The air crackled with an unnatural energy, the weight of something otherworldly pressing down on the forest surrounding the campfire. Kratos and Mimir sat in silence, the flicker of flames dancing across their weary faces. The God of War stared at the embers, his mind far from the place he now called home, Midgard. Beside him, Mimir, the disembodied head, hung from a rope tied to Kratos' belt, ever vigilant and always quick to speak when the silence stretched too far.
"Something feels off, brother," Mimir said, his voice low. "The magic in the air—it's not of this realm."
Kratos grunted in response. His senses, honed by years of battle, were also alert to the shift. He stood, gripping the handle of the Leviathan Axe as if it had never left his hand.
Suddenly, the world twisted. The trees around them blurred, and the ground beneath their feet seemed to ripple like water. A bright light enveloped them both, pulling them into a void of chaos and color.
When Kratos' feet hit solid ground again, the sharp scent of decay filled his nostrils. He stood in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by trees, but not the same trees of Midgard. These were dead, withered things, much like the foul stench of the air. Mimir blinked, his eyes wide.
"By the Nine...where in Hel's name are we?" Mimir exclaimed, his voice filled with both wonder and concern.
Kratos scanned the area, his instincts immediately on edge. The sounds of distant groans reached his ears—deep, throaty growls that were distinctly inhuman. He began to walk, his massive boots crunching on the dry, brittle ground beneath him. The landscape felt wrong—unnatural. There were no signs of life, only death.
"Careful, brother. Something wicked this way comes."
As if on cue, from the treeline, figures emerged—slow, staggering, their flesh hanging loosely from their bones. Their eyes were clouded, jaws slack, moaning as they lumbered forward. Walkers. Kratos narrowed his eyes.
"More draugr?" he muttered, gripping his axe.
"No, not draugr... worse," Mimir whispered. "These creatures... they were once men. But no longer. Undead—animated by dark forces."
Kratos wasted no time. His muscles rippled as he flung the Leviathan Axe with terrifying precision, the magical weapon spinning through the air, cleaving the first walker in half. It barely had time to collapse before Kratos called the axe back to his hand with a simple gesture.
Three more walkers approached, their mouths agape, teeth gnashing. Kratos stepped forward, his face a mask of fury, and swatted one aside with his bare hand. Its rotting body crumbled like brittle wood under his godly strength. The other two lunged at him, but he crushed their skulls with his fists, each blow sending ripples through the earth.
"Well, that was easy," Mimir commented dryly, though the grim tone in his voice showed he wasn't taking this threat lightly.
But Kratos didn't respond. His eyes were already ahead, drawn toward a distant building—a compound surrounded by a rusty gate. He could sense something more there, something… alive.
"I don't like the look of this place," Mimir warned as Kratos began to walk toward the compound. "But there's no denying, someone's in there."
As they neared the gate, a small figure appeared from behind a nearby tree—a girl, barely in her teens. She wore a cap low over her eyes, her face smudged with dirt and worry. In one hand, she held a blood-stained machete; in the other, a knife was sheathed at her side. She was cautious, stepping out just far enough for Kratos to see her but staying close to the shadows.
Kratos stopped, sizing her up. She was clearly a survivor, hardened by this world's cruelty.
"Who are you?" she called out, her voice tough but laced with curiosity and fear. Her eyes shifted from Kratos to Mimir, clearly confused by the talking head.
Mimir spoke up first. "Ah, greetings, lass. The name's Mimir. And this here is Kratos. We seem to have... taken a wrong turn somewhere."
Kratos grunted, uninterested in pleasantries. His gaze remained locked on the girl. "Where are we?"
The girl hesitated, glancing behind her as if checking for something—or someone. "You're near Ericson's Boarding School. But that doesn't matter. What matters is if you're a threat."
A soft moan in the distance signaled more walkers were approaching. The girl—Clementine, as her cap revealed—readied her machete, eyes sharp. But Kratos simply stepped forward, his eyes cold and calculating.
"You needn't worry about those creatures," he said, his deep voice resonating through the air. "They are no match for me."
As if on cue, a small group of walkers emerged from the woods, drawn by the sounds of the living. Clementine tensed, her grip tightening on her weapon.
But Kratos moved with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior. His axe cut through the air, slicing through the walkers with ease. In mere moments, the threat was gone, the undead bodies strewn across the ground like discarded rags. He didn't even break a sweat.
Clementine stared, stunned. She had fought and killed many walkers before, but never with such ease. Whoever—or whatever—this man was, he was not from her world.
"Okay," she muttered under her breath, lowering her weapon. "Maybe you're not a threat. But you sure aren't normal either."
Kratos wiped his axe on the ground before returning it to his back. "I seek no trouble with you, girl. I seek answers."
Clementine stepped forward cautiously, still unsure but intrigued. "Well, you might not like the ones I have, but... I think you're gonna need to hear them. Come with me. You look like you can handle yourself."
She turned, motioning for them to follow her through the gate of Ericson's. Kratos looked at Mimir, who gave a small nod, understanding they were now tied to this world and its people, at least for now.
Together, they walked into the heart of a new, forsaken world.