After a month
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 26
by
copier
· original author:
an188
A month pass, and Danny's inbox was flooded with offers—supplement companies, luxury watches, even a line of male grooming products—all begging for his endorsement. He deleted most without reading, only clicking the ones with dollar signs in the subject line. The contract with Crystal had opened floodgates, but Danny wasn't some starving influencer. He demanded five figures per post, and when a protein powder brand balked at his rate, he replied with a single line: "My body is art. You can't afford the museum." They paid double the next day.
He have enough money coming in now so he could focus more on what he call his online project. Through BaldrReborn and Fenrir’sKin, Danny cultivated his growing following with surgical precision—feeding the incel forums carefully crafted doses of self-loathing wrapped in faux empowerment, while the bodybuilding threads received tailored workouts paired with racial purity rhetoric. His inbox was flooded with progress pics from hollow-eyed young men, their ribs visible beneath newly formed muscle. He responded to each with calculated cruelty or praise, whichever would hook them deeper. He was focusing more on the white supremacists, especially the teen one among them.
Most of the white supremacists didn't like his ideas but a small group of teen under 18 thought differently. Some small group of them start appearing on online forums, praising Fenrir’sKin's philosophies, regurgitating his twisted rhetoric like gospel. They workout, try to become androgynous bodybuilders, and dream about a world where they are in control. Some of them send pictures of their transformations to Danny, begging for validation, each progress photo a sacrament in their warped religion.
But the most important project for him was Eirik Thorssen—his first true disciple. Every morning began the same: Danny sprawled naked on his leather couch, coffee steaming beside him, phone propped against his thigh as he reviewed Eirik’s latest progress photos. The boy’s collarbones jutted sharper now, his waist cinched tight as a corset despite the newfound muscle striations across his shoulders. "Good," Danny murmured, tracing the screen with a fingertip. "But your lats are uneven. Five hundred pull-ups today. Film each set." The reply came instantly—"Yes, Father."—and Danny exhaled through his nose, satisfaction pooling in his gut like warm liquor.
By week three, Eirik’s transformation drew whispers—first in the locker room, where his once-bony shoulders now cast shadows, then in the cafeteria, where girls lingered near his table just to watch the veins in his forearms pulse as he lifted his water bottle. In one of the DM to Danny showed him shirtless before a fogged mirror, one hand pinching the new thickness of his quad, the other holding his phone at the perfect angle to highlight the dangerous taper of his waist. "Father," the caption read, "they’re calling me ‘the Viking’ now." Danny zoomed in, noting the faint stretch marks across Eirik’s pecs—the boy’s skin splitting to accommodate his rapid growth, like a canvas straining under too much paint.
Danny’s responses were calculated—"Good. But your delts lag. Double the lateral raises."—punctuated by sporadic praise that hit Eirik like a drug. The boy’s replies grew frantic, littered with typos: "Tried the new routine. Felt my lats for the first time! Should I cut carbs after 6PM??" Sometimes, at 3AM Norway time, Eirik sent shaky videos of himself doing push-ups in the dim glow of his phone screen, whispering in broken Norwegian about the "weaklings" at school who flinched when he walked by. Danny saved every clip, archiving them in a folder labeled "Project Fenrir."
By mid-month, Eirik’s body had mutated—shoulders rounding into boulders, thighs splitting his jeans at the seams—yet his face retained an eerie delicacy. His latest DM showed him shirtless in a school bathroom stall, fingers tracing the new vascularity spiderwebbing across his abdomen. "Father," he wrote, "the girls touch me now. They say I’m ‘pretty’ like a statue. Should I let them?" Danny love how much does it depend on him, He smirked, imagining the boy’s confusion—how his muscles repelled and attracted in equal measure, how his Nordic cheekbones made him look both lethal and fuckable.
The white supremacist group noticed too. Eirik forwarded screenshots of their chat—"Thorssen’s turning into some f*cking Adonis"—"Bet he’s taking steroids"—"No way that’s natural." Danny traced the pixels with his thumb, savoring their jealousy like the aftertaste of expensive whiskey. He typed back: "Tell them the truth. You’re just better." Eirik obeyed instantly, posting a shirtless mirror selfie with the caption "Blood decides." The thread exploded. Danny watched the boy’s spine stiffen in real time through text—"Father, they asked if I’d fight at the rally next week."
He starts talking to him about nudism and misogyny, feeding him on them like a mother breastfeeding her baby. Misogyny in particular had a strong influence on Eirik Thorssen, merging with his xenophobia and white supremacist beliefs. Danny pushed him further into misogyny, ensuring that his hatred of women grew stronger with each passing day. Soon, Eirik Thorssen became a staunch misogynist, believing that women were inferior beings and that men like him were destined to rule the world.
Eirik Thorssen began to attract followers, other young men who were drawn to his charisma and his physique. They saw him as a leader, a role model, and they were eager to follow in his footsteps. Danny watched from the shadows, pulling the strings, manipulating Eirik into spreading his toxic ideology further. The boy was becoming a weapon, sharpened and honed by Danny's cruel guidance.
The online forums buzzed with Eirik’s latest manifesto—a screed against "weakness," thinly veiled as a bodybuilding philosophy. His followers devoured it, echoing his rhetoric in comments and private messages. Danny monitored it all, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to intervene if Eirik strayed too far from the script. The boy was a perfect disciple, his devotion unwavering, his hatred growing more potent by the day.
Yet beneath Eirik’s fervent loyalty, a new desperation crept into his messages—"Høvding, just one glimpse of you." "A voice, anything." The requests came wrapped in deference, laced with a fear of rejection. Danny smirked, letting the silence stretch between them, savoring the boy’s trembling anticipation. Power wasn’t just in control—it was in withholding.
Finally, Danny typed a single line: "You’ve seen me in every mirror that ever refused your reflection." Cryptic, poetic—enough to stoke Eirik’s mythmaking. The boy’s reply was instantaneous, a flood of Norse metaphors comparing Danny to Baldr’s radiance. Danny leaned back, fingers drumming his thigh. The kid was starved for a god. Why give him one when he could worship the idea?
Does Danny meet Eirik?
He have enough money coming in now so he could focus more on what he call his online project. Through BaldrReborn and Fenrir’sKin, Danny cultivated his growing following with surgical precision—feeding the incel forums carefully crafted doses of self-loathing wrapped in faux empowerment, while the bodybuilding threads received tailored workouts paired with racial purity rhetoric. His inbox was flooded with progress pics from hollow-eyed young men, their ribs visible beneath newly formed muscle. He responded to each with calculated cruelty or praise, whichever would hook them deeper. He was focusing more on the white supremacists, especially the teen one among them.
Most of the white supremacists didn't like his ideas but a small group of teen under 18 thought differently. Some small group of them start appearing on online forums, praising Fenrir’sKin's philosophies, regurgitating his twisted rhetoric like gospel. They workout, try to become androgynous bodybuilders, and dream about a world where they are in control. Some of them send pictures of their transformations to Danny, begging for validation, each progress photo a sacrament in their warped religion.
But the most important project for him was Eirik Thorssen—his first true disciple. Every morning began the same: Danny sprawled naked on his leather couch, coffee steaming beside him, phone propped against his thigh as he reviewed Eirik’s latest progress photos. The boy’s collarbones jutted sharper now, his waist cinched tight as a corset despite the newfound muscle striations across his shoulders. "Good," Danny murmured, tracing the screen with a fingertip. "But your lats are uneven. Five hundred pull-ups today. Film each set." The reply came instantly—"Yes, Father."—and Danny exhaled through his nose, satisfaction pooling in his gut like warm liquor.
By week three, Eirik’s transformation drew whispers—first in the locker room, where his once-bony shoulders now cast shadows, then in the cafeteria, where girls lingered near his table just to watch the veins in his forearms pulse as he lifted his water bottle. In one of the DM to Danny showed him shirtless before a fogged mirror, one hand pinching the new thickness of his quad, the other holding his phone at the perfect angle to highlight the dangerous taper of his waist. "Father," the caption read, "they’re calling me ‘the Viking’ now." Danny zoomed in, noting the faint stretch marks across Eirik’s pecs—the boy’s skin splitting to accommodate his rapid growth, like a canvas straining under too much paint.
Danny’s responses were calculated—"Good. But your delts lag. Double the lateral raises."—punctuated by sporadic praise that hit Eirik like a drug. The boy’s replies grew frantic, littered with typos: "Tried the new routine. Felt my lats for the first time! Should I cut carbs after 6PM??" Sometimes, at 3AM Norway time, Eirik sent shaky videos of himself doing push-ups in the dim glow of his phone screen, whispering in broken Norwegian about the "weaklings" at school who flinched when he walked by. Danny saved every clip, archiving them in a folder labeled "Project Fenrir."
By mid-month, Eirik’s body had mutated—shoulders rounding into boulders, thighs splitting his jeans at the seams—yet his face retained an eerie delicacy. His latest DM showed him shirtless in a school bathroom stall, fingers tracing the new vascularity spiderwebbing across his abdomen. "Father," he wrote, "the girls touch me now. They say I’m ‘pretty’ like a statue. Should I let them?" Danny love how much does it depend on him, He smirked, imagining the boy’s confusion—how his muscles repelled and attracted in equal measure, how his Nordic cheekbones made him look both lethal and fuckable.
The white supremacist group noticed too. Eirik forwarded screenshots of their chat—"Thorssen’s turning into some f*cking Adonis"—"Bet he’s taking steroids"—"No way that’s natural." Danny traced the pixels with his thumb, savoring their jealousy like the aftertaste of expensive whiskey. He typed back: "Tell them the truth. You’re just better." Eirik obeyed instantly, posting a shirtless mirror selfie with the caption "Blood decides." The thread exploded. Danny watched the boy’s spine stiffen in real time through text—"Father, they asked if I’d fight at the rally next week."
He starts talking to him about nudism and misogyny, feeding him on them like a mother breastfeeding her baby. Misogyny in particular had a strong influence on Eirik Thorssen, merging with his xenophobia and white supremacist beliefs. Danny pushed him further into misogyny, ensuring that his hatred of women grew stronger with each passing day. Soon, Eirik Thorssen became a staunch misogynist, believing that women were inferior beings and that men like him were destined to rule the world.
Eirik Thorssen began to attract followers, other young men who were drawn to his charisma and his physique. They saw him as a leader, a role model, and they were eager to follow in his footsteps. Danny watched from the shadows, pulling the strings, manipulating Eirik into spreading his toxic ideology further. The boy was becoming a weapon, sharpened and honed by Danny's cruel guidance.
The online forums buzzed with Eirik’s latest manifesto—a screed against "weakness," thinly veiled as a bodybuilding philosophy. His followers devoured it, echoing his rhetoric in comments and private messages. Danny monitored it all, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to intervene if Eirik strayed too far from the script. The boy was a perfect disciple, his devotion unwavering, his hatred growing more potent by the day.
Yet beneath Eirik’s fervent loyalty, a new desperation crept into his messages—"Høvding, just one glimpse of you." "A voice, anything." The requests came wrapped in deference, laced with a fear of rejection. Danny smirked, letting the silence stretch between them, savoring the boy’s trembling anticipation. Power wasn’t just in control—it was in withholding.
Finally, Danny typed a single line: "You’ve seen me in every mirror that ever refused your reflection." Cryptic, poetic—enough to stoke Eirik’s mythmaking. The boy’s reply was instantaneous, a flood of Norse metaphors comparing Danny to Baldr’s radiance. Danny leaned back, fingers drumming his thigh. The kid was starved for a god. Why give him one when he could worship the idea?
Does Danny meet Eirik?
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June 13
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