The Royal Dining Hall of Valaskjalf was not merely a room; it was a cathedral of excess, a soaring expanse where the very air tasted of roasted meats and mead. While the legends spoke of golden tables, the reality was far more breathtaking. The ceiling was a vast, enchanted dome of obsidian that didn't just depict the stars, it was the stars, a living map of the cosmos that shifted in real-time to reflect the positions of the Nine Realms.
The columns supporting this celestial canopy were spiraling monoliths and Instead of simple torches, floating orbs of captured solar fire drifted lazily near the rafters, bathing the long, heavy tables of carved ironwood in a glow that made the silver platters shimmer like fallen moons.
Tonight, the usual stoic atmosphere of the palace was replaced by the boisterous, earthy energy of the Vanirs. The guests from Vanaheim, they laughed alongside the golden-armored Einherjar.
At the head of the central table, Thor sat with a mountain of boar ribs before him, though for once, his legendary appetite seemed secondary to his duties as a host. He roared with laughter at a joke made by a Vanir commander, his booming voice cutting through the clatter of silverware.
Despite the revelry, the weight of their mysterious "guest" in the healing chambers hung over the royal family. Thor had been adamant about the boy's protection, but he was equally firm about his friends enjoying the fruits of their victory.
"Lady Sif," Thor said, turning to his companion as she reached for a flagon of ale. "I saw that look you cast toward the door. You are thinking of the healing chambers again."
Sif tightened her grip on her cup, her expression turning stern. "He is an unknown variable, Thor. Powerful enough to draw the gaze of the Allfather and the ire of a god-beast according to Heimdal. He should not be left with only the healers."
"And he isn't," Thor countered, before he'd left to join the feast, ten of the palace's most elite guards warriors who had survived the siege of Jotunheim marched to fill in for him and watch over Gojo. "Ten of Asgard's finest now stand watch over his slumber. Their spears are sharp and their resolve is iron."
Sif began to rise. "Still, I could volunteer to take the first watch. I have no need for—"
"No," Thor interrupted, his hand landing gently but firmly on her shoulder, a playful glint in his blue eyes. "I will not have it said that the Prince of Asgard allowed his greatest warrior to miss a victory feast because of a sleeping boy. Sit. Eat. If the lad wakes up and decides to tear the palace down, the guards will blow the horn, and we shall deal with it then. Of course that would never happen, I assure you."
"Fine. But if he wakes up and escapes because your guards were distracted by the scent of the kitchens, I shall hold you personally responsible."
Thor chuckled, raising his horn high. "I would expect nothing less! To victory, and to the strength to endure the hangovers of tomorrow!"
The golden plates were piled high and the mead flowed like the Great River, but at the high table of the Aesir, the atmosphere was far more nuanced than the raucous cheering in the lower pits.
Thor had claimed his customary position at the head of the secondary table, acting as the bridge between the royal dais and the celebrating warriors. To any casual observer, he was the picture of a victorious prince, boisterous, beaming, and hearty. But from the elevated seats of the royal family, Odin looked down with his one keen eye, piercing through the layers of his son's bravado. He saw the way Thor's smile didn't quite reach his eyes and the way he stared a second too long at the empty space beside him.
Frigga, sensing the same disturbance in the air, glided down from the dais. She moved with a silent grace, leaning over Thor's shoulder.
"What is the matter, my dear?" she asked.
Thor blinked, looking up at his mother with a quick, reflexive grin. "Nothing at all, Mother! The feast is magnificent, the Vanir are pleased, and the ale is cold. What could be wrong?"
Frigga didn't move. She simply leveled him with the look, that unerring gaze of a mother who has watched her child grow from a babe to adulthood and knows every flicker of his spirit.
"I have nurtured you since before you even knew how to think, my boy," she said gently, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from his forehead. "I know when your mind is unsettled. Speak it."
Thor's shoulders slumped just a fraction. He looked down at the table, tracing the wood grain with a calloused finger. "I wish he were here," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
Frigga nodded slowly, her heart aching for the rift in her family. "Your brother."
"Yeah," Thor sighed. "If it weren't for that stubborn, twisted mind of his, he wouldn't be locked away in the dungeons. He should be here, celebrating the defense of the realms. He should be at my side."
Frigga's expression softened, though a shadow of regal sternness remained. "Loki chooses his own path, Thor, even when it leads into the dark. We can only hope the light finds him again."
Thor looked away, but Frigga wasn't finished. She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she read the deeper currents of his soul.
"And yet," she whispered, "I sense that is not all that bothers you, my son. There is a new shadow. A curiosity mixed with... apprehension?"
Thor gave a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Nothing escapes you, does it, Mother?"
Frigga smiled, a knowing, elegant curve of her lips. "I see with more than just eyes, Thor. Just like your father, I feel the shifting of the winds long before the storm arrives."
Thor glanced toward the high throne, meeting the steady, judging gaze of Odin for a brief second before turning back to Frigga. "Oh, I am well aware of that," he said,
Across the table, Lady Sif was maintaining a kind of diplomatic silence that suggested she was exerting every ounce of her warrior's discipline not to comment on Volstagg's table manners. Because of her heightened focus, she caught the low murmur of conversation between the Queen and the Prince. She heard Frigga mention the girl on Earth, and she heard the specific, lingering way Thor breathed the name "Jane."
Sif's gaze flickered to the mother and son for a heartbeat, a shadow of something unreadable passing over her eyes, before she turned her attention back to the Vanir delegates. The visitors were eating with such meticulous etiquette that it was clear they were terrified of offending the Allfather; they used their utensils as if they were handling delicate relics.
The Warriors Three, however, showed no such restraint. Fandral was openly grinning, charming a pair of Vanir maidens with a story that likely grew more exaggerated with every cup of wine. Hogun sat beside him, slowly shaking his head with fond exasperation. And then there was Volstagg.
The Lion of Asgard was methodically working his way through what appeared to be his third helping of a spit-roasted Midgardian Bison, seasoned with the rare salts of the Muspelheim borders. He tackled the meat with the focused attention of a man who took his palate as seriously as his axe.
"The spices are perfectly balanced," Volstagg observed between massive, appreciative bites. His voice, usually a thunderous boom, carried the thoughtful, hushed tone of a true connoisseur.
He waved a grease-slicked rib for emphasis. "The sear provides a magnificent degree of flavor to the juiciness of the fat without disturbing the texture of the meat itself. It all bursts upon the tongue at once! The wild ginger adds a necessary warmth and complexity, and the..."
He paused, his eyes fluttering shut as he chewed, his expression growing almost reverent. He swallowed with a satisfied sigh.
"The star-anise and smoked cloves... They are inspired. A stroke of culinary genius!"
A few of the Vanir looked on in a mix of horror and fascination as Volstagg reached for a fresh loaf of crusty bread to sop up the juices.
"I shall be sure to pass your compliments along to the Royal Chef," Frigga said, her voice drifting over as she stepped back toward the high table. She wore the kind of smile that suggested she was genuinely pleased by the praise, despite the mess being made. "She has been experimenting with that particular combination of Muspelheim spices and Asgardian game for weeks. It seems her efforts were not in vain."
Volstagg gave a muffled roar of approval, his face already buried in a flagon of ale to wash down the feast.
As Frigga ascended the dais to rejoin Odin, the festive atmosphere was punctured by the heavy, rhythmic clanging of armored boots. A guard burst into the hall, his chest heaving, and skidded to a halt before the royal table. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head in a frantic apology for the interruption.
Odin's lone eye narrowed, but he offered a dismissive wave of his hand, granting the man leave to speak.
"Speak," Thor commanded, half-rising from his seat, his curiosity already piqued.
"The boy, Your Grace," the guard panted, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the hall. "The boy has awoken."
"Finally!" Thor bellowed, a wide, eager grin breaking across his face. Without waiting for a formal dismissal, he turned and followed the guard out of the hall in a blur of crimson and silver.
Odin watched him go, then leaned toward Frigga. "The storm has opened its eyes," he murmured. "Let us see if the world can withstand its gaze."
———-
In the quiet space of the healing chamber, Gojo sat upright on the stone platform. His gaze was absent, fixed on a point in space that didn't exist to anyone else.
'This is... different.'
Before, his vision had been a masterpiece of biological engineering, reincarnated with the clarity of a Kryptonian. But now? With the original Six Eyes fully restored and "completed" by Ethan's touch, the world didn't just look clear; it looked like a decoded manuscript of the Divine.
He wasn't just seeing; he was calculating. His mind automatically processed the ambient energy of the room, breaking it down into raw data:
He could see the atomic friction of the air molecules, the golden ley lines of Asgardian sorcery woven into the very walls, and the slow, rhythmic pulse of the soul-fire keeping the other patients alive. Of course with his energy vision he could see it all just as easy but not with this level of precision. The efficiency was staggering.
Then, he looked deeper. He saw himself. He saw the humongous, swirling vortex of his own power, now vibrating at a frequency he hadn't known was possible.
But his attention was quickly diverted. Huge, blinding energy signatures were moving throughout the palace. One, in particular, was heading straight for his door, surging with the high-voltage crackle of a living thunderstorm. Yet, even that paled in comparison to a signature further away, a presence that felt like a localized black hole, a sun wrapped in armor that shone so brightly Gojo had to look away after a millisecond to avoid a cognitive overload.
The door to the chamber flew open.
Gojo didn't flinch. In an instant, he adjusted the intensity of his perception, "switching" the filters of his Six Eyes with a mental flick, a feat the original Gojo Satoru could never achieve without the dampening of his blindfold. He didn't need the cloth like the original Gojo; he was the master of the flood, not its victim.
The blue brilliance in his eyes dimmed just enough to focus on the massive, caped figure stepping into the room.
Gojo tilted his head, a familiar smile settled on his face.
"Well," Gojo drawled, his voice smooth despite his long sleep. "Hello, Point Break."