Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 763: I am Freya and only I decide my fate!

"BOOOOOOOOMMMMM!"

A massive explosion erupted across the arena as Freya’s demonic mace detonated, unleashing a storm of dark energy infused with the souls of countless demons. The blast radiated outward like a black sun, swallowing Lucius in a torrent of destructive force and hurling him into the far walls of the coliseum.

The arena fell into stunned silence.

Everyone—the millions of Vikings in the stands, the powerhouses on the podiums—watched in shock as the sea of demonic energy surged through the battlefield. It was a wave of devastation so immense, so overwhelming, that no Legend should have been able to survive.

Freya stood there, her body trembling. Her face was pale, her breathing ragged. Her weapon had been destroyed, and her left shoulder was torn and bleeding. Yet despite her injuries, she stood—alive, battered, but victorious.

She had won.

Or so it seemed.

"BOOOMMMM!"

Before the cheers could erupt, a second explosion tore through the arena. A pulse of dark energy surged from the heart of the demonic storm, dispersing the cloud of destruction and revealing Lucius’s figure standing within.

The sight sent a chill through every soul watching.

Lucius’s chest bore a massive burn, the epicenter of the explosion—a blackened crater where Freya’s mace had struck him with full force. That blow should have been fatal. It should have ended the battle.

But Lucius was not defeated.

The totems covering his body glowed with an ominous, alien energy—an unnatural power that pulsed across his form, bolstering his strength. He did not merely stand—he rose taller, stronger than before!

Freya’s eyes widened in disbelief. Even with her fierce determination and iron will, the sudden turn of events shook her deeply.

And she wasn’t alone.

The powerhouses seated in the podiums exchanged sharp glances. They could sense it too—that strange energy coursing through Lucius’s totems. It didn’t feel like the blessing of Odinvaldr, the god of the Vikings. It felt... wrong.

Twisted.

Alien.

Yet no one could understand what it was, nor could they interfere.

Lucius’ expression had shifted. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by eyes full of cold, ruthless darkness. His presence sent a ripple of dread through the entire arena, a predator baring its fangs.

With a burst of speed, Lucius flashed forward, his rusty sword blazing with newfound power. His strikes were faster, sharper, stronger—an unstoppable onslaught of death.

Freya’s eyes widened in alarm. Pushing her battered body to the absolute limit, she narrowly dodged the blade’s edge—but she couldn’t avoid the ferocious kick that followed.

The impact struck her in the stomach like a sledgehammer, sending her tumbling across the ground, coughing up blood in ragged bursts. Pain lanced through her body, her organs twisting, but she forced herself up.

Lucius was relentless.

Before she could catch her breath, he was upon her, his blade flashing down in a lethal arc. Freya twisted at the last possible moment, narrowly avoiding death—but Lucius’s knee drove into her ribs, followed by another crushing strike to her arm.

"CRACK!"

The sound of bones breaking echoed across the arena.

Freya was thrown across the sand once again, her body battered and bruised, bruises spreading across her skin like ink stains, bones fracturing with every blow.

Still, she endured.

The Vikings in the stands watched in agonizing frustration, their hearts aching as they saw Freya being tossed and beaten, forced to dodge and survive rather than fight back.

The relentless assault seemed endless, a brutal storm that Freya could only weather, not stop.

And then...

"BOOM!"

Another impact sent her crashing against the arena wall, blood pouring from her mouth. Her body slumped, her strength draining, her breath shallow. The once-burning light in her eyes dimmed, fading into exhaustion.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Millions of Vikings watched, breath held, as the crushing weight of defeat settled in their hearts.

Freya had been so close. She had almost won, almost reclaimed her destiny, almost proven that justice and honor still mattered.

But now... it seemed everything was lost.

Lucius turned to the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the stunned faces. When he saw the despair in their eyes, his lips curled into a wide, wicked grin. It was as if this had been his goal all along—not just to win the tournament, but to break their spirits, to shatter their belief in righteousness.

But then, Lucius’ grin faltered. freeweɓnøvel~com

His eyes narrowed as he saw Freya... moving.

Her body was broken, her bones cracked, her skin bloodied. Yet she was rising—slowly, painfully—but rising all the same.

Her gaze locked onto Lucius, and her eyes burned—not with the dull flicker of exhaustion, but with a blazing, indomitable will.

Lucius scoffed, his voice cold and dismissive.

"Hmph. Useless. Willpower means nothing before raw power."

But Freya’s lips curled into a faint, defiant smile.

"I am Freya. Viking Princess. Horror of the Leviathan Race. Queen of Terra. And only I decide my fate!"

As her words echoed across the arena, a pulse of demonic energy and psychic power erupted from her chest—originating from a strange orb embedded directly above her heart. It gleamed through the cracks in her armor, its surface swirling with an ominous, otherworldly light.

The orb began to consume Freya’s life force—healing her wounds, restoring her strength—but that was only the beginning.

Before Lucius could react, a shocking transformation unfolded before everyone’s eyes.

Freya’s expression was partially hidden by the dark helm that formed over her face, revealing only glowing red tribal tattoos that snaked across her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes blazed, twin crimson stars radiating deadly intensity.

A new armor manifested around her—an intricate masterpiece forged from her own life force, demonic soul energy, and raw psychic power. It was a full-body suit of black, gothic metal, adorned with intricate red runes that pulsed with infernal light. Sharp, menacing spikes jutted from her shoulders and gauntlets, while crimson gemstones embedded across her frame flickered with dark energy.

The armor flowed like a living thing, its edges sharp and organic, echoing the form of a predator ready to strike.

Her hair, once dark, now blazed a stark white, cascading from beneath her spiked helm like a river of moonlight. Fiery cracks ran along her body, glowing with the power of demonic soul essence and unrelenting psychic force.

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