The rush of heat in his heart ends, and all that is left is a sense of dull fatigue. He pulls, and finds the spear stuck in his opponent’s body. He fumbles awkwardly. His opponent reaches up to help him, pushing on the shaft with their hands, but it’s not easy. Solomon has to brace himself, pushing with his foot on their stomach before it finally comes free. Even then, he ends up falling to the ground in an undignified heap.

“Are you good?”

Solomon asks awkwardly, as his erstwhile opponent stumbles off. They give him a thumbs-up, and he sighs, before he looks at the two remaining opponents, trying to look as confident as possible.

“Do you guys want to have a go or…”

They look at their friend walking away with a hole in their stomach, and in a display of wisdom, decline. The young man sighs with relief as he gets up. He’s just in time to watch Harald finally defeat the slinger, his axe thunk-ing home into his enemy’s head, off in the distance.

“Harald, what was that?”

He’d just defeated a warrior who must have been training for… centuries, now, in Valhalla, and he’d never even held a spear before. His body was screaming things at him which, on reflection, sounded a bit like the crazed ramblings of a madman who’d snorted PCP and inhaled the ash of a heroic epic for the high.

The older man laughs as he claps Solomon on the back, taking him along the trail, the remaining warriors giving them a wide berth.

“The Greeks called it Arete, the Polynesians called it Mana. Us Norsemen just referred to it as Heroism. It’s that peculiar quality that turns a man into a legend.”

“That’s very unhelpful,” Solomon scowls.

“To use more modern terms, you’re… what do they call it these days… ‘built different’, you see.”

He chokes.

“A ‘chad’, if you will.”

He’s wheezing. Harald doesn’t seem to notice the young man’s predicament, because he continues on explaining in his own long-winded way.

“It’s tough to explain beyond that. I’m no storyteller. I was a warrior-king, when I had to get fancy with words it was all about delivering pithy insults. It’s this force that runs in things that get told about in myth and legend. Monsters, gods, heroes, magic artifacts, they all have it. You remember me breaking weapons on my skin, yes?”

Solomon nods his head, raising an eyebrow as he starts to see where this is going.

“That was my Heroism being expressed. No iron can wound me! It wasn’t just me being ‘swole’, haha.”

He resists the urge to beg the man never to use modern slang again.

“Odin himself had to hit me over the head with a club when it came to my turn to die in battle, y’know! You… Hm, I don’t take you for a life-long warrior who gained a name as a great hero.”

“No,” Solomon admitted quietly, “I was a student.”

“You look the type. All weedy. You should eat more, get some meat on those bones.”

Harald prattles on a bit, and Solomon increasingly feels like he’s talking with his grandmother. Time to change the subject.

“So, Heroism?”

“Ah, right, where was I… Heroism can express itself like that, yeah, big ol’ bursts of martial skill and power. For your first time using it you did damn well. As for where y’got it from… if I had to guess, you’d be a demigod… They tend to inherit a bunch.”

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Solomon flashes back, thinking of his family. Of his parents. Fond childhood memories flash in front of his eyes, and then he shakes his head firmly. No way.

“No? Eh. No doubt the Gods know the exact reason why. It’d explain why they’d be fightin’ over ye.”

The thought of being a toy in their grasp rankles him and he can feel the song start up again. Then he clamps down on it, taking a series of deep breaths.

“A young man like you doesn’t come along very often these days! Last time I remember someone like you popping up, Ukko and Thor had a great big spat... Ah, now we’re here… Hm.”

The trail they had traveled along had led through a lightly wooded forest, and here it stopped in front of a large rectangular monolith. It looked as though it had been embedded into the ground with a single mighty blow, large cracks stretching through the ground around the base. The runes upon the stone glowed a bright blue, and Harald seems to inspect it quietly. The hairs on the back of Solomon’s neck stand to attention.

Something was wrong.

“Valhalla’s big but not that big. There should be people comin’ out of here… Ah, to hell with it, it looks to be working anyhow.”

He’s about to protest. The words are just about to escape his mouth in a concerned outburst, when the old hero grabs Solomon’s shoulder and slaps a palm against the Waystone. Then, all becomes a blinding white.

Somehow, Solomon knows to duck the moment he arrives, as the something smashes into the wall above his head. It doesn’t save him, the body of a fully armored knight bouncing off the wall and falling onto his shoulders, knocking Solomon to the floor. He scrambles to his feet a bit afterwards, his back smarting, and sees… more bodies, draped over the benches and tables of the large feast-hall they find themselves in. All unconscious.

There, on the other side of the room, are two men, lounging on chairs across from each other as they drink. No. Not… just men. The moment Solomon sees the regalia on one of the figures, their furry face, and the signature staff he keeps by his side, he freezes. He can’t even think of fighting.

Because that was the Monkey King, Sun Wukong.

Harald doesn’t seem to recognize him. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way, he happily waves at the pair, as if he was meeting an old friend. The Monkey King looks over, and smirks.

“Hey, did you hear about how Thor died of Ligma?”

The old hero looks confused, stroking his beard as he begins to say the ensuing dreadful words. Time slows to a crawl, and Solomon finally moves.

“What’s-”

He finds a hand clamping over his mouth, as Solomon answers for him. He refused to let Harald fall into a trap this obvious. There’s a moment of silence, and Solomon decides to run with it. If they wanted to get through here, they’d have to play the Monkey King’s game.

“I thought it was Joe?”

Wukong raises an eyebrow as he takes another swig.

“Joe?”

“Joe mama.”

The Monkey King chuckles, slamming his mug of mead onto the table.

“Ah, a modern kid, huh? You’d be surprised how many people here just don’t get it. It’s a good place for drinks but man,” He gestures around the heaps of unconscious Einharjar, “it’s not a great place to find people who get your jokes.”

The other man speaks up, and Solomon finally drags his attention away from the terrifying being in front of him to notice them. He’s rather short, really, his wiry frame muscled and tattooed in patterns that he… thinks is Polynesian. He was no expert.

“I mean what did you expect, Sunny? They do nothing but fight up here. Why did you even bother challenging them to ‘Get the Joke or get Bonked’ anyhow?”

Sunny snorts.

“What, not like those guys had much of a chance in the next fight anyway, with that big lunk keeping the bridge.”

“With who keeping the bridge?”

The shorter man brings out a length of string, something small and ivory attached to the end. He idly throws one end up, and the… fishhook? Yes, a fishhook. It digs into a section of the feast hall's walls, and then the man pulls. It’s not a particularly strenuous motion, Solomon can see him barely exerting himself from where he lounges in the hall.

But still, the walls shake. The wood starts to splinter. Solomon’s breath is caught in his throat as he can only stare. The entire wall is torn away, forming an impromptu window. Beyond the gap is a great stone bridge, leading off towards a Waystone on an island far in the distance. And in front of the bridge is an obstacle that makes Solomon suspect his quest with Harald is doomed.

It is a giant, standing taller than a house. He is clad in nothing but a pair of trousers, with muscles that look like they can replicate Harald’s own durability by sheer hardness alone. From his shoulders emerge eight arms, each pair being assigned to a different massive greatsword. His face is craggy and scarred, his hair done up in dreadlocks. The monster of a man has the absolute audacity to spot Harald and Solomon beyond the gap in the wall, and make a gesture with one of his many hands.

Even across centuries, some gestures remained universal.

Come at me, the giant dares, and Solomon’s earlier defiance and fury suddenly seems very distant.