Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Curse in the Womb
Year 0 of the Valkyrie Calendar – Valhalla's Grand Hall, the final night of the old world.
The air was no longer air; it was a living thing, thick, wet, and obscene.
Every breath tasted of salt, iron, and the sour musk of gods who had fucked themselves to the edge of extinction.
Semen—some still warm, some crusted in black flakes—coated the black marble floor like frost. Blood steamed in slow curls from the throats of nine freshly slaughtered goddesses, their corpses arranged in a perfect circle around the central altar, legs spread wide so their ruined cunts still dripped onto the stone in slow, rhythmic pulses.
Frankincense burned in golden censers, but even that holy scent could not mask the reek of torn hymens, stretched wombs, and the sweet-rot stink of divine ovaries pushed past rupture.
Hundreds of torches trembled in their sconces, as though the flames themselves were afraid to watch.
At the heart of the hall rose the Altar of Final Conception: three meters of ancient bloodstone, every rune carved into it glowing crimson and pulsing like a heartbeat. Fresh gore oozed from the grooves and trickled down the sides in lazy rivulets, pooling beneath into mirrors that reflected the depravity above.
On that altar stood Odin, naked and monstrous.
Three and a half meters of living war-flesh. Skin pale as moonlight on a battlefield corpse, scarred by wounds that had never been allowed to heal. Muscle stacked upon muscle, each ridge and valley glistening with sweat and the fluids of the women he had already broken.
But no one looked at the scars.
Every eye—god, einherjar, disembodied soul—was dragged downward by a force stronger than gravity.
His cock.
Thirty-nine centimeters of divine blasphemy.
So thick that a grown goddess could not close her fingers around it. Veins like knotted ship-ropes writhed beneath the thin, almost translucent skin, each one pumping molten gold. The color was the deep violet-black of a bruise that would never heal, the glans swollen to the size of a warrior's clenched fist, glossy and split down the middle by a weeping slit that drooled golden pre-cum in slow, viscous ropes.
Every drop that struck the altar hissed and smoked, eating tiny craters into the stone.
And beneath him, chained to the tilted sacrificial slab, was Brynhild.
Once the proudest Valkyrie, the chooser of the slain, the blade that had split Frost Giants from crown to cock.
Now only meat.
Virgin-gold chains—forged specifically for the rape and impregnation of goddesses who had never known man—dug trenches into her wrists, ankles, and throat. The links had sawed through skin and were now grinding against bone.
Her legs had been wrenched apart until both hip joints had dislocated with wet, sickening pops that still echoed in the hall days later. The pillars holding her ankles were slick with the blood that poured from her ruined cunt.
That cunt.
Once a neat, sealed line of divine purity.
Now a gaping, crimson ruin.
The outer lips were swollen to four times their size, split and turned inside out like the petals of some obscene flower blooming in hell. Torn shreds of hymen still clung to the entrance in ragged pink ribbons.
From the cavernous hole oozed a constant river of thick, old semen—three days' worth—mixed with the black crust of her maiden blood and the clear slick of her own unwilling juices. It ran in slow, viscous streams down the insides of her thighs, over the chains, and dripped from her heels in steady, wet plops.
For three days and three nights Odin had used her as nothing more than a womb to be seasoned, stretched, and finally cursed.
Day One – The Tongue
He had forced her to her knees, wrists bound behind her with her own platinum hair twisted into rope.
His tongue—long as a spear, prehensile, and hot as forge-fire—had burrowed into her freshly torn virginity while the blood still gushed.
He lapped it up like a starving wolf, growling spells between swallows.
"Warm it, Brynhild. Soften it. Make it hungry for me."
He licked until her clit stood raw and angry, until her inner walls fluttered and spasmed against her will, until she squirted clear streams of goddess-nectar straight into the All-Father's open mouth.
She screamed until her throat bled. He only drank deeper.
Day Two – The Cock
The real breaking began.
He mounted the slab, lined that monstrous violet head against her entrance, and drove in with a single thrust that punched the air from her lungs and cracked her pelvis in three places.
Every vein on his shaft scraped her raw walls like ridges of molten iron.
He fucked her slowly at first, deliberately, each stroke bottoming out against her cervix with a wet, meaty thud that echoed through the hall.
Between thrusts he whispered the Dilatation Incantations directly into her ear, his beard scraping her cheek raw, forcing her womb to bloom open wider—three times, four times, five times the size a goddess was ever meant to bear.
Twenty-seven times he came that day.
Each orgasm was a volcanic eruption—thick ropes of golden semen blasting straight through her cervix into the deepest chamber of her womb.
After every load he plugged her with two fingers the size of mortal forearms, twisting them inside her to churn his seed deeper, refusing to let even one drop escape.
By nightfall her belly was a taut, veined dome, sloshing audibly with divine cum.
Day Three – The Triad
Speech abandoned him. Only rutting remained.
With a flick of runes he split himself into three perfect copies—each one possessing the same monstrous cock, the same mad single eye.
One seized her hair and forced his length down her throat until her neck bulged and her eyes burst blood vessels.
One slammed into her cunt, hips blurring, balls slapping her ass with wet claps that sounded like war drums.
The third claimed her virgin ass, tearing through the tight ring with a single merciless thrust that made her shriek around the cock already choking her.
They rotated without pause. When one grew close, they swapped holes, painting every inch of her insides with new loads.
She fainted. They slapped her awake with cocks across the face.
She begged—incoherent, broken sounds. They only laughed and fucked harder.
By the end of the third day her belly was the size of a mortal woman nine months pregnant with twins, skin shiny and translucent, veins glowing gold beneath.
And now the final act.
Odin dismissed his duplicates with a gesture. They melted back into his body like smoke, leaving only the original—cock still diamond-hard, veins throbbing with the last load of the night.
He lifted the crystal chalice.
Inside swirled the fresh, steaming heart-blood of the nine greatest goddesses, harvested moments ago as they knelt naked and trembling before the altar, blades to their own throats.
• Freyja's blood: crimson, thick as honey, smelling of raw lust.
• Frigg's: cold silver, tasting of maternal grief.
• Iðunn's: sparkling gold, fizzing with stolen youth.
• Sif's: warm wheat-gold, heavy with fertility.
• Gefjon's: rich earthy brown, smelling of ploughed fields.
• Skaði's: ice-white, burning cold.
• Snotra's: crystal-clear, sharp as wisdom's edge.
• Lofn's: deep violet, reeking of forbidden orgasms.
• Vár's: pitch black, tasting of oaths that can never be broken.
He pressed the mouth of the chalice directly to Brynhild's gaping, spasming cervix—now a raw, fist-sized ring of torn muscle—and tilted.
Glug… glug… glug… glug…
The sound was obscene, like thick cream pouring into an already overfilled vessel.
Brynhild's eyes snapped open, whites showing fully, a guttural animal howl ripping from her throat as her womb filled beyond capacity.
Her belly surged outward in a sudden, grotesque swell—skin stretching until it turned paper-thin, every golden vein glowing beneath.
The pressure forced old semen out around the chalice rim in forceful geysers that splattered Odin's thighs.
He threw the empty vessel aside. It shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
One last time he mounted her.
The head of his cock—now so swollen it looked ready to burst—kissed the flooded mouth of her womb.
He drove forward until his balls pressed against her ass and the fist-sized glans punched directly into the churning lake of blood and semen inside her.
He came.
Not in ropes this time, but in one continuous golden torrent, thicker than a mortal man's wrist, blasting with enough force to make her body jerk upward against the chains.
Pulse after pulse after pulse—ten, twenty, thirty seconds of unrelenting orgasm.
Her belly split. Long vertical tears opened from sternum to pubic bone, blood and semen spraying in arcs that painted the ceiling red and gold.
Brynhild's final scream was not even human—just a wet, broken gurgle as her ruined cunt prolapsed outward in a blooming crimson rose.
And inside that cauldron of divine filth, something formed.
A female fetus—conceived from the rape-seed of the All-Father and the sacrificed blood of nine goddesses—grew at impossible speed.
Five minutes.
From a speck to a full-term infant, then larger, larger—until Brynhild's abdomen ripped open entirely.
A tiny snow-white hand punched through the dilated cervix, fingers already ending in black talons.
A platinum-haired head followed, slick with blood and semen.
Crimson eyes opened—ancient, cold, and already filled with hate.
The first thing the child saw was Odin's cock, still half-hard, a final golden strand stretching from the slit to the floor like a spider's thread.
She opened her mouth.
Not a cry.
A declaration, in the oldest tongue of creation:
「Everything that possesses a cock… is my eternal enemy.」
Odin, trembling with both terror and insane pride, named her:
"Zetsumyo Freya!
Freya of Absolute Severance!
My perfect weapon!
You will sever the cocks of every demon in the Abyss and bring the Nine Realms to heel!"
He never finished.
The newborn seized the umbilical cord in her teeth and bit through it with a wet snap.
She crawled out of the gaping ruin of Brynhild's womb like a demon from its egg, body glistening with blood, semen, and amniotic fluid.
She stood.
Barely waist-high to the All-Father, yet the air around her crackled with killing intent.
Her tiny hand snapped forward and closed around the root of Odin's still-throbbing cock.
CRACK.
A sound like a tree trunk splitting in a winter storm.
She bent the thirty-nine centimeter shaft backward one hundred and eighty degrees.
Veins exploded in purple sprays. The glans tore free with a wet rip and thudded to the stone, still twitching, still leaking golden tears.
Odin screamed—a high, animal sound no god should ever make—and collapsed, clutching the pulped ruin between his legs as blood jetted between his fingers.
Zetsumyo Freya scooped a handful of the golden semen still dripping from her body, brought it to her lips, tasted it, then spat it full into the All-Father's single eye.
"I will castrate every last one of you."
Seventy-two elite guardian gods charged, spears of light raised.
She glanced at them.
The life-runes branded across her newborn skin ignited like a crimson sun.
An invisible wave of pure murderous lust exploded outward.
Every single guardian god orgasmed instantly inside his armor—cocks erupting in humiliating unison—then shriveled as though crushed by the hand of a giantess. Armor clanged as they fell to their knees, retching, clutching ruined groins.
Odin, writhing in a spreading lake of his own blood and seed, shrieked:
"THE CAGE!
ETERNAL LIGHT CAGE!
ONE HUNDRED YEARS!
UNTIL SHE LEARNS SUBMISSION!"
The seventy-two gods, weeping from pain and forced climax, raised trembling hands.
Chains of pure condensed starlight descended from the vaulted ceiling, weaving into a cage of absolute imprisonment—the same prison that once held the Titans.
It closed around the child.
She did not struggle.
She only stared at Odin—castrated, broken, bleeding—and smiled with infant lips stained crimson.
«I will grow inside this cage.
And when I step out,
every male in the Nine Realms
will kneel at my feet…
cocks in hand…
begging me to end them.»
The cage rose, suspended by chains of light in the exact center of Valhalla's great hall.
Below, Brynhild lay unconscious, her womb hanging outside her body like a deflated sack, still dripping.
Odin was carried away by trembling attendants, leaving a long red smear across the floor.
And high above, inside the Eternal Light Cage,
Zetsumyo Freya closed her crimson eyes,
already dreaming of the day
she would make the cosmos itself bleed from its severed manhood.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone