"I'm truly, endlessly grateful, Avia—you've come to help me again…"
"Alright, alright, it's nothing. Just think of it as ridding the people of a menace."
Somewhere upon the waters of the North Sea, Siegfried and Avia sat together in a small boat.
Upon learning that Siegfried intended to deal with the Kraken of the North Sea, and hearing his explanation, Avia came to understand that in recent years—for reasons unknown—the Kraken had surfaced multiple times, slaughtering passing fishing boats without provocation. The people living on the Scandinavian isles, whose livelihoods depended on fishing, had been driven into dire straits.
It was said that famine had claimed more and more lives on the islands. Normally, this matter would have had little to do with the European mainland; after all, no one there had come forward to ask Siegfried for help. Tensions over matters of faith had long left relations between the two sides less than friendly.
Perhaps to explain himself—before Avia could even ask—Siegfried said:
"I haven't received any formal request from them. But I'm certain they wish for such a disaster to be ended—for their very survival. So there's no need for them to come to me in person. This is an 'evil' that must be dealt with all the same. The people there are no different from those here."
The silver-haired youth looked at the man before him and felt a quiet joy at hearing those words—because this "wish-granting machine" had finally begun to decide for himself what should be done.
As for Avia, joining the hunt for the Kraken felt only natural. After all, she bore the rune-gift of Odin himself, and the Scandinavian isles were lands steeped in the faith of the Norse gods. She had a duty here.
Had the Age of Gods not passed, the Norse gods themselves would surely have intervened. Faced with a calamity that endangered humankind, most pantheons' gods would have acted.
"That… is that an island? Slowly rising from the sea?"
"Looks like our target has appeared, Siegfried. Ready yourself."
When that "island" fully emerged from the water, Siegfried finally realized—it was no island at all.
It was the head of the ancient giant beast—the Kraken.
The Kraken, a deep-sea monster of Norse myth, also known as the "Great Sea Devil of the North" or the "Norwegian Sea Monster," was said to resemble an enormous squid or octopus. Legends claimed it could reach a body length of 155 meters, weigh around 330 tons, and haunt the waters between Norway and Iceland.
It could create a massive whirlpool known as the "Skagerrak," dragging all into the depths. In the Age of Gods, whenever such a whirlpool appeared, the Norse would pray to their great god Odin, the one-eyed deity, to drive away the Kraken and calm the sea's storms and whirlpools.
Then, in an instant, the wind became a runaway stallion, galloping wild through the night. Rain fell in torrents, each drop striking the sea with the force of a thousand pounds, raising walls of white spray.
And then—the Kraken's colossal bulk blotted out the sky. Its tentacles, as hard as steel, each stretched for dozens of meters, lashing about in the storm. Each swing seemed capable of tearing the very sea apart.
It was a sight that made one feel that only death remained, waiting in despair.
A lightning bolt split the heavens, its brilliance cutting across the roiling waves like a sword.
In that blinding light stood a towering figure on the tossing deck of the small boat. A golden-haired man, bare-chested, wielded no weapon—only fists that seemed to burn with fire.
Daring to stand so boldly before the monster, he awaited as the Kraken slowly reached a tentacle toward him, as though to draw him into its embrace.
The man caught it in one hand—and tore away a piece with his teeth. Chewing, he bit again, quick and fierce. The beast let out a piercing howl; its tentacles lashed wildly, desperate to fling away the golden-haired man locked onto its limb.
Whether the tentacle's counterstrikes struck the man was unclear. Amid the lightning's glare, one could just make out the golden-haired figure racing along the length of a tentacle toward the monster's massive head.
Perhaps sensing its eyes might be harmed if things continued, the Kraken suddenly severed the tentacle and let it vanish into the depths. Losing his footing, the golden-haired man plunged into the sea—only for a flurry of other tentacles to surge after him.
Then came the strange, stinging pain of a creature caught off guard. Around the Kraken spread an eerie violet mist of magical power, transforming the black world into a place of uncanny, purple-lit dread.
In that moment, the young King of Scandinavia—Beowulf—was thinking.
Could his well-trained body withstand the Kraken's massive blows? Even if it could, how could he kill it? Where was its weakness? And to reach that weakness—how much punishment would he have to endure?
Time seemed to slow, granting him space to think.
In an age of heroes and gods, everyone dreamed of becoming a hero—a supreme king—riches, beauty, power, the finest glories the world could offer.
Like a god come to earth, sword in hand, riding across the boundless lands; wherever his feet fell, tales of his valor would follow. Sweeping aside all who dared stand before him, his name and legend would be sung by bards forever.
But that age of heroes was gone. Missionaries from the European continent had "slain" them, leaving the people with nothing but emptiness, fear, and shame. Only the sobbing martyrs remained, and people no longer worshiped heroes—they folded their hands and prayed to the so-called one true god.
For in the presence of that god, there were no heroes.
Yet the light of heroes would forever shine in history's river. Their tales would always be sung.
He could not die here. Behind him were his people, striving for peace and stability; countless souls who wished only for modest happiness, fighting to preserve a life without cruelty or despair. Whether Kraken, fire-drake, or water demon Grendel—these were all monsters that hindered humanity's right to live.
And so—
Not for himself. Not for fame. Not for wealth. Not even for the glory of the hero's name. Simply as a king, he would fulfill the duty that was his.
"You cannot kill me, Kraken. And I will never yield to you here."
Once more, his fighting spirit blazed high. These seas were the lifeblood of the Scandinavian people; he would never allow a monster to reign over them.
"After all… I am the King of Geatland!"
As he murmured this, Beowulf felt his body's heat surge, surpassing all human limits. The blood-red mark on his chest flared with a searing light that could not be hidden, even in darkness.
The once-frenzied Kraken roared skyward, and thunder cracked as though to tear apart the violet mist.
As if to protect the great hero who now bore the mantle of Norse king, countless blinding bolts of lightning, wreathed in flame, struck the North Sea giant.
When Beowulf came back to himself, he realized—around him floated several golden runes, blazing bright.
"…These… could they be—?"
As one born on the Scandinavian isles, Beowulf had heard from the island's elders the ancient tales.
Tales of the eternal great god who must be sung and praised without end—the Allfather of saga, ruler of the Nine Worlds in the Age of Gods—still worshiped by much of the Norse world even now.
Even if it were but an illusion, it had to be him—the Allfather's glory still shone; the god still watched over those who believed.
The young King of Scandinavia raised his head proudly. His eyes blazed with a will like divine fire, and with a voice as powerful and raw as the thunder itself, he roared:
"Has your glory truly shown itself once more…? My one true god—Odin!"