"Save my people? Take back my Asgard?"
The moment those words settled in her mind, Hela's eyes ignited with a feverish light. The madness that had once defined her surged back to the surface, no longer buried beneath centuries of isolation. Her entire being trembled—not from fear this time, but from something far more dangerous.
Desire.
Thousands of years ago, as the eldest daughter of Odin, she had stood at the forefront of conquest. She had led Asgard's armies across countless battlefields, crushing enemies and expanding their dominion across the Nine Realms. Every victory, every drop of blood spilled, had laid the foundation for Asgard's golden age.
Without her, there would have been no empire.
Without the goddess of death, Asgard would never have risen to the heights it claimed.
And yet, when her usefulness ended, she had been cast aside.
Odin, the so-called wise and just king, had made his choice. He could not bring himself to kill his own daughter, but neither could he tolerate what she represented. The empire no longer needed war. It needed peace, stability, and the illusion of righteousness.
So he sealed her.
Buried her in Helheim.
Erased her from history.
The truth was simple—she had outlived her value.
The hunter had become a liability.
And now, after thousands of years of silence, someone had reached into the land of death and offered her something she had long since stopped believing in.
A chance to return.
"I admire you."
Ethan Drake's voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge of approval in it. He looked down at her not as a prisoner, not as a defeated enemy, but as something useful—something powerful.
"My empire is expanding. It needs conquest. It needs revival. And it needs someone like you."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"A woman who thrives in slaughter."
The words were not an insult.
They were recognition.
"So tell me," he continued, "are you willing to submit to me?"
Silence followed.
The wind of Helheim howled across the empty land, carrying with it the distant cries of the dead. For a brief moment, the goddess of death said nothing at all. Her expression shifted, torn between pride, fury, and something far deeper.
Then she moved.
Slowly, deliberately, Hela lowered herself to her knees.
Her head bowed.
Her lips pressed against Ethan's foot in absolute submission.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her, "I am willing. I was born for slaughter. Let me become your sharpest blade."
Ethan watched her without interruption.
He did not believe in empty words.
He did not trust loyalty that came without chains.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Then the air shifted.
A surge of soul power erupted from his body, invisible yet overwhelming. It flooded into Hela's mind with brutal force, and her scream tore through Helheim as the energy carved itself into her very existence.
A brand.
A mark that could not be removed.
A bond that tied her life and death directly to his will.
Her body convulsed under the pressure, but she could not resist. The imprint sank deep, embedding itself within her consciousness, rewriting the boundaries of her existence.
From that moment on, her fate belonged to him.
Ethan withdrew his power, his expression unchanged.
"Good," he said simply. "Now go take your Asgard back."
Hela's breathing was uneven, her body still trembling from the aftermath of the soul imprint. But even through the pain, her eyes burned brighter than ever.
There was only one problem.
"Your Majesty… how do we leave?"
Her voice carried a trace of uncertainty. No matter how powerful she had once been, she had remained trapped here for thousands of years. The seal placed by Odin was absolute—at least, it had been.
Ethan chuckled softly.
"How did I get in?" he asked.
Then his gaze turned cold.
"That's how I leave."
For someone who commanded the power of space itself, the concept of a prison no longer existed. Barriers, seals, dimensions—they were all meaningless in front of him.
Before Hela could respond, he raised a hand slightly.
"But before that…"
A faint smile returned to his lips.
"There's a show about to begin. Let's watch the opening act first."
Far beyond Helheim, across the interconnected structure of the Nine Realms, a rare celestial phenomenon was unfolding.
The Nine Worlds were aligning.
Once every several thousand years, this event occurred—a perfect convergence that blurred the boundaries between dimensions. It was a moment when ancient powers could resurface, and long-forgotten forces could act.
Heimdall stood at his post, his golden eyes scanning across the realms. As the guardian of Asgard, he could see what others could not.
And what he saw filled him with dread.
Thousands of years ago, the Dark Elves had attempted to use this very alignment to unleash the Aether—the Reality Stone—and plunge all Nine Realms into eternal darkness. Their plan had been stopped, but not without cost.
Now, history was repeating itself.
The Dark Elves were awakening.
And this time, Asgard was vulnerable.
Odin remained unconscious, his strength not yet recovered. Without him, the realm's defenses were weakened.
Heimdall's grip tightened on his sword.
Could Asgard withstand what was coming?
The answer arrived sooner than he hoped.
A roar tore through the sky.
Heimdall's eyes widened as sleek, elongated warships pierced through the air above Asgard. They moved like shadows, fast and silent, but there were too many of them.
Far too many.
"Enemy attack!"
His voice thundered across the realm.
The next moment, explosions rained down from the sky.
Fire and destruction erupted across Asgard's golden city. Buildings shattered, flames spread, and the peaceful illusion of invincibility collapsed in an instant.
Above them, the sky was no longer visible.
It had been swallowed by enemy ships.
The Dark Elves had returned.
Asgardian warriors rushed to respond, their confusion quickly turning into urgency. This was supposed to be a place of eternal peace, yet now it had been invaded without warning.
The Dark Elves showed no hesitation.
After thousands of years of waiting in darkness, they attacked with ruthless aggression, striking directly at the heart of Asgard before it could fully react.
One massive sword-shaped vessel descended rapidly, slamming into the city with devastating force. From its opening, a towering figure stepped forward.
Malekith.
Queen Frigga felt her heart sink the moment she saw him. The ruler of the Dark Elves, the monarch of the dark world, had not perished as history claimed.
He had survived.
"A woman guards Asgard?" Malekith said, his voice filled with cold amusement. "Is it empty now?"
His laughter echoed across the ruined surroundings.
Once, he had been defeated so thoroughly that he lost everything—even his home. Forced into slumber, he had waited for this exact moment.
And now, he walked freely into Asgard.
Ignoring Frigga entirely, he moved forward, his senses already locked onto the presence of the Aether.
"Don't go!"
Frigga stepped forward to stop him, her magic already forming. As the wife of Odin, she was far from helpless.
But Malekith did not even bother to engage.
"Agrim," he said casually, "kill her."
The one who stepped forward was no ordinary warrior.
Agrim, the cursed warrior.
He had sacrificed everything—his identity, his future, his humanity—to undergo the transformation. His body resembled molten rock wrapped in torn flesh, and a grotesque mask covered his face. The power radiating from him was on par with the gods themselves.
The battle ended quickly.
Too quickly.
By the time Thor arrived, it was already over.
He froze in place.
Frigga lay in a pool of blood.
The cursed warrior stood over her, turning slowly to face Thor with a twisted grin. In his hand, he held a still-beating heart.
Thor's vision went red.
The warrior crushed it.
"No—!"
The scream that followed shook the battlefield.
Thor charged forward, wielding Mjolnir without hesitation. Grief and rage fueled every movement as he clashed with the monster who had killed his mother.
Their battle erupted instantly.
At the same time, another shockwave spread across Asgard.
A surge of divine power.
"Father…"
Thor's voice faltered.
Odin had awakened.
He rose from his resting place, his body still weakened, his strength far from restored. Tears marked his face as he learned of Frigga's death.
"Dark Elves…"
His voice was low, trembling with fury.
His grip tightened around his spear as anger surged through him—not only toward the invaders, but toward something else.
Toward the Kryptonian who had left him weakened.
Toward the one who had made this possible.
"It was him…"
Odin's eyes burned with rage.
"He caused this."
Armor clad his body once more, and weapon in hand, he stepped forward. Despite his injuries, the king of gods marched to war.
Across the battlefield, fire and chaos consumed Asgard.
And at its edge, two figures appeared silently.
Hela stepped forward onto the land she once ruled, her expression overflowing with uncontrollable excitement. Her fists clenched as power surged through her body, drawn directly from the realm itself.
This was her land.
It had been shaped by her conquest, fed by her victories.
As long as Asgard existed, she could not die.
Yet even as her strength returned, she felt something else.
The presence beside her.
Ethan.
The gap between them was unmistakable, and it crushed any thoughts of defiance before they could even form.
"Let's go," he said calmly.
His gaze swept across the burning city.
"Time to conquer Asgard."
....
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