. Golden light erupted from runic circles that formed against his palms, each symbol perfectly crafted to counteract specific aspects of Gungnir's malevolent enchantments.

"Now," Mimir said, his voice steady despite the strain of maintaining such complex magic. His left hand grasped Gungnir's shaft while his right continued to channel healing power. "This will hurt beyond description, but it's the only way."

The spear came free with a sound like tearing silk mixed with breaking glass. Adam's scream echoed through the ruined hall, a sound of pure agony that would have shattered mortal minds. Scarlet blood erupted from the wound like a geyser, carrying with it fragments of chaotic essence that sparkled and died in the crystal-charged air.

But Mimir was ready. The moment Gungnir cleared Adam's flesh, he pressed both hands against the gaping wound, pouring healing energy directly into the damaged tissue. The magic burned as it fought against the spear's lingering enchantments, each pulse of power a small battle between healing and harm.

"Hold on," Mimir muttered, sweat beading on his brow as he channeled more power than should have been safe. "The runes are fighting me, trying to keep the wound open. I need more time..."

Adam felt his consciousness fragmenting despite Mimir's efforts. His vision tunnelled, reducing the world to a narrow circle of crystal floor painted with his own blood.

But gradually, agonisingly slowly, the healing began to take effect. Mimir's magic carved through Gungnir's death-enchantments like light through darkness, unravelling thousands of years of accumulated malice one rune at a time. Torn flesh began to knit together, punctured organs started to seal, and the constant flow of blood slowed to a trickle.

"There," Mimir gasped, his own strength nearly spent from the monumental effort. "The wound is closed, though you'll bear the scar forever. Gungnir's runes have left their mark—they always do."

Adam looked down at his chest, where a star-shaped scar now marked the spot where the renowned spear had nearly claimed his life. The tissue was silver-white against his pale flesh, and it pulsed faintly with residual power from both Gungnir's attack and Mimir's healing.

"A small price," Adam said, his voice still weak but growing stronger with each breath that didn't bring fresh agony. "For ending the age of divine tyranny."

He struggled to his feet, using Mimir's shoulder for support, and looked down at Odin's corpse. The All-Father's mutilated face was peaceful now, the eternal strain of carrying the weight of cosmic knowledge finally lifted from his features. His blood had spread in a wide pool around his body, and already the crystal floor was beginning to crack where the divine ichor touched it.

Adam turned to Mimir, his bloodied face etched with gratitude despite the pain that wracked his battered form. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "Without your intervention, Odin would have—"

"You don't need to thank me," Mimir interrupted gently, his golden eyes warm. "You've done something I never had the courage to attempt. You've broken chains I thought were eternal."

But even as Adam acknowledged Mimir's aid, his eyes remained sharp, alert. The tactical part of his mind—the part that had carried him through this divine war—was already calculating the battles yet to come. Other pantheons still remained scattered across the realm: the Egyptians with their death-obsessed hierarchy, the Chinese with their celestial bureaucracy, not to mention the demons that stirred in the East.

His generals needed his help. But he could barely stand, let alone wage war.

The star-shaped scar on his chest pulsed, reminding him of his limits. His divine form, while capable of incredible regeneration, needed time to fully recover from the wounds Odin had inflicted. The All-Father's spear had cut deeper than flesh—it had damaged something fundamental in his essence that would require rest to properly heal.

He clenched his fists, frustration warring with pragmatic necessity. Every moment he spent recovering was another moment his followers fought and died without their leader. But rushing back into battle in his current condition would serve no one—he would only get himself and others killed.

"I have to take a break," he admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "To recover, to heal properly." His eyes hardened with grim determination. "I can only hope my generals will hold the lines until I'm strong enough to join them again."

The thought of Egyptian gods and Chinese immortals still drawing breath while his people bled made his jaw tighten with barely controlled rage. "There are still throats to cut, still divine tyrannies to end."