Chapter 46 — I Bet Your Gun Has No Bullets
"Let's make a bet, Walton…"
The moment those words left Odin's mouth—calm, measured—Walton's instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
No… not wrong.
Different.
The world changed.
Time seemed to stall in mid-breath.
His sword was raised high, yet it sank into something thick and invisible—like amber, like tar—stuck there, refusing to fall.
The trees that had been swaying moments ago… faded.
The cold moonlight… blurred.
Gods Eye… washed away into nothing.
Even behind him—the tense breathing of the Hound, Arya's presence—
All of it drained out of reality, peeling away as if the world itself were being stripped layer by layer.
Until there was nothing left.
Nothing—
Except him, and Odin.
"W-What… what the hell is this…?"
Walton forced the words out, but his chest seized with an unfamiliar dread.
It felt as though he had stepped before something vast and indescribable—
A presence too great to be looked at directly.
"Let's make a bet, Walton."
Odin spoke again.
His voice echoed in the void.
There was no light source.
And yet the gold dragon in his hand glowed—quietly, brilliantly—so bright that Walton couldn't tear his eyes away.
"I know you're the finest warrior in the Dreadfort."
"Your sword has drunk the blood of countless men. It has severed more heads than you can remember."
"And because of that…"
Odin's expression shifted.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
A faint smile—sharp as a blade.
"You trust your sword completely."
"But—"
His tone turned, suddenly edged with amusement.
"Just now… before you swung…"
"I already cut your sword in half."
"In other words—"
Odin's eyes glinted.
"What you're gripping right now… is nothing more than a pitiful broken blade."
Walton's heart thudded violently.
He reflexively looked down at his hands—
The sword was flawless.
Polished steel, cold shine.
Perfectly intact.
"You… you're spouting bullshit!"
Walton roared, forcing his voice to sound fierce—
But the fierceness didn't reach his eyes.
Not anymore.
It leaked out.
Hollow.
Unsteady.
"Don't believe me?" Odin said softly.
He smiled wider now, that grin made strange and uncanny by the gold dragon's glow.
"Then let's bet."
"The stake…"
He raised the coin slightly.
"…is this one gold dragon."
With a flick of his finger, he tossed it up.
The coin spun through the air, flashing like a tiny sun in that endless darkness.
"I bet that your blade…"
"…cannot take my head."
At the instant the words settled—
Walton saw the coin's light flare.
Not brighter.
Not warmer.
Sharper.
And suddenly he felt it.
As if some unseen contract had been opened.
As if some divine document had been laid before him.
And without his permission—
His hand had already pressed down upon it.
Leaving a mark.
A seal.
A vow.
"What kind of joke is this…?"
Walton sucked in air, trying to break free of the absurdity—trying to force reality back into place.
But the pride of the Dreadfort's strongest warrior surged up like fire.
He let it flood his veins.
Let it burn away the fear.
"Don't think you can scare me with this sorcery bullshit!"
"My sword has never missed!"
"My blade will not fail!"
"RAAAH—!"
He tore through the invisible heaviness with sheer will—
And swung down at Odin's neck with everything he had.
This strike carried all his faith.
All his strength.
All the knowledge of swordsmanship carved into him through blood and war.
This was not just a swing—
It was his life.
His identity.
His absolute certainty.
He would win.
He had to win.
Because if he couldn't…
Then everything he believed about the world…
Was a lie.
However…
Yet in the face of that strike—
Odin didn't dodge.
He didn't retreat.
He didn't even raise his sword to parry.
He simply stood there, perfectly still, the same unsettling smile lingering at the corner of his mouth… as though he were watching something inevitable unfold.
And then—
CLANG!
Walton watched with his own eyes as the rapier—fine steel, a blade he trusted more than his own heartbeat—met the skin of Odin's neck—
…and—
snapped.
It didn't chip.
It didn't bend.
It didn't glance off.
It broke—cleanly, decisively—as if the world itself had declared a verdict.
The front half of the sword spun through the air in a shallow arc…
and dropped to the grass with a soft, mocking sound.
In Walton's hand…
was only a ridiculous, trembling half-blade.
Broken…
It was really—
broken.
"No…!"
In that moment, Walton's worldview collapsed.
It wasn't just steel that shattered.
Because the instant the blade snapped—
it felt as if something inside him, something that had held him upright his entire life…
also snapped.
That thing was—
his confidence.
His pride.
His identity.
He was no longer the feared "Iron-Leg" Walton.
He was nothing but—
a humiliated, broken worm.
THUD!
His knees buckled.
Walton could no longer support himself.
He dropped heavily to the ground.
The light drained from his eyes, replaced by bottomless terror and hollow confusion—as though an invisible hand had reached into him and scooped his strength out by the fistful.
Only then did Odin begin walking forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Like a judge approaching the condemned.
He reached down, calmly seized Walton by the hair, and lifted his head—
forcing the man's throat to bare itself helplessly beneath the moon.
"M… mercy…"
Dragged along by the invisible rules of the bet, Walton had already lost his will to resist. His courage had been skinned clean off.
He stared up like a lamb waiting for slaughter, lips trembling as he begged with the last scraps of his spirit.
"Please… spare me…"
"Lord Odin… please—give me one more chance…"
Odin listened.
His gaze stayed severe…
and strangely—
almost pitying.
"As I've said from the beginning, Walton…"
But when he spoke again, his voice was cold enough to freeze blood.
"In this world, women and children are allowed to make mistakes."
"Men are not."
"You made your choice."
"And that choice was betrayal."
"Then bearing the consequences of that choice…"
"…is only proper."
He raised his sword.
"I… Odin…"
he whispered, voice low, steady, as though reciting sacred law into the dark.
"In view of your crime of betrayal…"
"In the name of the House of Odin…"
"I sentence you to death."
As the final words fell—
Walton's vision swam.
Odin's face… began to blur.
To change.
That face seemed to lose its eyes—yet somehow saw everything.
To lose its mouth—yet still pronounced fate.
And slowly, impossibly—
it overlapped with a face Walton had seen since childhood…
the ancient face carved into the heart trees—
the face of the Old Gods themselves.
"So… that's… what it is…"
Walton murmured, regret finally rising within him like bile.
But it was too late.
SHHK—!
The blade slid into the side of his throat with perfect precision—
then withdrew just as quickly.
Clean.
Efficient.
Merciless.
Walton's body swayed.
The last spark in his eyes died out completely.
And he toppled forward into the grass.
When it was over, Odin straightened with composed elegance by the lakeshore.
He flicked his sword through a neat flourish—
swish!
A sharp snap of the wrist.
Warm blood droplets scattered across the ground like shaken dew.
His movement was graceful, refined—
as if he were simply brushing dust from his sleeve.
Then he turned.
Not far away—
Sandor Clegane had collapsed to the ground at some point, barely sitting upright, his weight leaning against Arya so he wouldn't fall flat.
Both of them stared at Odin as though they'd just witnessed something that wasn't meant for human eyes.
"You… what the hell are you…?"
The Hound's voice came out tangled and broken.
Then he suddenly remembered his experience with the Brotherhood Without Banners, and his expression shifted.
"You and Dondarrion… you—"
"I have nothing to do with them."
Odin cut him off immediately.
He didn't explain further.
Instead, he walked to his horse, unhooked something from the saddle, and tossed it to Arya.
She caught it on instinct.
Then her eyes widened.
"…Needle!"
Arya nearly screamed the word in pure joy.
And immediately—she looked up at Odin with raw gratitude shining in her grey eyes.
Odin watched her reaction with faint amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"I told you."
"You both owe me a favor."
"And now…"
"It seems you'll remember it forever."
Then he inclined slightly, like an actor finishing a flawless performance before an audience.
"Allow me to introduce myself."
His voice returned to its usual calm, polite rhythm.
"My name…"
"…is Odin."