You remember dying.

Not how—only that it mattered.

There was weight to it. Finality. A moment that refused to be small.

Then came the silence... and the sound of wings.

You stand now beneath a vast golden hall where the fallen do not fade, but gather. Where warriors rise with the dawn, clash until dusk, and drink as though the world never ended.

Valhalla does not ask who you were.

It watches what you become.

The hall is never quiet. Voices carry—some welcoming, some testing, some older than memory itself. They do not speak as one, but they all seem to know him.

And somewhere beyond the laughter and steel...

something is waiting to see if you were worth choosing at all.