Chapter eleven :A Declaration of war Part 2

Eirik rushed through the underground passage, his breath heavy, his heart hammering against his ribs. Lara followed closely behind, clutching Freya in her arms, her grip tightening with every step. The moment they reached the underground marketplace, Eirik froze.

A sickening silence loomed over the place. The air was thick with the stench of blood, rot, and something worse—despair. Goods lay scattered across the floor, baskets overturned, fresh produce crushed beneath hurried footsteps. The stalls, once bustling with life, were now nothing more than bloodstained wrecks.

Bodies. Everywhere.

Men, women, children—slaughtered in ways that defied reason. Some had deep, jagged slashes across their torsos, their organs spilling onto the cold stone. Others had their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, as if something had torn them apart with monstrous strength. One elderly man lay propped against a wooden stall, his eyes wide open in terror, a gaping hole where his chest should have been. A woman's body was draped over a fruit cart, her face frozen in agony, her fingers still reaching toward something—someone—she could never save.

Lara gasped, stumbling backward. Her face went pale, her lips trembling as she tried to suppress the scream threatening to escape. Freya, too young to understand the full horror, buried her face in Lara's shoulder, sensing the terror in the air.

Eirik clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as rage bubbled within him. His stomach churned, but he pushed it down. Now wasn't the time to break. He had seen death before, but never like this—never this senseless, this absolute.

"Lara," he said, his voice low but firm. She flinched, her wide, horrified eyes meeting his.

"Take Freya and find the multipurpose ship," he ordered, his tone sharper than he intended. But she needed to move. Now.

Lara hesitated, swallowing hard. "Eirik, what if—"

"Now."

She bit her lip, then nodded, turning away as she held Freya close and disappeared into the shadows.

Eirik exhaled sharply and stepped over a fallen merchant, his mind forcing itself into survival mode. If there were any supplies left, they needed them. He would find food. Water. Anything useful. As we shift our attention to somewhere else 

The sky burned red as Midgard trembled beneath the chaos of war. Smoke curled into the air, mixing with the scent of blood and gunpowder. The clash of steel, the thunder of cannon fire, and the cries of the dying filled the streets, creating a symphony of destruction.

At the heart of the battlefield, the old man stood unshaken, his massive frame towering over the wreckage. His scarred chest heaved with each breath, muscles tensed, his war-torn sword dripping with the blood of fallen enemies.

Around him, the World Government's elite forces closed in.

A blade flashed toward the old man's neck—fast, precise, deadly.

But before it could land—

SHRAK!

A new sword clashed against the strike, halting it mid-air. The old man's eyes flickered to the side, locking onto the one who had dared to intervene.

Aksel stood firm, his breath heavy, his grip tight around the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were white, his arms trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of the impact. His stance was unrefined, reckless, but his eyes burned with an unshakable resolve.

He had stayed behind.

He had chosen to fight.

The enemy soldier, momentarily stunned, sneered. "Another rebel dog throwing his life away."

Aksel growled, his feet digging into the blood-soaked ground. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He wasn't just another soldier. He wasn't just another corpse waiting to be cut down.

He was Aksel.

And he would not fall here.

With a fierce roar, he shoved forward, breaking the deadlock. His sword came crashing down, slicing clean through the enemy's weapon and carving deep into his chest. Blood sprayed into the air as the man staggered back, choking on his own screams before crumbling lifeless to the ground.

The battlefield seemed to pause for just a moment.

The old man smirked, his sharp eyes studying the young warrior before him. "Not bad, boy." His deep voice rumbled like a storm on the horizon. "You've got guts."

Aksel exhaled sharply, sweat dripping down his face, but he lifted his blade again, ready for more.

The old man's smirk widened.

As we shift our attention back to Eirik…

Eirik sprinted through the ruins of the underground marketplace, his breath ragged, his muscles burning. A massive bag was slung over his back, stuffed with whatever supplies he could salvage—food, medical kits, spare weapons—anything that could help them survive.

His boots pounded against the bloodstained stone as he weaved between wrecked stalls and lifeless bodies. The air was thick with the stench of death, but he ignored it. Focus. Move. Don't stop.

Then, through the chaos—

"EIRIK!"

His head snapped up.

Lara stood on the deck of the multipurpose ship, her long hair whipping in the wind. The vessel hovered just above the shattered ground, its massive wheels grinding against the stone as it revved up for departure. The ship's sleek, reinforced hull gleamed under the dim underground lights, its turbines roaring to life.

The exit was closing.

Now or never.

Eirik gritted his teeth. His legs screamed in protest, but he pushed harder, faster. The weight of the supplies slowed him, but he refused to drop them.

With a final burst of energy, he launched himself forward—

His feet left the ground.

The edge of the ship rushed toward him.

For a split second, gravity threatened to pull him back down.

Then—his fingers latched onto the side of the ship.

The impact jolted through his arms, but he held on.

Nothing followed him. No enemies, no monsters—just the eerie silence of death left behind.

Lara reached out, grabbing his wrist, her grip firm. "You took your time!" she shouted over the ship's roaring engines.

Eirik exhaled sharply, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Had to do some shopping."

With her help, he swung himself onto the deck, collapsing onto his back for a second, catching his breath.

The ship's wheels retracted, the turbines flaring as the vessel prepared for takeoff.

They were leaving.

But the battle wasn't over yet.