Athena's General - Chapter 333

Nathan Evenhart:

I stood in front of a vast museum, filled with artifacts—armors, taxidermy, paintings, sculptures, and even rare plants.

"What I'm about to tell you predates an event called Ragnarok," said Siegfried.

"Ragnarok? That name came up in the vision I had from that fragment of the diary—the one the Aspect of the Soul showed me," I replied. "And it was also mentioned during the nobles' meeting. Are you the same Siegfried who made contact with the royal family centuries ago?"

"I am. I’ve spoken with them many times across the ages. But first, there’s something else you need to see." He handed me a piece of parchment—a perfect copy of the document he gave me at the dukes’ banquet.

"Let’s focus on this. The document I gave you, where you had that 'vision,' contains a memory from a divine being known as Mimir, the Wise. He played a key role in an age even before mine. He dealt with the Darkness. Unfortunately, he was beheaded, and his head was cast into Helheim, a place from which nothing ever returns," Siegfried explained.

"What was Ragnarok?" I asked.

He pointed to a painting, and when he touched it, the image came alive. Scenes flashed rapidly before my eyes—warriors clad in bird-like armor, phoenix armies, soaring dragons, enormous armored mammoths, colossal lions, sentient plant-creatures, elves, humans, and flying whales. Leading them all was a one-eyed dragon wearing an eye patch.

Just as I tried to focus on the details, the vision vanished.

"That glimpse is enough," Siegfried said calmly. "Ragnarok was a war that brought the nine realms together into a single battlefield—a conflict the likes of which had never been seen."

He gestured to a sculpture of a serpent, a wolf, and a bat.

"These were central to the war, and enemies of the divine. Jormungandr, Fenrir, and Hel. They were massive beyond comprehension—destroyers of worlds."

I touched my face, feeling the faint ache of my Celestial Eyes.

"They realized the mistake they'd made... but by then, it was too late."

He continued, shifting his tone.

"Now, let’s step back—before Ragnarok. That war is the turning point in our story. There’s the world after Ragnarok, which is the one you live in now... and then there’s the world before Ragnarok, where beings existed who could destroy an entire realm with a snap of their fingers."

My thoughts spiraled as I compared it to my old world. Back there, there had also been a great war—the Titans against the Gods. It began when the Gods betrayed Cronus, seizing his power and rising alongside mythical beasts. The betrayal was sudden, a calculated ambush. The victors didn’t stop at conquest—they enslaved the Titans, using their power as tools.

But here… things were different. Siegfried spoke of entities capable of creating or erasing entire worlds with a single gesture. In my former life, that was unthinkable. Gods in that world governed aspects of nature—Zeus ruled lightning, Hades the underworld and fire, Poseidon the seas. Athena embodied wisdom and strategy. Ares wielded every weapon with unmatched prowess. All of them were immortal, yes… but none could wipe out a world.

And even their strength depended on their followers—on faith, offerings, worship.

If I returned to my old world now, people would probably call me Zeus, just from seeing my thunder magic. The magic of humans in this world could accomplish things that humans in my world would call miracles. And if that's what humans are capable of here… then the gods must be on an entirely different level.

I turned back to the letter Siegfried had given me, the weight of everything starting to settle in my chest.

There was something I needed to ask—something that had been haunting me since the first time I saw that vision.

"And what about Freya? Where does she fit into all of this? The vision I had from the letter… it happened before Ragnarok."

Siegfried went quiet for a moment, as if weighing his answer.

"Easy, Nathan. One step at a time," he said, motioning to two paintings—one depicting a volcano and a sea of lava, the other a towering mountain of ice.

"Everything started with Niflheim and Muspelheim—the realms of ice and fire. They represent opposing existential forces. They met in Ginnungagap, the void of creation."

He gestured to a third painting—an endless sea of darkness, with a single glowing circle floating at its center.

The name Ginnungagap echoed in my mind, stirring something deep and strange inside me.

"An eye!" I suddenly said.

Siegfried nodded. "Exactly. That’s what Ginnungagap is—the Eye of Existence. When Niflheim and Muspelheim collided within it, the explosion that followed was beyond comprehension. From that energy came Order and Chaos, Light and Darkness. And from them, the Primordials were born—beings capable of reshaping reality itself."

Primordials…

He pointed toward a painting where radiant lights, shimmering in iridescent hues, streaked across the sky like falling stars.

"Among them were Augelmir, creator of the Jotuns and my ancestor, and Buri, ancestor of the Aesir… and of Sisika."

Then he motioned to another painting—an abyss of darkness where massive pairs of glowing red eyes emerged from the void.

"This is Nidhogg, the Primordial Hydra-Dragon. He is the embodiment of Chaos. But we won’t go into him just yet. First, we need to talk about something called Divine Reproduction," he said, turning to me. "Tell me, Nathan—how does a god reproduce? Do you know?"

I remained silent. I didn’t have the slightest clue.

"Divine beings have a much harder time creating offspring than mortals. The more powerful the being, the harder it becomes. That’s why there are more humans than divine entities—just like there are more ants than humans. Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"When a divine being has a child, that child is always born weaker than the parent."

"Weaker?" I repeated, genuinely surprised. "A god’s child is… less powerful?"

He nodded. "Think about it. A god lives forever. If they could have children just as powerful as themselves, and reproduce like humans, then within a few million years, there’d be a countless legion of gods. But that’s not the case. Each child is born from a fraction of their parent’s power—never equal, always less."

Siegfried took a step closer.

"This system of Divine Reproduction applied to the Age of the Primordials. Things are a bit different now. Back then, the Primordials willingly split their own essence to create other divine beings—lesser gods, yes, but still powerful enough to dwarf someone like me. These new beings were called Celestials, and they were the first generation born from Primordials."

He pointed toward a scale model—a display of figurines depicting humanoid and beast-like creatures. The small sculptures moved on their own, interacting, walking, engaging in their own miniature lives.

"The Celestials lived in a massive world known as Yggdrasil. They weren’t the only creations. Spirits, fairies, animals, insects, and humans were born as well—mortals created by the Primordials, though without any of their divine essence. That’s why they were mortal."

He gestured toward another painting, showing humans, beasts, and the growth of civilization.

"These are the mortals. They built homes, villages, cities—entire cultures in just a few millennia. The Celestials were fascinated. Humans, despite being weak and short-lived, were constantly building, constantly changing. Their mortality pushed them to act with urgency."

Another image showed Celestials lounging on clouds, watching human cities below.

"They observed them constantly. Though they lived in the same world, Yggdrasil was vast—so vast that humans never encountered the Celestials. The Primordials had isolated each race into separate lands, like pieces of a grand experiment."

The next painting was more personal. Celestials watching humans cradling babies, their faces full of wonder and longing.

"The Primordials told the Celestials that mortals were granted the gift of creating life as compensation for their short lifespans. This stirred envy in many Celestials. They, too, longed for family. Though divine, they still felt emotions. They loved, bonded, and formed couples."

We continued walking.

"But they couldn’t create life the way mortals did. They didn’t have the ability to birth something from nothing. So the Primordials taught them a method. Instead of sacrificing their entire divinity, each parent would divide their essence in half. Those halves would come together to form a new life."

He paused in front of a painting of a female Celestial holding a wooden infant—an imitation of a human baby.

"This was the only way the Celestials could create something together. They had to give up part of themselves."

He pointed to paintings of Celestials smiling with their children.

"Thus were born the first children of the Celestials—still powerful, but weaker than their parents."

Farther ahead, we saw images of joyful beings holding babies.

"They created other divine beings by giving up part of their essence. One such pair was Bestla, daughter of the Primordial Augelmir, and Borr, son of the Primordial Buri. From their union came Odin, Vili, and Ve. Remember that name—Odin. He’ll be very important later," Siegfried said.

I followed him, absorbing everything.

"But if they have to give up half their divinity, how did some have more than one child?" I asked.

"That divine essence can replenish over time, much like mana. But the process takes thousands of years. That’s why many only had one or two children—some never managed more," Siegfried explained.

He pointed to a miniature display where tiny animal-like figures danced and played instruments—eagles, rabbits, and pointy-eared creatures.

"Other Celestials followed suit. That’s how weaker divine beings like the Vanir and the Alfar came into existence. Your ancestor, Freya, was born from a union between a Vanir and an Alfar… but that’s a story for another time."

As we walked, a question weighed on my mind.

"Why aren’t those offspring still considered Celestials? They come from two Celestial parents. Wouldn’t that make them full Celestials?"

"You’re mistaken, Nathan Evenhart," Siegfried replied. "Creating life takes an immense amount of power. During the process, a portion of that power vanishes—permanently. The child born from that union only holds a fraction of the original divinity."

"That’s… a little hard to grasp," I admitted.

"It’s a concept that takes time to understand. But eventually, as these divine generations continued, they began to resemble mortals more and more, and drifted further from the Primordials. There will come a time when reproduction becomes more biological. And when that day comes, the idea that each generation is weaker than the last will vanish. There will be balance—offspring who can match or even surpass their parents."

Siegfried clapped his hands, and the figures in the model began to dance in harmony. Some feasted, others sparred with swords, while others still shaped forests, mountains, fish, and oceans.

"Before, Celestials simply… appeared. Fully grown, fully aware. But raising children—teaching them, playing with them, telling them stories—brought a new kind of joy into existence."

"And what about the Celestial Eyes?" I asked.

With a snap of his fingers, the children in the model began to glow, their eyes radiant with shimmering light.

"The children of the Celestials inherited the Celestial Eyes—a gift tied to the divine essence of their lineage," he said.

The scene shifted. More beings were born, cared for, and raised by the Celestials. They laughed, built homes, shared ideas. The world of Yggdrasil flourished.

"They worked together, formed new families, and shaped their world however they pleased. Oceans, fields, floating isles—anything they imagined. It was peace… true peace."

But then, something changed.

Siegfried pointed to a shadowy part of the model. Red eyes appeared, glowing in the dark.

"It was then that Nidhogg, the other Primordial, chose to strike. He attacked during their moment of happiness—when their guard was down. This marked the beginning of the first divine war: The Age of Chaos."

From the darkness, a monstrous black dragon emerged. It had multiple heads, each with crimson eyes, towering over the Celestials like mountains over ants. A suffocating black mist spewed from its maws, erasing everything in its path. I watched as even the pointy-eared races were obliterated.

Some of the divinities rose to fight back—but I could already see it in their eyes.

They were not ready.

"In that first war, which lasted thousands of years, the Primordials vanished. They were weakened from spending their power to create life," Siegfried explained.

I watched the scene unfold in front of me. "Why did the Primordial Nidhogg do all this?" I asked, looking at the images of divine beings fleeing, being annihilated.

"Because it's in his nature. While some beings create, he was born to destroy. He was born from the darkness within Ginnungagap and wants everything to return to how it once was—void and shadow. Still, even as they perished, the Primordials used their remaining power to take Nidhogg down with them," Siegfried said.

The model cracked. From those fractures, thick roots began to grow.

"The world of Yggdrasil couldn't survive the scale of the war. Immense divine power was unleashed to stop Nidhogg, but the world itself began to fracture. The Celestials sacrificed their remaining strength to keep the pieces connected, forming the great world-tree, Yggdrasil, from their own bodies. The connection between realms was later called Bifrost—the Rainbow Bridge."

As Siegfried spoke, the model expanded to show a towering tree linking shattered continents. Nine realms floated around it, orbiting like scattered fragments of a once-whole world.

"Sadly, just like the Primordials, the Celestials also fell. Only their children survived. Most living beings were wiped out, and the mortal races suffered greatly."

He gestured toward the roots of the tree, where an endless black abyss opened up.

"That's where Nidhogg’s body fell after he was ‘killed.’ But now, let’s move forward in time. The surviving divinities scattered across the nine realms, each trying to rebuild what little remained. Many had lost parents, siblings, even children. It was the first time they'd felt the permanence of death—a pain even they couldn’t undo."

We walked through the museum to a painting of enormous trees beneath a brilliant blue sky. Giant birds soared overhead. Floating mountains dotted the horizon, and five suns hung in the sky. The seas sparkled like diamonds.

"The children of the Celestials honored their ancestors by preserving the cultures and traditions of the fallen. These realms became known as the Nine Worlds: Asgard, Midgard, Vanaheim, Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Jotunheim, Niflheim, Muspelheim, and Helheim. The last one—Helheim—became a graveyard, a place where the dead and discarded were sent. You could call it a divine limbo."

I took a moment to compare. In my old world—Greece—we had one world divided into layers: Olympus above, Earth in the middle, the Underworld below. And off to the sides were smaller, divine domains. But this… this was different. Nine fully separate worlds.

Another painting showed the great tree linking each realm like veins to a heart.

"The survivors weren’t strong enough to be called Celestials anymore. Instead, they formed new races: Aesir, Vanir, Alfar, Jotun, and others. Only one Alfar descendant remained—Freya. She was half Vanir, half Alfar. After the war, she isolated herself in Alfheim, mourning the destruction of her people. Her brother, Frey, stayed in Vanaheim. Freya never recovered… she blamed herself for the downfall of the Alfar."

Siegfried led me to another part of the exhibit—a model showing the different worlds as they began to rebuild, piece by piece.

"Reproduction changed too. Remember how I told you my kind is somewhere between Primordials and mortals? After the war, balance returned. From that point on, divine offspring no longer grew weaker with each generation. Instead, like humans, power was passed down based on lineage and bloodline."

He pointed at another model where I saw humans with animal traits—ears, tails, fur.

"Midgard became the home of humans. Jotunheim, the land of Jotuns and demi-humans—mortals born with unique physical characteristics. Each world was now shared by divinities and mortals alike, keeping alive the memory of the Primordials who created them."

I stared at it all, my mind still processing the scale of what I was learning.

"Siegfried… when did you come into the picture?"

"Me?" He smiled faintly. "Oh, it'll be quite a while before I show up. Everything I’ve told you so far spans millions of years. But one of my ancestors played a key role—Hraesvelgr, a great bird Jotun, known as the 'Corpse Swallower.'"

He pointed to the realm perched atop the great tree.

"That’s Asgard—the home of the Aesir. After the war, everyone turned to combat. They trained endlessly to prevent another catastrophe. The Aesir became the greatest warriors. Do you remember Odin? He survived the Divine War. He led armies and became the most powerful of his time, the firstborn son of a Celestial. He was a near-Celestial himself."

I looked around, trying to absorb everything. "And how did this new generation of divinities reproduce?" I asked.

"Because they were closer to humanity—less bound by the immutable nature of the Celestials—reproduction between gods became possible. Celestials were far too elevated and unchanging for that. The process still required giving up a significant part of oneself, and there were limitations, but it didn’t take millions of years like before. I’ll explain more about that later," Siegfried replied.

A one-eyed dragon wearing an eye patch appeared in the model before disappearing just as quickly.

"That was Odin," Siegfried continued. "He had several children, but I’ll mention only the most important: Tyr, Thor, Vidar, and Vali."

A bolt of lightning sparked through the model as he spoke.

"The process had become faster, but it was still dangerous. Some gods simply couldn’t have children. Even Odin had more than one wife, since some partners couldn’t bear more than one child."

Ahead of us, the paintings began to move like scenes from living history. I saw divine beings in homes and castles, holding feasts and building their own society. Fragments of each realm grew and flourished.

"Your ancestor, Freya, devoted herself to nature in Alfheim. She nurtured forest spirits, animals, and plants, trying to make them more vibrant, more alive. Losing her kin had devastated her. For thousands of years, she studied ways to bring divine beings back from the dead. Freya deeply explored the Divine Reproduction of the Primordials and searched every possibility," Siegfried explained.

In the paintings, I saw Freya—who looked exactly like my mother—walking through enormous laboratories, studying glowing plants, even talking to them. She visited ancient tombs, likely those of the fallen Celestials. In some scenes, she dissected strange plant-like organisms, as if trying to unlock hidden truths.

"She wanted to create life?" I asked.

"Yes. But not just any life. Freya sought to create life the way the Primordials had. She was the master of plant-based life magic, perhaps the strongest in that field. But she wanted to go further," Siegfried said. "She wielded the most powerful Aspect of Life and was a first-generation daughter of Celestials—her father a Vanir, her mother an Alfar. Freya was unbelievably powerful."

The next sequence of images showed Freya surrounded by radiant creatures—animals, plants, forest spirits. She seemed to nurture humanoid plants, molding them with care. "Eventually, she succeeded in creating something close to true life," Siegfried revealed.

In one scene, Freya stood before what looked like a superior elf with closed eyes. "She used part of her power to give physical forms to forest spirits, creating what became known as the Light Elves—in honor of the Alfar, her fallen people," he explained. "Freya will become very important later, which is why I’m taking the time to explain this now."

We walked past scenes of these Light Elves building homes, palaces, and entire cities. They worked alongside Freya, forging a new civilization in Alfheim, striving to preserve the legacy of the Alfar.

"Freya didn’t create life from nothing the way the Primordials did. Instead, she crafted living vessels and placed the forest spirits within them—giving them form, family, and purpose. These spirits rejoiced. Finally, they could build lives, form communities, get married, have children. A world that had once been shattered was alive again. That’s why elves are so deeply tied to nature—they were born from it," Siegfried said.

We paused beside a model of tiny Light Elves moving around, building schools, houses, and temples. Some knelt before Freya, offering her gifts.

"She became known as the 'Great Mother' among the elves—their personal deity. Around this time, many gods began interacting more closely with mortals, teaching them about the world and sharing knowledge. With the Primordials and Celestials gone, the remaining beings had to learn to live together and defend themselves—against monsters, and sometimes each other. That’s when mortals were taught how to use magic, though only the gifted could truly master it. It was also during this age that mortals began to worship the gods," he continued.

"But the rise of human society... that’s a story for another time."

We walked down the corridor, passing paintings that depicted humans learning to control mana, guided by animals I realized were actually divine beings. Some interacted with phoenixes.

"This painting shows a human king of Vanaheim being visited by a Vanir god," Siegfried explained. "The Vanir are deities who can take the form of animals—ones you might recognize. Meanwhile, the Aesir transform into much wilder creatures, like dragons. I’ll explain the differences in a moment."

"But Cylla can transform into both a phoenix and a dragon," I pointed out.

"That's because her father is Vanir and her mother is Aesir," Siegfried replied. "Vanir, much like the elves, are connected to nature and often prefer their animal forms over humanoid ones. Every deity has a unique animal form. Some Vanir take the form of phoenixes, but there are many tribes and types. The Aesir, on the other hand, are warriors, and their beast forms are highly destructive in combat. Sisika’s mother, for example, could transform into a dragon."

We turned another corner and came face-to-face with a colossal statue of Freya holding a child in her arms, surrounded by plants.

"After hundreds of thousands of years, Freya was able to unravel part of the secret behind the Divine Reproduction of the Primordials. And with that knowledge, she created life. But only one life," Siegfried revealed.

I stepped closer to the statue. Freya looked serene, smiling down at the baby she held.

"Because she was far weaker than a Primordial, the child she created was mortal. Freya gave up a large portion of her divine power to bring it into the world. That child lived, started a family, and—eventually—after a long passage of time, you were born," Siegfried added, giving my shoulder a light pat.

"So I'm descended from a deity?" I asked, intrigued.

"All living beings came from divinities, since they were created by the Primordials. Freya simply used her own power to create a mortal directly. That’s why the royal elven family is so gifted in magic. And it also explains how you happened to be born with Special Eyes among humans," he said.

I was stunned. "My Special Eyes—the ones that let me control all elements—do they come from the Celestial Eyes?"

"It's just a rare occurrence that can happen among humans. But yes, their foundation lies in the Celestial Eyes. Yours seem to be derived from the Aspect of Life, which enhances the genetic potential of your race and grants you access to multiple elements. Your teacher Adrihna’s, on the other hand, likely comes from the Aspect of the Soul," Siegfried explained.

I turned back to the statue of Freya, staring at her gentle smile. "Why does my mother look exactly like Freya?"

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