Disaster-Level Player Is Too Good at Broadcasting

"Hahahaha! Ho-ho! Look at their faces!"

Gunnar's laughter was a physical force, a deep, rhythmic booming that seemed to vibrate the sapphire-blue leaves of the World Tree above them. He reached for the iron buckles at his shoulders, his fingers thick and scarred, and began to unfasten the heavy plates of his upper armor. With a grunt of exertion, he shrugged off the bear-fur-lined mantle and the runic steel breastplate, letting them hit the glowing root-floor with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the silence of the second layer.

He stood there, bare-chested in the freezing, ozone-heavy air of the Abyss. His skin was a tapestry of history—tattoos of serpents and knotwork twining around jagged scars from blades, claws, and things far worse. Steam rose from his shoulders, his internal mana burning white-hot as he looked back at the stunned expedition.

"I said," Gunnar bellowed, his voice switching from English to a gutteral, booming German for those who hadn't caught his drift, before settling back into a loud, clear English for the benefit of the Korean and Russian porters, "that if I am the one to lay these beauties low—if my iron is the one to prove their strength wanting—then I claim the right of the conqueror! I ask for their hands in marriage! Every single one of them!"

The warrior women didn't flinch. Their eyes, cold and sharp as shards of flint, remained fixed on him. They didn't speak, but the air around them began to ripple. The woman integrated into the tree—the blue-haired prisoner—opened her eyes. They were solid orbs of sapphire light.

A silent command was given.

The First Exchange: Raw Weight

The lead warrior woman, a titan with skin the color of burnished copper and hair braided with obsidian rings, didn't roar. She didn't announce her presence. She simply moved.

She covered the ten meters between them in a single, explosive burst of speed that defied her massive frame. Her weapon, a jagged claymore forged from a dark, iridescent metal, whistled through the air in a horizontal arc designed to bisect Gunnar at the waist.

Gunnar didn't retreat. He didn't even shift his feet. He brought his double-sided axe up in a vertical block, the white-and-gold blades catching the claymore's edge.

CLANG—!!!

The shockwave of the impact blew the dust off the surrounding roots in a perfect circle. The sheer weight behind the woman's swing was enough to buckle the ground beneath Gunnar's boots, yet he stood firm, his biceps bulging like coiled serpents.

"Strong!" Gunnar grunted, a manic grin splitting his beard. "By the gods, your wrists are like iron pillars!"

He twisted the axe, using the leverage of the double blades to bind her claymore, and then shoved. It was a test of raw, unadulterated strength. The woman's boots slid back an inch, her muscles corded and straining, her breath huffing out in a white plume of frost.

Before Gunnar could capitalize, two more warriors flanked him. One swung a flail with a head the size of a boulder; the other lunged with a spear tipped in blue mana.

Gunnar threw his weight backward, the axe spinning in his hands like a propeller.

THWACK. CRACK.

The axe-head deflected the flail, sending the massive spiked ball crashing into a nearby root, while the blunt end of the shaft caught the spear-tip, redirecting it into the dirt.

"Good! Flawless!" Gunnar laughed, ducking a follow-up strike from the claymore-wielder. "You move like a single organism! Like a wolf pack in the depths of the Fimbulwinter!"

The Dance of the Iron Maidens

The coordination of the warrior women was unlike anything the players had seen on the first floor. The angels had been chaotic, driven by instinct and holy rage. These women were soldiers.

They formed a semi-circle around Gunnar, rotating with a rhythmic, calculated grace. One would strike, forcing Gunnar to block or parry, and the moment his momentum was committed, another would strike from his blind spot.

A warrior with a massive war-hammer leaped into the air. She didn't just fall; she brought the weapon down with the gravitational force of a falling star. Gunnar caught the handle of his axe with both hands, held horizontally above his head.

BOOM.

Gunnar's knees hit the root-floor. The impact was so great that the blue glow of the roots flickered and died in the immediate area. Blood sprayed from Gunnar's nose from the sheer internal pressure of the block.

"Yes! Break my bones!" Gunnar shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of pain and exhilaration. "Show me the weight of your resolve!"

He surged upward, using the momentum of the hammer's recoil to drive his shoulder into the woman's midsection. It was like hitting a wall of solid granite. She didn't fly back; she merely staggered, her hands already reaching for a dagger at her thigh.

Gunnar spun, his axe a blur of white and gold. He wasn't using lightning. He wasn't using magic. He was using the centrifugal force of his own massive body to keep them at bay.

The woman with the obsidian braids reappeared, her claymore descending in a vertical chop. Gunnar met it mid-air. The blades ground against each other, throwing off sparks that looked like miniature suns.

> Combat Log: 2nd Floor Sinkhole

> * Gunnar Volkov: Vitality at 82%. Stamina consumption: High.

> * Opponents: 12 Elite Abyss Wardens. Coordination Rating: SSS.

> * Status: Gunnar is refusing to activate Constellation Stigmas. Pure physical engagement.

>

The fight moved with a brutal, heavy cadence. Every swing of Gunnar's axe displaced gallons of air, creating localized windstorms that whipped the blue leaves of the World Tree into a frenzy. The warrior women countered with a flawless defense. They used their heavy shields not just to block, but to batter.

One warrior caught Gunnar's axe-head in the notch of her heater shield. She twisted, pinning the weapon for a split second. In that window, three other warriors converged.

A spear grazed Gunnar's ribs, opening a shallow but long furrow that immediately began to steam. A mace slammed into his shoulder blade, the sound of the impact echoing like a hammer on an anvil. A heavy boot caught him in the side of the head, sending him reeling.

The Toll of the Abyss

Gunnar stumbled, his boots splashing in the shallow, glowing puddles of mana-water that pooled between the roots. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood into his blonde beard. He was breathing hard now, his chest heaving, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat and gore.

"You... you are magnificent!" Gunnar wheezed, leaning on the shaft of his axe.

The twelve warriors didn't pause for his commendation. They moved in perfect unison, their heavy weapons raised for a synchronized execution. They weren't tired. They weren't sweating. They were the eternal guardians of the Blue Tree, and they saw only a man who needed to be broken.

The claymore-wielder led the final charge. She didn't swing; she threw her entire body weight into a shield-bash that sent Gunnar flying backward.

He hit the trunk of the World Tree with a sickening thud.

Before he could recover, the warrior with the war-hammer was on him. She swung with a side-long blow that caught Gunnar in the ribs.

CRACK.

The sound of snapping bone was audible even to the porters at the back of the room. Gunnar was lifted off the ground, skidding across the roots for several meters before coming to a halt.

He tried to stand, his fingers clawing at the blue moss.

The warriors surrounded him, their weapons pointed at his throat. The copper-skinned leader stepped forward, her claymore resting on her shoulder, her eyes showing a flicker of something—perhaps respect, perhaps pity.

Gunnar coughed, a thick glob of blood hitting the roots. He slowly pushed himself up, his arms shaking, until he was kneeling on one knee. He used his axe as a crutch, his head hanging low, his long hair matted with sweat and dirt.

He started to laugh. It was a low, bubbling sound at first, building into a jagged, joyous roar.

"Ho-ho... ha... haha!"

He looked up. His face was a mess—one eye was swollen shut, his lip was split, and blood was running down his chest from half a dozen wounds. But the electric blue light in his remaining eye was brighter than ever.

"Coordination... ten out of ten!" Gunnar choked out, grinning through the blood. "Strength... beyond any mortal woman I've ever wrestled! You are... truly... the brides of Valhalla!"

He gripped the handle of his axe, his knuckles turning white.

"But a marriage... requires a spark, doesn't it?"

The Spark of the Aesir

The air in the chamber suddenly went still. The low hum of the blue leaves vanished, replaced by a high-pitched, vibrating whine that made the rankers' teeth ache.

Gunnar's body began to twitch.

Suddenly, a jagged bolt of yellow-black lightning erupted from his chest, arcing through the air and striking the roots around him. It wasn't the clean, golden light of the first floor. This was something darker, more primal—the lightning of a storm that had existed before the world was named.

The yellow-black energy swirled around him, forming a violent, crackling shroud. It hissed against his wounds, cauterizing them with a smell of ozone and burning meat. The double-sided axe in his hand began to vibrate so violently that the runes on the blades started to bleed black liquid.

The warrior women stepped back, their weapons raised, their eyes widening as the temperature in the room plummeted.

Gunnar stood up. He didn't just rise; he uncoiled like a spring made of thunder. The lightning jumped from his skin to the axe, coating the white-and-gold blades in a flickering, chaotic aura of destructive power.

He looked at the copper-skinned leader, his split lip curling into a terrifying, blood-stained smirk. The yellow-black bolts danced across his teeth.

"Now," Gunnar growled, his voice layered with the sound of a thousand mountain-crushing storms. "This is starting to get fun."