Yet, of the three hundred and thirty-three warriors who began the campaign, fewer than two hundred remained battle-ready. However, instead of fortifying their position within the safety of the stone walls behind the waterfall, they marched their remaining forces out to form battle lines upon the open plains of Luna-Grad.
There was but a single reason for this tactical madness. It was the will of the God Modi.
"THUUUUNR—!"
A roar, resonant as a thunderclap, erupted from the barrel-chested deity. His golden hair whipped violently in the gale, and crimson lightning crackled incessantly around his physique, dancing across his skin as if it were a natural extension of his own lifeblood.
This was none other than Modi—the God of Madness.
Modi marched alone at the vanguard of the Dwarven host. Clutched in his right hand was a golden-hilted hammer, a weapon whose legend stretched back further than the lifespan of any mortal in Midgard.
It was named "Mj?lnir."
The sacred relic of Thor, an engine of destruction that no being had ever successfully withstood.
Watching from a distance behind that broad, divine back, Born, a commander and the grandson of Dodan, spat out a curse. "What absolute madness is this? does he truly intend to fight an entire army single-handedly?"
"Silence your tongue and witness the battle of Thor's true heir," Dodan barked, rebuking his grandson with a sharp, commanding tone.
Born gnashed his teeth and stomped the ground in frustration. Is it necessary to humiliate me without honor before the troops? he thought bitterly. Suddenly, a heavy hand patted his back gently. It was not a stranger, but Grimm, his father.
... Whish! Whish! Whish! Whish!
The silence broke as a volley of thousands of arrows shrieked through the air, converging on the mad god.
Yet, for Modi in this state, there was no need to even parry. The violent winds and arc-lightning swirling around him obliterated the hail of arrows, reducing them to useless splinters before they could graze him.
They were inconsequential—so utterly futile that they failed to slow his stride by even a fraction of a second. In the next heartbeat, Modi shifted from a menacing walk into a full, predatory charge.
The High Elven infantry did not stand idly by. They rapidly expanded their battle lines, fanning out into left and right flanks in an attempt to encircle and overwhelm the deity from all directions.
But that strategy... was futile. Utterly futile.
"KRA-KOOM!!!!"
A massive bolt of lightning struck from the heavens, the thunder so deafening it momentarily burst the eardrums of every soldier in the vicinity. What followed was a spectacle of visceral slaughter.
Mj?lnir did not merely knock the front lines down; it pulverized them. Armor buckled, and ribs shattered, protruding through flesh. The shockwave generated by the swing sent dozens of Elven bodies flying like ragdolls. Even more horrifying was the lightning that arced from one victim to the next like a living serpent, creating an endless chain reaction of death.
In the blink of an eye, the moonlit meadow was stained crimson.
Suddenly, four young warriors materialized from the chaos, wielding weapons that glowed with a soft azure radiance. This ethereal light identified the blades immediately as Mythril—the most precious and renowned ore of the High Elves.
These four moved with a grace far superior to the common infantry, gliding as if airborne. The first, wearing a fox mask, lunged from Modi's blind spot, thrusting a greatsword toward the god's exposed neck.
But those who challenge a god are destined for punishment.
Before the glowing mythril tip could touch divine skin, a bolt of "Serpent Lightning" lashed out, striking the masked warrior. He collapsed, convulsing violently on the ground. Yet, he was the lucky one—for the remaining three were about to face true cruelty.
Mj?lnir swung in a wide, devastating arc, colliding with the mythril weapon of the next warrior. The ore, the pride of Elven craftsmanship, disintegrated like the surface of a disturbed pool of water, turning into worthless dust. A split second later, the hammerhead crushed the warrior's skull into a grotesque shape, extinguishing his life instantly.
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The mad god did not stop. Momentum carried the hammer into the warrior on the left, slamming into the center of his chest. Ribs ground to powder, and internal organs liquefied under the pressure, sending the body hurtling away.
Even when Mj?lnir slipped from his grip due to the centrifugal force, Modi did not panic. He lunged at the final warrior, his hand encased in a dark metal gauntlet seizing the Elf's throat. This was no ordinary armor; it was "Járngreipr," the Iron Gripper, one of Thor's legendary treasures. With a mere fraction of his strength, Modi squeezed until the neck bones snapped with a sickening crunch, then twisted savagely until the warrior's soul was torn from the mortal coil.
Suddenly, a massive streak of golden light shot through the mist of blood and smoke, hurtling toward Modi like a falling star.
With a single twitch of Járngreipr, the fallen Mj?lnir flew back into Modi's grip. He swung it upward just in time to intercept the golden projectile.
CLANG!!
The impact caused the surrounding air to explode. The golden light solidified into its true form: a beautiful Elf of regal bearing, wielding a crescent-shaped sword that glowed with a shimmering radiance, pressing hard against the head of Mj?lnir.
"Modi... I will kill you."
The declaration might have sounded arrogant coming from anyone else, but this Elf possessed the pedigree to back it up. He was a living legend—Alfsesfern, King of the Elves. And the sword in his hand was the divine weapon of Frigg, the First Queen of Asgard. Its name was "Ljósvárr," the Blade of Moonlight.
But in this moment, Modi cared not for rank or lineage. Anyone standing before him was merely an obstacle to be annihilated.
Long ago, Magni had once said to Modi: "I may possess slightly more raw strength than you, brother. But when you succumb to madness... even I cannot hold you back."
Mj?lnir swung again. Alfsesfern's strength could not withstand the brute force of Thor's son. His body strained to hold the block for a mere second before he was knocked back, losing his footing.
The first strike missed its mark, but the second followed instantly. Modi was unstoppable.
Though Ljósvárr was a divine weapon capable of clashing with Mj?lnir without breaking, Alfsesfern himself could not endure the kinetic force that fell like a collapsing mountain. The Elven King was tossed about like a leaf in a storm. There was no opening, no chance to turn the tide.
Then... on the seventeenth swing!
The force wrenched the sword from Alfsesfern's grip, sending it spinning into the air.
Though the seventeenth strike missed the flesh, the eighteenth followed without pause. He gave the King no chance to recover.
"STOP!!" A woman's scream echoed from the Elven ranks as they watched their monarch stand unarmed before the face of death.
The death of the Elven King seemed inevitable... until a foot stepped out of the void. That single foot hooked the neck of Mj?lnir during its eighteenth swing, halting the blow with absolute precision and immovable stability.
Thud—!
Modi looked up, his eyes tracing the leg to a man with long hair, dressed in the pristine white raiment of the highest Asgardian nobility. The mad god, who held no one in his eyes, roared with a voice fueled by pure rage:
"VIDAR!!!"
The God Vidar had arrived. Often shrouded in mystery due to his silence, he was born with a pair of iron shoes—relics destined for the end of times. These were the very shoes that had once crushed the jaw of the wolf Fenrir, a beast that even Odin's spear could not slay.
BANG!!
The sound of the hammer clashing against the divine iron boot rang out. Just as Modi swung, Vidar kicked—one strike, followed immediately by a second!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!
The collision between Mj?lnir and Vidar's shoes continued with a violence that threatened to collapse the sky. Neither seemed to gain the upper hand. While Modi possessed the raw, overwhelming power of Thor's lineage, Vidar displayed a fluidity and relentless speed that was clearly superior. The duel between the two most powerful gods of the post-Ragnarok era was a stalemate of cataclysmic proportions.
Yet, amidst the duel of gods, the war below raged on.
"Move in! Slay the Elven King while he is vulnerable!" Dodan's command thundered as he sprinted forward with a hunger for absolute victory.
The surviving Dwarven warriors followed their leader desperately, their target being the unarmed and reeling King Alfsesfern.
"Let's go," Grimm said, turning to Born, who stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight of the divine clash.
Born did not move. His eyes were locked on the exchange of blows between golden light and crimson lightning. The shock of seeing someone capable of halting Modi left him in a state of profound existential confusion.
"Will Lord Modi lose?"
Born whispered the question haunting his heart. For if even the god who was their greatest hope could fall, then what place was there for small Dwarves like them in this new world?
Grimm looked at his son with a complex gaze before replying, "As for the battles of gods, a Dwarf like me has no answers for you. However... if you are the Dwarf who slays the Elven King, your name will be etched in our history forever."
Born nodded once. He shook off his confusion and sprinted forward with all his might.
The battle that day ended with the High Elven army forced to retreat to preserve the life of King Alfsesfern. Though the duel between Modi and Vidar ended without a clear victor—with Vidar eventually choosing to withdraw—the Elven losses were catastrophic. The divine sword Ljósvárr was claimed by Dodan as a trophy of war.
Consumed by the shame of nearly dying beneath Modi's shadow and the grief of losing three sons in a single day, King Alfsesfern declared he would sequester himself within the Illusion Castle in the heart of Alfheim, withdrawing from all worldly conflicts. The command of the High Elven armies was thus handed over to Queen Embla.
The banner of Clan Magnison continued to fly over Ainen-dor in the land of Alfheimr, though for how long, none could say. Nonetheless, the name of Dodan was recorded in the halls of history from that day forward—the first Dwarf from Midgard to ever humble an Elven King on the battlefield of Luna-Grad.