Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 762: Final of the Tournament of Destiny

Shock, awe, and confusion assaulted the eyes of every Viking watching the battle as they saw Mika’s body crash against the arena wall, his chest shattered by Freya’s devastating blow.

Freya was powerful—incredibly so for a Sage—and she had demonstrated overwhelming might and skill with that demonic mace. But even so, it made no sense to the crowd that she could beat Mika so easily.

Even Freya herself was caught off guard. She had expected a fierce, drawn-out clash—had been prepared to trade blows and even take damage if it meant defeating Mika in a single decisive exchange. Yet the battle had ended far more quickly, and far more decisively, than she had anticipated.

Only the super powerhouses seated in the high podiums sensed the faint, ethereal disturbance that had swept across the battlefield at the moment the fight began. It had been fast, subtle, and hidden—so fleeting that even they had failed to pinpoint its source.

Still, they exchanged silent, knowing glances, softly nodding to themselves. They were powerful enough to recognize that someone—or something—had subtly assisted Freya, tipping the scales in her favor. Yet there was no evidence, no concrete proof, and given the blatant injustice Freya had suffered throughout the tournament, none of them had the will to call it out.

Of course, Earl Octavio did not share their sentiment. His face was a mask of fury, but he was powerless to act without proof. If he dared to accuse Freya of cheating now, with no evidence, he would only become a laughingstock—a fool grasping at shadows.

Freya, for her part, felt a flicker of warmth in her heart as she glanced briefly at the stands.

Still, she didn’t dare lose focus. Not even for a second.

Without hesitation, she moved—closing the distance between herself and Mika in a flash, her black mace raised high. Killing intent blazed in her eyes, a silent declaration that if he refused to surrender, she would not hesitate to end him.

Mika stared at her, breathing hard. After a long, tense moment, he sighed heavily and nodded.

"I give up," he muttered, bowing his head.

Silence reigned for a heartbeat—then the arena erupted into thunderous cheers.

"FREYA! FREYA! FREYA! FREYA! FREYA! FREYA!"

Just like that, Freya had advanced to the finals of the Tournament of Destiny. One more fight. One more victory—and she would win the tournament, reclaim her freedom, and prove to the world, and to herself, that only she had the right to determine her fate.

A burning resolve lit her eyes as she nodded respectfully to the defeated Mika, then turned and walked out of the arena with her head held high.

It didn’t take long for the next fight to begin.

Lucius stepped onto the battlefield, facing off against Bikor—a formidable Legend and one of the most promising warriors of the Viking race’s younger generation. Many believed Bikor had the potential to ascend to the absolute peak of the Legendary Realm, becoming a true pillar of the Viking people.

Which only made it all the more shocking when Lucius demolished him.

Bikor fought with the fury of a Viking berserker, unleashing a storm of power that shook the arena—but Lucius cut him down piece by piece, his rusty sword leaving deep, vicious gashes in Bikor’s defenses. By the time their fight ended, Bikor was barely alive, hanging onto the thread of death.

The powerhouses in the podiums exchanged complex glances.

Lucius was an anomaly. He had no known background—no famous clan, no lineage of note, no mentorship under a mighty powerhouse. By all appearances, it was as if he had emerged from thin air.

And while there were precedents of powerful Vikings rising from humble beginnings—Freya herself being a prime example—there was something unnerving about Lucius. His aura was strange, oppressive, and unsettling in a way none of the powerhouses could quite explain. And his weapon... that rusty, battered sword... it radiated an ominous, ancient power that made even the strongest warriors uneasy.

Yet the only one who couldn’t stop smiling as he watched Lucius was Earl Octavio. He saw in Lucius not only the winner of the tournament, but also the key to a glorious future, one where he could achieve all his dreams. For that, there was no price he was not willing to pay.

After Lucius’s victory, the tournament allowed for a day of rest before the final match.

Finally, as the golden light of Valhalla’s sun illuminated the grand arena, the two remaining fighters stepped onto the battlefield.

On one side: the dark horse, Lucius, with his rusty sword and cold, unsettling smile.

On the other: Freya, the Viking princess, her eyes burning with unyielding determination.

Her gaze was fierce, her body tense with focus. Her mind was clear. There were only two paths out of this arena—as the winner, or as a corpse.

No matter what, she would never let others dictate her fate.

The countdown ignited in the air, its flaming numbers marking the seconds as they ticked away.

Freya glanced briefly at the crowd, a small, resolute smile curling on her lips. Her heart was steady. Her fear and uncertainty had burned away, leaving only a pure, unshakable will.

Zero.

The final battle of the Tournament of Destiny began!

"BOOM! BOOM!"

Two shockwaves echoed across the arena as Freya and Lucius lunged toward each other, their killing intent blazing like twin suns.

Freya’s eyes radiated a fierce resolve, brighter than the midday sun, while Lucius wore a wicked smile—a smile so cold and cruel it could make a devil shudder.

Even with the support of her Sun Armor and her Light Bloodline, Freya was a hair slower than Lucius. His rusty sword flashed toward her like a serpent’s fang.

Yet as the blade neared her, Freya moved—not with brute speed, but with a martial mastery that defied logic. Her body reacted on pure instinct, her movements precise and fluid, slipping past the blade with an elegance that left even the powerhouses in the stands stunned.

This wasn’t just talent. This wasn’t just the result of battle experience.

This was art—a level of physical mastery hidden deep within Freya that none had truly witnessed until now.

That level of mastery wasn’t forged in comfort or under a tutor’s careful eye. It was born in places where death was a constant companion like in Doomsday Worlds.

Or in lands ravaged by super-alien races that produced millions of drones daily. In such crucibles, you either learned to adapt, to fight with everything you had, or you perished.

It was this kind of harsh, brutal experience that allowed Freya to evade Lucius’s attack now. She slipped past the arc of the rusty sword by a hair’s breadth, the blade slicing through the air so close it kissed her skin.

But she didn’t stop there.

Freya countered immediately, swinging her demonic mace with ferocious force, aiming for Lucius’s ribs in a strike that could shatter bone.

Lucius’s cocky smirk flickered, fading ever so slightly. He didn’t like it, but he had to admit to himself that the woman’s martial skills were impressive—far beyond what he had expected.

Still, he wasn’t powerless.

With an unnatural twist of his body—his spine bending at an angle no human should achieve—Lucius narrowly avoided the crushing blow. The mace missed its mark by mere inches, brushing the tip of his nose and leaving a faint scratch across the skin.

Freya’s eyes narrowed as she registered the truth behind his movement. This man wasn’t just skilled—his body had been enhanced in some way. But there was no fear in her expression, no hesitation. Only a burning, relentless will to fight.

And so she pressed on.

What followed was a stunning display of combat prowess that left the entire arena—including the super powerhouses on the podiums—spellbound. Their hearts pounded in their chests like war drums as they watched the impossible unfold before them.

Freya and Lucius stood locked in the center of the battlefield, neither of them backing down. Her mace and his sword clashed again and again, each swing carrying lethal intent. Sparks erupted from every collision, the air humming with the raw energy of their strikes.

Every time it seemed that a weapon would land its deadly mark, one of them would perform an astonishing feat of martial mastery—dodging, deflecting, or countering with inhuman precision. It was as if they could predict each other’s moves, reacting faster than thought.

They exchanged over a hundred blows in the span of moments, the tempo rising until it seemed the very air might shatter from the sheer speed of their combat.

And then, finally, blood was drawn.

Lucius’s sword cut into Freya’s left shoulder. The blade sank deep, slicing through flesh and muscle. Though the Viking princess managed to twist her body at the last instant, reducing the force of the attack, the wound was still brutal—blood poured down her arm.

Lucius’s arrogant smirk returned, his confidence blazing as he prepared to press his advantage.

But then he saw Freya’s eyes—and his blood ran cold.

Her gaze burned—not with pain or fear, but with a fierce, unyielding determination. There was a fire in her that made even Lucius’s soul tremble.

"A trap!" The thought flashed through his mind, but it was too late.

Freya’s shoulder muscles tensed, and she gripped the embedded sword with her raw, bloody left palm. She locked it in place, trapping it in her flesh.

At the same time, the runes on her demonic mace flared to life. It blazed like a shooting star from the abyss, the trapped demonic souls within it howling in rage as their power surged.

"DIE!" Freya roared, her voice shaking the arena as she swung the mace with all her might.

The weapon exploded against Lucius’s chest, releasing its full power in a single, devastating burst.

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