[This story is a fan-made, transformative work inspired by mythology and the Record of Ragnarok universe. All original mythological and copyrighted characters belong to their respective creators and copyright holders. Nero Angelo and the storyline in The Voidwalker Chronicles are original creations by the author. This work is shared for entertainment and homage purposes only and is not intended for commercial gain or infringement of copyrights.]
As Nero and the Valkyrie stepped into the arena, laughter rippled through the crowd of assembled gods.
From the center platform, Heimdall's voice rang out, clear and proud:
"Behold, the arrival of Nero Angelo!"
Mockery followed.
"This is humanity's last hope?"
"A mortal cloaked in shadows?"
"A ghost pretending to be a warrior?"
Even among the humans, murmurs of doubt spread like cracks in fragile glass.
But then—something changed.
The eldest gods, those ancient beings who had seen empires rise and fall, turned their eyes toward Nero. Silence crept into their features. And one by one, they rose from their divine thrones.
And knelt.
Not out of respect.
But out of fear.
Primal. Wordless. Unshaped.
They didn't know who Nero was. No tales warned of him. No records marked his name. But something deep, something buried beneath centuries of arrogance, stirred—and recoiled.
The younger gods watched, stunned. Humans stared in awe, unable to comprehend.
Nero's eyes never flickered. His voice, calm and low, broke the breathless stillness:
"You may raise your heads now."
Slowly, the old gods obeyed, returning to their seats with uneasy grace. But the fear lingered—an invisible weight pressed into their bones.
Then, from the far gate, came a presence that twisted the air itself.
Shadows clung to the walls. The sky dimmed as if recoiling. From the churning mist of nightmares, something slithered forth on coils of smoke and bone.
Phoboros, the Dread Wyrm, had arrived.
Even Heimdall faltered. His voice trembled as he forced the words past his lips:
"F-fighter for the gods… P-Phoboros, the Dread Wyrm!"
The crowd fell silent.
Even the boldest gods stiffened—faces twisted not with fear, but hatred. Hatred for something they had buried, something that refused to stay forgotten.
Phoboros chuckled—a sound like teeth grinding through bone. His grotesque form shifted endlessly, impossible to focus on. His presence alone was sickness. His voice slid into the arena like poison:
"So… this is the bug I'm meant to crush?"
He loomed closer, coils spreading like a plague.
"Look at you. Smaller than my shadow. And unarmed. How will you defend yourself… from me?"
His gaze slid toward the Valkyrie. A grin split his unnatural face.
"Turn into a weapon already. I want to break you in half."
Still, Nero didn't move. Didn't blink.
Then, slowly, he turned—not to Phoboros—but to the oldest gods seated above.
His voice cut cleanly through the arena:
"You should teach your young ones some manners."
The ancient gods bowed their heads, eyes heavy with shame.
Phoboros snarled, tail lashing the ground. He turned to Heimdall, seething.
"Start the match."
Heimdall, pale and tense, raised his horn. One breath—and the final match began.
Phoboros didn't wait.
He struck like a storm of shadows and hate, his weapon—a massive amalgam of cursed metal and screaming souls—came crashing down.
CRACK.
BOOM.
The ground split apart. Dust billowed. The arena shook.
Nero didn't move.
The Valkyrie flinched, her breath caught in her throat. Blow after blow fell like meteors—and Nero stood still, relaxed. Untouched. Unbothered.
Phoboros laughed, high and mad. Strike after strike.
Then—silence.
Panting, snarling, Phoboros paused. His weapon trembled in his claws.
Nero hadn't moved an inch.
Not a scratch. Not a bruise. Not even a scuff on his clothing.
Because nothing had touched him.
Phoboros roared and lifted his weapon with both hands—until Nero raised his left arm.
And caught it.
The impact stopped, dead in the air. With fingers like iron, Nero held it effortlessly.
Then, in a voice like cold fire:
"You talk too loud for something that doesn't understand silence. Let me show you what it sounds like… when hope dies."
With a slight squeeze, the weapon shattered. Screaming faces dissolved into dust.
The arena gasped—gods, mortals, even Valkyries.
Phoboros staggered backward.
Nero turned to the crowd, his voice low and regretful:
"This will kill most of you. Gods and humans alike.
For that… I'm sorry."
And then—he released it.
Not power. Not magic. Presence.
His true self.
Reality trembled. The sky cracked. Time bent. Sound died.
Screams tore through the crowd. Mouths foamed. Minds unraveled. Some collapsed. Some died. Even the ancient gods couldn't move—paralyzed by a fear older than fear itself.
Phoboros dropped. Trembling. Eyes wide.
"I… I-I'm sorry! I didn't know! Please… f-forgive me!"
He groveled, forehead pressed into the dirt, a god-beast begging.
Nero walked toward him. Calm. Silent.
He placed his foot on the Wyrm's head.
The silence deepened.
"No forgiveness," Nero said softly. "Only erasure."
And then—he crushed.
The skull collapsed. The Dread Wyrm was no more.
Stillness fell.
Nero blinked once—and his presence vanished.
The madness lifted. The sky cleared. Those who had died… breathed again.
A single snap of his fingers—and everything was whole.
Heimdall, voice unsteady, raised his horn:
"The victor… Nero Angelo!"
The Valkyrie dropped to her knees, overwhelmed, her body trembling.
Nero turned to her, his expression softening. He offered his hand.
"Told you," he said, smiling faintly.
"I didn't need a weapon."