Since the Sphinx existed beyond Odin’s realm of authority, his response held no effect, save for a fleeting expression of shock that flickered across her face.

  Odin murmured quietly to himself, pondering the outcome, but before he could speak further, Death spoke without hesitation: “Death.”

  As soon as the word was spoken, the Sphinx convulsed in agony, her form dissolving into dust. Death took a step back as the remnants of her body crumbled to the ground like grains of beach sand scattered by the wind.

  “Ever wise, as always, Father Odin,” the crow perched on Odin’s right shoulder remarked sharply.

  “Reduced to dust, much like the statues of her kindred,” added the crow on the left with a voice coated in nostalgic melancholy.

  The sharp, direct tone belonged to Huginn, the Raven of Thought, while the calm, reflective voice was that of Muninn, the Raven of Memory. Together, they circled tirelessly between the realms of the living and the dead, returning to relay all events to their lord, Odin.

  As for Odin himself, his cloak draped most of his figure, concealing all but his long gray beard and a single piercing blue eye that was accompanied by a weathered patch covering the other. Though he looked aged, it would be a mistake to perceive him weakened by age. For a god such as he, the signs of age were marks of wisdom and experience, qualities all the more fitting for the Allfather, the god of wisdom. Despite the shabby, travel-worn guise he wore to move across the realms, his presence and power remained clear.

  He dismounted his steed, Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse, while Gungnir, his legendary spear, gleamed quietly, secured across Sleipnir’s back.

  “Was it wrong of me to answer for you, Master Death?” Odin asked, a hint of coy amusement playing at his lips.

  Death turned his gaze toward Odin. “No. Truly, I did not know.”

  Odin’s grin widened. “Isn’t that something? Should we consider it a miracle that I arrived just in time?”

  Muninn, the raven perched on Odin’s left shoulder, leaned closer to Huginn and whispered, “Was he even in trouble? Can Master Death…....die?”

  “Of course not,” replied Huginn with an "isn't it obvious" tone. “Though it is peculiar that he required aid at all. Master Death is renowned for exceptional wisdom.”

  “Really? As wise as Father Odin?”

  “I cannot say for certain. But if I had to judge, Master Death’s reputation might place him above, even above Father Odin. Yet, after what we’ve just witnessed, perhaps—”

  “We can hear you two,” Odin interjected flatly.

  “My apologies, Father Odin,” Huginn responded with an abrupt nod.

  Death sighed. “Regardless of what happened, it’s no miracle you appeared. I expected you would.”

  “Truly? What was your reasoning?”

  “For one so inquisitive, the chance to face a sphinx alone, and to test the extent of your divine powers, it makes sense you would come to see for yourself upon hearing of such an event.”

  Odin inclined his head thoughtfully. “A reasonable deduction.”

  “See? I told you, Master Death is incredibly clever.”

  “Then how did he stumble over such a simple riddle? If anything, he’s just—”

  “Quiet, both of you.”

  The ravens lowered their heads awkwardly, their feathers ruffling slightly as they exchanged a glance.

  It was then that Death remembered the lost souls. He cast them a brief glance. “Right, anyway, Lord Odin, would you assist me in guiding these lost souls to their proper destination?”

  Odin simply stared at him.

  “What is it?” Death asked.

  “Your manner of speaking. It’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s reminiscent of how you used to speak, before you-” Odin’s voice trailed off, hesitant to finish the thought.

  Before Death could ask, the group of lost souls began to tremble.

  It was never good for souls to linger too long aimlessly in the afterlife.

  “Muninn, guide them.”

  “Okay.” Muninn responded readily, taking flight and floating near the group. “Alright, let’s get moving, people—er, souls. Please listen carefully and try not to get lost, well, more lost, since you’re already lost souls. Keep up, and don’t dawdle, though you should be able to fly, considering you don’t have legs or—”

  “Muninn." Odin's sharp reprimand cut through the air.

  Muninn cocked his head sheepishly. “Sorry. Let’s go, everybody!”

  With a loud caw, Muninn led the way, the souls trailing close behind.

  Odin sighed softly. “Your brother remains as carefree as ever.”

  Huginn lifted his head with a dignified air. “Hmph. I can only hope he doesn’t get lost.”

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  Death realized then that something was missing, or rather, a pair of something.

  “Where are Geri and Freki?”

  Geri and Freki, the two wolves who also serve as Odin’s loyal companions, held a different symbolism from the ravens. While Huginn and Muninn embodied the mental facets of Odin, thought and memory, Geri, the Ravenous Wolf, and Freki, the Wolf of Greed, represented the fierce, savage hunger within Odin: his relentless thirst for wisdom and his raw power and dominion over the Norse pantheon.

  “I had them stay behind to guard Mimir’s head.”

  During the Aesir-Vanir War, Mimir’s head was severed but preserved through Odin’s magic. Odin placed the enchanted head at Mimisbrunnr, Mimir’s Well, using it as a wellspring of advice for any inquiries he might have. Given the priceless value of Mimir’s head, Odin, even while residing in his palace in Asgard, assigned both ravens and wolves to stand guard. Yet, during his travels, like this one, he usually brought along one pair or the other: the wolves when venturing into the chaos of war, or the ravens when pursuing matters of curiosity and knowledge.

  Odd. Something felt…….off.

  “Only they are there?”

  “Of course. How could I entrust such a critical task to anyone else?”

  ……..What is it?

  “Are your wolves truly that dependable?”

  “Is the sun yellow?” Odin replied, his tone dry and confident.

  “Actually, Father Odin, it’s white,” Huginn interjected matter-of-factly.

  Odin cleared his throat. “Is the sky blue?”

  “Not here,” Huginn answered again, “It’s dark, with a faint green tint.”

  “Anyway, Master Death,” Odin said, pinching Huginn’s beak gently, “To answer your question, there’s no doubt the wolves can defend Mimir’s head from any threat, except, perhaps, from other gods. But there’s no reason to suspect them of treachery.”

  “What if a god tried?”

  “Try what?”

  Death hesitated, a thought brewing. Recently, Shinigami and Valkyries had inexplicably attacked a group of souls. Of course, Death intervened, but so did Odin, driven by his relentless curiosity. That meant the wolves had to stay behind to guard Mimir’s head while Odin traveled.

  “What if a god attempted to seize Mimir’s head for themselves? Perhaps a god from another pantheon, one weaker, due to lacking faithful followers.”

  Odin said nothing at first, then erupted in a booming laugh. “What makes you think that?”

  “Would the wolves fail?”

  “Certainly not. Though, if it were Thor, my wolves might fail. But any other god, especially one with less faith backing them, my wolves would easily overcome.”

  A fight. The wolves wouldn’t lose in combat.

  But what if it wasn’t about fighting? What if that was precisely why this individual sought the wolves instead of the ravens?

  “And I take it your ravens aren’t as capable in brute strength?”

  “Yes, but they’re quicker and smarter. They’d easily alert the Norns and any other gods.”

  That was it. This person didn’t want the ravens there.

  The wolves were strong but lacked wisdom. If this god couldn’t overpower them physically, they’d have to rely on strategy and deception. The ravens were far too intelligent for that.

  But the wolves. They were not.

  “Odin, I have to go.” Death suddenly stepped past Odin.

  Odin was taken aback. “For what purpose?”

  “I have a feeling we’ve just been played.”

  “What?”

  “By a nameless god, no less.”

  They had appeared during his meeting with Egoros.

  What if Egoros had orchestrated this all along, to lure Death away?

  Without hesitation, Death summoned Vesper.

  Without a word, he swiftly mounted, and Vesper surged forward, disappearing into the distance.

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  Arriving at the roots of Yggdrassil, Death muttered a curse.

  The great ash tree, Yggdrasil, the center of the nine realms, seemed to rise into the heavens, its trunk too vast to even comprehend, the surface of its bark rough and gnarled with the weight of the universe. The color was not merely brown or gray, but it shifted between ash, silver, and deep green, etched with living runes that pulsed faintly like veins. The roots sprawled outward in monstrous, tangled coils, each thick as a normal tree, gripping the earth with the strength of a giant. Moss grew in whirlpools along its base, and faint speckles of light drifted down from somewhere high above.

  As for the root of which Death was present, Mimisbrunnur appeared as a perfect, circular basin sunk into the stone. The stone around it was dark and smooth, slick with a damp layer, and veined with pale green lichen that glowed faintly. The well’s water was pitch black and impossibly still, like a pool of polished obsidian. The rim was lined with faint, weathered runes, their lines shallow and worn. Thin, gnarled roots from above stretched toward it but stopped short, hovering as if it revered the well.

  As Death had suspected, Mimir’s head was missing.

  Instead, he found the wolves.

  Geri and Freki crouched low over the carcass of an animal, their massive forms half covered in smoke rising from the freshly roasted flesh. Their fur, dark as scorched earth and streaked with soot, tingled with satisfaction as they tore into the steaming body. Geri’s powerful jaws clamped down on a haunch, ripping meat away in thick, glistening strips, blood and fat matting the fur around his muzzle. Freki ate greedily, his pale eyes fixed, his fangs sinking into the ribs with a wet crack of bone and sinew. Grease dripped from their chins, pooling on the stones as their claws dug into the charred remains to hold it steady. The fire from a manmade campfire nearby casted harsh orange light over their frames, casting shadows that drew a massacre. Already, deep in the flames, the bones of the animal begin to shimmer, ready to rise again.

  Not any animal, Death realized.

  Saehrimnir.

  Somehow, Egoros had gotten hold of Saehrimnir, the eternally living boar that was slain and devoured at every meal in Valhalla. Not only that, but he had cunningly ensured the wolves would be the guardians, using their nature against Odin.

  He understood them perfectly. He knew they embodied greed and hunger, the darker desires lurking beneath the pursuit of wisdom. He knew they were too foolish, too ravenous, to resist the temptation of such a delectable prize.

  The wolves sensed his presence and began to growl, but when their eyes met Death’s, the fierce growls softened into submissive whimpers.

  Death turned away.

  There was no point in lingering.

  And this time, searching for Egoros again would likely be fruitless. Something told him the trickster would not show himself twice.

  He remembered their conversation. He remembered that remark from Egoros, of not being stopped if he wished to pursue Egoros’ hidden agenda…….almost as if this was……all a game to him.

  If it was, then it had started.

  And it would be a waste of time to go back to him.

  It was too early to face the final boss.

  Instead, it was wiser to follow the trail.

  He mounted Vesper once more.

  This time, their course was set for Valhalla.