Unknownfate
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Chapter 122.5*
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 00:09:21 +0000 UTC*(This chapter isn’t part of the main story; it's just a fun little thing I wanted to write. Because Mjolnir is pretty crazy in some aspects, even if, as a godly weapon, it's hardly even close to the level of Rhongomyniad.)
The line stretched out across the plaza, a slow-moving serpent of ambition and desperation, coiling its way around the statue of the Young King. At the base of the pedestal, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun, Mjolnir gleamed like a fallen star — a promise of godhood for the worthy.
Faron flexed his fingers as he watched the hammer, his pulse a slow, heavy thrum in his ears. He had been waiting for hours, inching forward with each failed attempt, each hopeful fool who laid hands on the relic only to stagger back, disappointed and shaken.
Most of them had no chance. Office workers, wannabe heroes, muscle-bound gym rats who thought worthiness was a measure of bicep size. Fools, all of them.
But Faron… he had an edge.
He reached up, tugging the sleeve of his worn leather jacket a little higher. His fingers tingled with the familiar thrum of his power — a mutant gift that had ruined his childhood, shattered his faith in the arcane, and marked him as a freak even among mages.
Anti-Magic.
Anything enchanted, cursed, or divine that he touched was reduced to its base elements. It wasn’t just dispelling, it was absolute negation. A perfect severance of magic from reality.
It had made him feared among his kind. Hated. Hunted.
But now, it would make him godlike.
Finally, it was his turn. He stepped forward, ignoring the side-glances from the knights in their polished armor. He felt their eyes on him, their whispered judgments, the unease of seeing a mage without a hint of reverence in his stride.
Mjolnir loomed before him, its runes pulsing gently, a heartbeat in cold metal. Faron reached out, his fingers trembling — not with fear, but anticipation.
Break the magic, become a god.
His hand closed around the leather-wrapped handle.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The air around him felt thicker, heavier. He felt the enchantment resisting him, like the dying gasps of a thing that had never known weakness, fighting against his touch.
Then, with a crackle of invisible force, he felt the enchantment shatter — like glass against stone, like a scream cut short.
The runes flickered and died. The ancient magic that held Mjolnir together for millennia failed; the forces holding it together simply vanished.
Faron grinned.
Then, he realized his mistake.
The weight hit him like a mountain.
His legs buckled. His spine compressed. His knees struck the stone, the impact sending a shockwave of pain up his legs. His fingers were still wrapped around the handle, but they were crushed against the leather, fused to the weapon by the sheer, unrelenting mass.
He tried to let go, to wrench his hand free, but the gravity well that had formed around Mjolnir’s true mass pinned him to the ground. The stone beneath his knees fractured, cracks spreading out like the legs of a spider, and the plaza around him trembled.
The air grew dense, warped, compressed by the gravitational pull of the hammer. The light around him bent, twisting his shadow into impossible shapes, and the faces of the knights who rushed forward to save him seemed to stretch and distort as they crossed into the field.
Faron’s ribs snapped, one by one, as his chest caved in. Blood filled his throat, his mouth, his eyes. His vision tunneled, the world a dark, red blur around the edges.
The moment Faron’s lungs collapsed, his body folding like wet paper under the hammer’s sudden, unrestrained weight, the plaza around him began to change.
The cracks in the stone didn’t just spread — they cascaded, ripping outward in a jagged spiral from the point where Faron knelt. Stone tiles buckled and splintered, entire slabs lifting as the mass of Mjolnir dragged the earth beneath it into a crushing sinkhole. The impact craters spread like the legs of a dying spider, splitting benches, shearing metal railings, and cracking the ancient foundations beneath the city square.
The air itself groaned — a low, subsonic thrumming that vibrated the bones of everyone within fifty meters, shaking their teeth loose, rattling the stone buildings, and shattering every nearby window into a spray of glittering, airborne glass.
Several of the knights stumbled back, their armor plates clanging as they staggered away from the unfathomable pressure now radiating from the hammer.
The tourists, many still clutching their phones, felt their bodies stretch as if caught in a slow, invisible blender. Limbs grew long, bones crackled like dry wood, and screams turned to gurgles as the intense gravity began to compress their lungs, their spines, their skulls.
The light twisted, bending in impossible arcs around Mjolnir, creating a sphere of warped space that twisted reflections and cast shadows that stretched far too long, some even curling backwards toward the hammer itself. The sun above seemed to flicker, as if fighting against the gravity well to reach the ground.
fountain, its water arcing gracefully just moments before, now froze mid-spray, the droplets pulled violently into a jagged curve as the gravitational pull redirected them. Stone statues surrounding the square began to tilt, some even toppling over, their ancient forms cracking under the uneven pull.
Someone screamed — a high, keening wail that ended in a wet crunch as the man’s ribs imploded, his body folding inward like a poorly made paper airplane. His bones snapped like dry twigs, blood exploding from his nose and ears as his internal organs were flattened against his spine.
And still, the weight grew.
Cameras, metal signs, and even the iron gates of a nearby courtyard tore free from their mounts, the iron bars bending and twisting as they hurtled toward Mjolnir, clanging together in a twisted, scrap metal wreath that clung to the hammer like the rings of a dying star.
The very air around the hammer had taken on a visible distortion, a thickening, as if reality itself were warping under the strain.
The marble statue of the Young King, once proud and unyielding, cracked at the base, its stone feet sheared clean off as the hammer’s gravity dragged it forward, pulling the monument into the growing crater like a sacrificial offering.
The ground quaked, and deep beneath the plaza, ancient sewer pipes burst, sending geysers of water and sewage shooting into the air before being dragged back down into the pit. Gas lines snapped, and the smell of natural gas filled the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood and the sharp bite of crushed stone.
Far above, the clouds began to spiral, slowly at first, then with increasing fury, forming a swirling vortex that centered on the plaza, the wind howling as it was pulled into the widening gravity well.
And at the center of it all, Faron’s shattered form trembled against the stone, the last whispers of his life fleeing his broken lungs, his wide eyes bleeding as they bulged from their sockets, crushed by the unrelenting force.
Mjolnir, once a symbol of godly might, now stood as a monument to the arrogance of a man who believed he could break the divine.
(End of story!)
When doing some research on Mjolnir, I learned what the weight of it would do… I mean it’s just a hair’s breadth from being dense enough to form a black hole… You wouldn’t want to be around that.
Ever since hearing that, I wanted it. But I could hardly make it a real chapter, so this little story came to be, a “what if” kind of deal.
Comments
Xgodlikestevenx 531
Ngl I forgot the hammer is sentient cause of a comic storm or whatever it has inside of it in the comics
Biazar Lockhart
While a majority of God's are fucking dicks, this guy literally tried challenging their shit without even qualifying as a God slayer or having Nega-Divinity and while it's just a hammer it's still a divine construct that got extremely pissed and punished everyone for his stupidity
