Before the world was divided into realms, before gods carved thrones into sky and sea… there was only the Tree.

  Yggdrasil.

  It rose beyond horizon and breath, roots tangled in memory, branches laced with starlight and shadow. From it, the realms were spun — nine at first, then more, stretched across time and myth. And from those realms, the gods came.

  Some wore lightning in their fists.

  Some whispered fate from mountain caves.

  All believed themselves eternal.

  They built halls of marble and gold.

  They wrote songs of war and peace.

  They feared nothing… but each other.

  And so the gods fell into silence — their realms divided, their names spoken only in their own tongues.

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  But beneath them all, the Tree still grew.

  And in its deepest, forgotten root, something began to stir.

  A union not born of love, nor lust,

  But banishment.

  Bitterness.

  Bloodline.

  Typhon, the fire-storm of Olympus, cast into stone beneath a mountain he could not break.

  J?rmungandr, the world-serpent of Midgard, flung into the sea to wait for the end.

  In the blind hollow where time forgets to pass, they met.

  And from them came the thing gods feared even in dreams:

  A child not of prophecy, but of vengeance.

  It did not cry.

  It did not sleep.

  It only grew.

  And when the roots of the world trembled,

  When the divine pillars cracked…

  The gods remembered why they built their thrones so high.

  This is the story of the last war of the gods.

  Of two champions who stood when kings fell.

  Of a beast born from exile… and the storm born to face it.