4th Month, 0th A.P
Anno Pacis (In The year Of Peace), Tyr called it which later, was accepted by the gods, the elves, the dwarves, even the jotnar who still lingered in the corners of their realms. After centuries steeped in blood, betrayal, and divine warfare, peace had finally settled over the Nine Realms like a long-awaited dawn.
It was the death of Odin that marked the turning. His end did not merely silence a king—it ended an era. The All-Father's schemes, his lies, his hunger for knowledge and control, had held the realms in invisible shackles for too long. When he fell, the world breathed.
And it was Kratos, once the Ghost of Sparta, who had brought that breath.
But he did not seek glory. He did not want to be hailed as saviour or king. He had sought only one thing—to be left alone.
To be forgotten by gods and men alike.
He never believed he could be forgiven, not for what he had done, nor what he had become. His path had been paved in ash and sorrow, and though he carried it with grim resolve, he had grown weary of its weight.
And yet... fate had different plans.
Every step he took away from war seemed to lead him right back to it. Every quiet corner he found, the chaos of the divine soon followed. He longed for peace—but peace, it seemed, was not done testing him.
Not yet.
It had been four full moons since the day the All-Father fell. Since the day Kratos—once feared as the Ghost of Sparta, the Bane of Olympus, the walking storm of vengeance—stood at the heart of the World Tree and helped unmake a tyrant's twisted legacy.
Odin, with all his schemes, questions, and mirrors, had once dared to ask: "Has anyone ever worshipped you?"
Back then, the answer was silence. A silence filled with regret, with shame, with memory.
But not anymore.
For when Odin fell, so too did the weight of a thousand years of war. The Nine Realms, long chained by fear and deceit, breathed freely for the first time in an age. And they looked to the one who had torn down the false god's throne—not with awe alone, but with reverence.
No longer just the Ghost. No longer merely a killer of gods. In that moment, Kratos became something he never dared imagine: a god worth praying to.
It was Týr, the once-imprisoned God of War turned philosopher, who first proposed the reckoning of a new era. A new calendar to mark the rebirth of the realms. One not steeped in conquest or blood, but in peace.
He called it Anno Pacis—Latin, from an old tongue long forgotten, meaning "In the Year of Peace." A peace not gifted by fate, nor earned by diplomacy, but won—through fire, through sacrifice, and through the breaking of prophecy itself.
And so the realms moved forward, not under the rule of a distant pantheon, but in honour of a man who had fought everything—even himself—to give them hope.
Kratos.
The God of Peace.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
The great snow has began to melt. The sun, once a rare and fickle visitor, now painted golden streaks across the thawing land. Midgard, especially, had changed—its bones still brittle from the cold, but its soul... stirrin'.
The forest was quiet, but not dead. Not anymore.
The snow had receded to the hills, revealing an earth rich with rot and rebirth. Trees stood proud again, their bark slick with melted frost, leaves blazing with the burnished tones of early autumn—fiery orange, deep wine-red, and gold so bright it rivaled sunlight. Mushrooms bloomed in shady hollows. Vines crawled over ancient stone. The air tasted wet, clean, like the sky itself had wept and now smiled in apology.
A stag, tall and broad-antlered, grazed between the oaks. Birds chirped a cautious melody. A stream burbled with newborn vigor, carving through the soil like it had somewhere to be.
The air still held a hint of chill—Midgard rememberin' winter's cruel kiss—but the land was wakin'. Slowly. Cautiously. Like an old bear rousin' from sleep, blinkin' at the dawn of somethin' new.
And among it all stood him. Kratos, now God of Peace.
The Leviathan Axe hung across his back, swaying lightly with each footfall. His breath misted in the cool morning air, though the chill no longer bit at him. A pouch at his waist held dried meat for the wolves. His gaze swept the underbrush, slow and deliberate.
Behind him, tied to his belt as always, Mimir—the smartest man alive—bounced gently with each step, his disembodied head takin' in the sights as only a head can.
"Mm," he grunted.
"Aye," came the familiar voice, clipped and wry, from the head hangin' at his belt. "Don't suppose we'll find a tavern out 'ere, will we? Not unless the squirrels've started servin' ale."
Kratos didn't reply. He rarely did to Mimir's jests. But even in silence, the tension in his shoulders eased. Mimir noticed. He always noticed.
"It's good," the head continued more thoughtfully, "to see the land livin' again. Feels like it's rememberin' what it means to grow, instead o' just... endurin'."
Kratos answered with a grunt—low, and steeped in the weight of years.
Kratos halted mid-stride.
His eyes narrowed, focused, locked on something just beyond the bramble. The birdsong stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Mimir noticed it immediately. "You've gone quiet," he muttered. "And when you go quiet, that usually means somethin's about to get its teeth punched through the back of its skull."
Kratos didn't answer.
He took one slow step forward, then another—silent, like a predator.
Finally, in that deep, bone-shaking voice of his, he spoke.
"…A crack."
Mimir blinked. "…A what now?"
Kratos said nothing further. He just stared.
"Oh, a crack, is it?" Mimir perked up with mock concern. "Well, should I be worried it's in the earth, the sky, or—dare I say—yer lower back? You have been swingin' that axe a bit too hard lately. Back pain can creep up on a man your age!"
Still no response.
"Wait—is this a dangerous crack? Or the kind that shows up when someone bends too far and forgets their trousers were stitched by dwarves with a sense o' humour?"
Kratos unhooked the leather straps holding Mimir to his hip, and with one large, scarred hand, brought the head up to eye level—silent and deliberate.
And then Mimir saw it.
Beyond the brush, hanging in the air like a wound carved through reality itself, was a glowing, jagged fissure. Energy hummed from it—arcane, ancient, wrong. It pulsed with the same sickening shimmer they'd seen once before.
Mimir's face fell.
"Oh… bloody hel," Mimir whispered, his voice suddenly dry.
Gone was the humour. Gone was the grin.
"Kratos…" he rasped, his tone rising, "That's—that's the same kind of crack we saw in Odin's library, isn't it?! The one that had the mad bastard frothin' at the mouth?!"
Kratos gave a slow, heavy nod.
"I'll be damned…"
The God of War said nothing. But his silence now spoke volumes.
The air turned still. The trees, just moments ago rustling gently in the breath of early autumn, now stood as if frozen in reverence—or fear. Even the birds had gone silent. A low hum filled the space, too deep to be heard by ear, yet felt in the chest… and the soul.
Then it happened.
A hairline fracture split the air ahead—not the ground, not stone nor wood, but the sky itself. A tear, as if some invisible blade had carved through the very fabric of the world. It began near the tree canopy and jagged downward in a slow, deliberate motion, until it kissed the forest floor with a final, trembling stop.
Kratos lowered his center of gravity, holding his axe tightly in his right hand, and Mimir in his left. He readied himself for anything unforeseen rushing out of that crack.
Meanwhile, sparks danced at the edges of the rupture—blue and white like captured lightning. The tear pulsed, alive with an eerie stillness. No sound escaped, yet it struck at them like thunder. Not in the ears, but in the marrow. A cracking that didn't echo through the woods, but through the soul.
And then - it widened.
Like skin pulling apart around an open wound, the tear stretched from a line into a door. Light spilled forth—strange, foreign, steady. The shimmer around the edges flickered like the surface of a mirror caught in a thunderstorm, reflecting not the forest… but something else.
Kratos took a single step back, instinctively shifting his stance, axe low at the ready. Mimir leaned as much as his leather bindings allowed, eyes wide.
"Well... that's new," he muttered, tone more unsettled than amused.
The rift now stood nearly two meters tall, a vertical gateway suspended in open air—unmoving, unblinking. And through it… a world unlike anything they had seen in all the Nine Realms.
Towering structures of shining metal and colored glass pierced the skies beyond, smooth and angular like Dwarven craft but impossibly tall.
Strange vehicles—chariots with no beasts—glided along wide stone rivers, humming and flashing with blinking lights. People moved quickly along sidewalks, dressed in cloth and colors both curious and vibrant.
Boxes with glowing runes lit up their faces. Giant boards flashed symbols and pictures—moving pictures!—across entire walls, like seer magic gone wild.
"What in Hel's frosty knickers is that?" Mimir gasped, his voice tight with wonder.
Kratos said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeply.
"That's no place I know," Mimir continued. "No realm I've heard sung o'. You seein' this too, right? Not some kind o' trick? I didn't take a knock to the head when I wasn't lookin', did I?"
Kratos remained silent a beat longer, eyes narrowing as he watched a bright red machine—clearly a vehicle of some kind—glide smoothly across a black road like a beast of fire and steel. His hand instinctively twitched near the Leviathan Axe on his back, old habits honed through countless wars. But then... his posture shifted, ever so slightly.
"It is not from the Eight," he said, voice low and wary.
Mimir turned toward him, brow furrowed.
"You reckon it's a new realm, then?"
Kratos exhaled sharply, almost a grunt—but there was something beneath it. A thought. A memory.
"I do not know what this place is..." he growled, gaze still locked on the vibrant cityscape beyond the crack, "...but I have seen a world like this before."
Mimir tilted his head.
"You have?" he asked, curiosity laced with confusion. "What sort of world?"
Kratos didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied the high-rising towers, the strange contraptions flying overhead, the people dressed in ways neither Asgard nor Alfheim had ever imagined.
"A world... where gods wore capes," he muttered, almost to himself. "Where men flew without wings. Where peace was a mask... and war still lurked beneath."
Mimir blinked.
"Well... that's bloody ominous."
Kratos stood motionless. The wind rustled gently through the trees behind him, but the crack in the air before him was deathly still. Through it, the other world flickered—buzzing with color and motion, alive in a way utterly alien to the Nine Realms.
But Kratos was not drawn in by wonder.
Instead, silence fell over him like a shroud, heavy and grim. His eyes, hard as hewn stone, remained fixed on the vision—but within, his mind reeled backward.
A memory.
Another time.
Another world.
Steel and blood. Chains he thought broken reforged anew. Forced into brutal contests for the amusement of spectators, gods, monsters—no different than Olympus, nor Asgard.
Shao Kahn. That conniving sorcerer with his soul-stealing smugness. The endless deathmatches. The endless thirst for violence. Kratos, once again, reduced to a weapon instead of a man. He had slain to survive. Again. Always again.
His hand curled into a fist. He would not be made a pawn. Not again.
But fate—fickle, twisted, inevitable—had other plans.
Without warning, the crack pulsed with blinding white light. Sparks flared in the air like falling stars. The edges widened further—not smoothly, but like the very world was tearing itself apart to make way for something not meant to be.
Kratos's eyes narrowed. He shifted his stance and opened his Guardian Shield from the gauntlet on his left hand.
The world cracked wide open.
And it pulled.
The force hit like the Bifröst itself—raw, inescapable, and absolute. The trees around them bent inward, leaves ripping into the rift like they were feathers in a storm.
Kratos planted his boots, grunted low, and raised the shield. But the pull was too great.
He slid.
He dug his heels in.
Still—inevitable.
The last thing he saw was the treeline warping, bending like a dream unraveling.
Then—
Void.
The world twisted sideways, and Kratos tumbled headfirst into the breach, a flash of blue and gold surrounding his body as the shield did what it could to soften the chaos.
"OH BLOODY—NOT AGAIN!" Mimir shouted beside him, flailing as best a disembodied head can flail.
"We just got peace! Four months! Four bleeding months, and now this!"
Kratos remained silent as they spun through the air of the new world. A freefall of stars and static.
"OH BLOODY—NOT AGAIN!" Mimir bellowed, wind howling past as they spiraled downward like stones cast from a cliff.
"Third time now, third bleeding time I've been chucked off some impossible height with you, Brother!"
Kratos didn't reply—shield still raised, eyes locked on the fast-approaching earth below.
"First time it was Yggdrasil's bloody roots—we dove headfirst like madmen into Tyr's temple! Thought I'd gone bald from the fright, and I'm already a head!"
"Second time—Baldr's dragon! Sweet merciful Norns, I thought my nonexistent stomach was gonna come out my nonexistent mouth!"
The wind shrieked around them as the cityscape of the other world—gleaming towers and strange metal beasts on wheels—rushed closer.
"But this? This is worse! Worse! I swear I can feel me heart tryin' to punch its way out me chest!"
"And I don't even have a chest!!"
Kratos merely grunted in acknowledgment, bracing for impact with the grim poise of a man who'd fallen through more skies than most had looked up at.