Chapter 4 – Dinner with the Gods
For all my worries about having to fight Odin—or, more realistically, run away—for possession of the Space Stone, what actually happened couldn't have been more different.
Odin didn't even mention it.
Not once.
The cube remained conspicuously absent from the conversation, and while I was certain Thor had brought it up with him at some point, I couldn't tell whether Odin simply trusted his son's judgment or if he was keenly aware that trying to take it from me would end with me vanishing before he could finish the thought. Either option was unsettling in its own way. Odin wasn't careless, and he wasn't stupid. If he chose not to act, it was because he had decided the cost outweighed the benefit.
That alone made me wary.
I had also expected hostility. Suspicion, at the very least. Thor and I hadn't exactly started off on the right foot back on Earth, and Odin didn't strike me as the sort of ruler who reacted kindly to being denied something he wanted—especially not something as significant as an Infinity Stone. Even Loki, for all the goodwill Frigga's reunion had bought her, didn't have many reasons to think fondly of me. I had denied her the Queen piece outright, and if she was anything like her male counterpart, she would have taken that as a personal slight. On top of that, I had effectively handed her over to Thor, removing what little agency she still had in the situation.
None of that should have endeared me to anyone.
And yet.
Instead of cold stares or veiled threats, I was declared a guest of honor.
Frigga, still radiant with relief and gratitude, insisted on it with a warmth that brooked no argument. She thanked me openly—for bringing her children home, for saving Loki, for ending the invasion without costing Asgard more than its pride—and before I could properly process what was happening, she announced that there would be a feast. Not just any feast, but one held in celebration of Thor's victory and my own role in the Battle of New York.
I didn't even get the opportunity to refuse.
Frigga all but had me swept along through the palace halls, attendants appearing as if summoned by her will alone, doors opening ahead of us without pause. By the time I realized resistance was pointless, I had already been assigned quarters.
Lavish didn't begin to cover it.
The room I was given was absurdly luxurious, all gold-trimmed stone, high ceilings, and furnishings that looked more like museum pieces than anything meant to be used. Soft light filtered in from somewhere unseen, and everything—from the bed to the tapestries—radiated a level of excess that made even my devil sensibilities twitch.
This wasn't hospitality.
It was overcompensation.
I had also expected some sort of public reckoning for Loki. A trial, an accusation laid out before the court, something suitably dramatic and Asgardian. While I was certain something had happened behind closed doors—there was no way Odin would simply let her actions go unaddressed—she wasn't dragged in chains before the people, nor was she thrown into the dungeons or banished from the realm.
Instead, she was placed under what amounted to house arrest.
She wasn't allowed to leave the palace grounds, her movements quietly but firmly restricted, and she was assigned a watcher to ensure she didn't try anything clever. More often than not, that watcher was Frigga herself. The queen rarely left her daughter's side, hovering with a mix of affection and vigilance that Loki clearly didn't know how to handle. Every attempt at sarcasm or deflection bounced off Frigga's concern, and the result was a Loki who oscillated between stiff politeness and visible embarrassment.
It was oddly effective.
Frigga, for her part, also shot me more than a few looks—measuring, thoughtful glances that lingered just a bit too long to be coincidence. They made me seriously question whether Loki's talent for subtle manipulation hadn't been learned at her adoptive mother's knee. I couldn't tell what she was planning, but given that I was on roughly equal footing with Thor and in possession of two Infinity Stones, it wouldn't have surprised me if she was already considering how best to build bridges rather than burn them.
Then again, the explanation might have been far simpler.
Thor might have mentioned the flirting.
After all, Loki's situation wasn't exactly ideal from a political standpoint. Having the crown princess attempt regicide and then throw herself off the Bifrost to escape an arranged marriage had, unsurprisingly, put the Vanir nobleman involved completely off the idea. That left Loki—a highborn noblewoman, technically a princess, and very much of marrying age—without any consorts and with a reputation that would make traditional alliances… difficult.
So when a powerful, heroic unknown showed up, one who had already demonstrated interest in her and wasn't particularly bothered by her past actions, it made a certain amount of sense to see if that angle could be explored.
Or maybe Frigga was simply doing what mothers across every realm had done since time immemorial: trying, with varying degrees of subtlety, to help her daughter find a boyfriend.
Despite Loki's seductress attitude back on Earth, it became clear that she hadn't actually had many—if any—real relationships back in Asgard. She was accustomed to using her body as a tool, but only up to a point. A glance held a second too long, a step just inside someone's personal space, a smile that promised more than it ever intended to deliver. The goal was never intimacy. It was distraction. Just enough to make her target hesitate while her words did the real work.
That didn't really surprise me.
Between Loki's ego—where part of her genuinely seemed to believe that sex with her was something few were worthy of—her position as a princess, Thor's status as both one of the most dangerous warriors in the realm and an aggressively protective older brother, and the unspoken but ever-present threat of royal disapproval, most potential suitors were probably scared off long before anything could start. Court politics alone would have been enough to make it feel like a losing game.
I wasn't.
That was mostly because I had the context and information needed to see a much larger picture than Asgardian court intrigue. Gods, kings, alliances—it all mattered, but it wasn't the whole board. On top of that, I was strong enough to handle most of what they could throw at me, and more importantly, I had the means to leave whenever I wanted. That freedom changed the calculus entirely.
And honestly, I would be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to Loki.
She was extremely hot, yes, but it went beyond that. I enjoyed bantering with her—the quick turns, the layered meanings, the way every exchange felt like a game played at full speed. From what I could tell, she enjoyed it too. I had initially expected her to be annoyed when her flirting failed to influence me the way it usually did, but instead of pulling back, she leaned into it. Having someone who didn't fold, who met her at eye level rather than above or below, seemed like a novelty for her.
As for me, there was something deeply amusing about seeing who would back down first, in a way that it never had been back when I was human. Maybe that was my own nature changing, my desires sharpening and asserting themselves more clearly. Or maybe it was just the thrill of matching wits with someone who refused to be underestimated.
Either way, I wouldn't have been opposed to taking things to their logical conclusion—assuming she wasn't too angry with me when all was said and done.
Marriage was out of the question. Even if I wasn't planning to leave the MCU behind eventually, I just wasn't that kind of person. Commitment on that level wasn't something I was built for, and trying to force myself into it would only end badly for everyone involved. Besides, while I hadn't slept with Natasha—yet—I fully intended to have a harem, and I doubted either her parents or Loki herself would be remotely okay with that arrangement.
Even if, judging by the way Loki had looked at Natasha, the issue wouldn't really be about sharing so much as power dynamics. The harem wouldn't be hers. She wouldn't be the center of it, the axis everything revolved around, and that would be a far bigger problem than simple monogamy ever could be.
After that particular mental tangent, I was given a tour of the city, with a grumpy Thor serving as both my escort and—surprisingly—a very competent tour guide. He clearly loved Asgard. There was a pride in the way he spoke about it, a reverence that came naturally to someone who had lived there for millennia. He knew its history, its landmarks, and its lesser-known details far better than I had expected, and once he got started it was obvious he enjoyed sharing that knowledge.
I saw sights that made it very clear why Asgard was spoken of in legends. Towering golden architecture blended seamlessly with impossible geometry, structures that looked ceremonial and practical at the same time. Natural wonders dotted the city and its surroundings, things that could only exist in a place where fantasy and science fiction overlapped without contradiction. One moment that stuck with me was watching a massive river cascade off the edge of the realm, pouring endlessly into the void of space below. Thor explained, almost casually, that enchantments maintained the flow, ensuring the water never truly ran out.
I also got to experience traditional Asgardian music. While it carried a vaguely Norse tone, it was distinct enough that I could immediately tell it wasn't just a variation on something familiar. The rhythms were heavier, the harmonies deeper, and there was an underlying resonance that felt like it was meant to be heard in vast halls rather than small rooms.
Food came next, and I took full advantage of the fact that devils can eat as much as they want without gaining weight. I sampled a little of everything—meats, fruits, breads, and dishes I didn't even have a name for—careful not to fill myself up before the feast that Frigga had promised. It was indulgent without being overwhelming, rich flavors balanced by surprising subtlety.
Finally, just as dusk fell—another enchantment, according to Thor, rather than a true change of time—we returned to the palace. The light shifted across the golden spires, bathing the city in warm hues, and for a moment Asgard looked less like a seat of power and more like something out of a storybook.
I arrived at the feast after having taken a bath—not really necessary, as I would instinctively keep myself clean with magic just by not wanting to be dirty, but pleasant nonetheless—and changing into a fresh set of clothes provided by the palace. The bath itself had been an experience, carved stone and warm water infused with faint enchantments that soothed more than just the body. Even knowing I didn't need it, there was something grounding about the ritual, about taking the time to prepare rather than simply willing the result into existence.
The clothes were another reminder of a growing problem. I really needed to do some shopping. While I could transform my clothes with magic well enough, I didn't want to be the broke devil relying on improvised glamour and borrowed finery. Appearances mattered, especially when dealing with gods, kings, and ancient courts. Besides, while conjuring permanent objects from nothing was—at least for now—beyond my skill, transforming one thing into another was trivially easy.
Once I was back on Earth, I could solve that problem quickly. Turning scrap into gold and selling it would give me more money than I'd know what to do with, and it wouldn't even take much effort. I'd just have to be careful not to draw too much attention. On top of that, I planned to experiment a little. Specifically, I wanted to see if I could transmute materials into vibranium.
Normally, magical materials resisted that kind of thing. They had rules, inertia, and identity in a way mundane matter didn't. But vibranium was… strange. It was clearly magical enough for Bast to bless it, and the fact that it was alien didn't preclude it from being magical—Asgard was proof enough of that. At the same time, it was used in advanced science in a way most magical materials simply weren't, integrated into technology rather than standing apart from it.
If there was a loophole there, I intended to find it.
The banquet itself was being held in a great hall just off the throne room. At first, that struck me as odd. I had expected the Asgardian royal palace to be far more spread out, a vast sprawl of halls and courtyards befitting gods and kings. For a moment, the proximity felt almost… mundane.
Then I remembered something important.
While the Asgardians displayed enough wealth and opulence to rival all but the richest devil houses, most of them couldn't fly or teleport at will. Not everyone could simply blink across miles of golden stone because they wanted a drink or a word with a noble. From a practical standpoint, having a palace the size of a city would be absurd if servants had to cross half of it every time someone raised a cup. Compact grandeur made far more sense.
The hall itself was impressive regardless. Golden columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling etched with scenes of past victories, the light from hovering braziers reflecting warmly off polished stone and metal. Long tables filled the space, heavy with food and drink, their surfaces already scarred by centuries of feasts and celebrations.
The room was crowded, but not in an overwhelming way. There was a sense of order to it, an unspoken structure everyone seemed to understand instinctively. Warriors, nobles, and dignitaries all occupied their proper places, conversations overlapping without ever quite devolving into chaos.
My own seat made that hierarchy very clear. I was placed beside Thor near the head of the table, close enough that I could feel the subtle weight of attention from the rest of the hall. Odin sat at the head itself, imposing even while seated, with Frigga just below him—above me in rank, unmistakably so, but close enough that her presence felt intentional rather than incidental.
I couldn't help but feel they were taking things a little too far.
The Battle of New York had been significant, yes, but more so for humans than for beings like Thor and me. For us, it had been less a true challenge and more an exercise in endurance—long, messy, and exhausting, but never truly in doubt. Worthy of recognition, perhaps, but not this level of ceremony.
Then again, Asgardians were famous for celebrating battles of all kinds. Victories were remembered not just for their difficulty, but for what they represented. Maybe the weight of the battle wasn't measured by how hard it was to win, but by what was at stake—and by the fact that Midgard had survived at all.
The hall went quiet when Loki arrived.
It wasn't the abrupt silence of fear or command, but the kind that spread naturally as every conversation faltered and every gaze turned in the same direction. She wore a flowing green dress that managed to hint at every one of her curves without showing any skin, the fabric clinging and cascading in ways that felt deliberate rather than accidental. It moved with her like it was alive, catching the light as she walked.
Her black hair was styled loose down her back, adorned with delicate golden rings that glimmered against the dark strands. Dark lipstick accentuated her pale skin, the contrast sharp enough to draw the eye and hold it there. She looked composed, controlled, and entirely aware of the effect she was having.
I might have been staring a little too much, judging by the glare Thor shot me from the corner of his eye, but I blamed it on my devil nature. That, and the fact that Loki clearly wanted to be seen.
She glided across the silent hall with unhurried confidence, her posture straight and regal. She didn't spare a single noble in her path even a glance. They parted before her without being asked, instinctively stepping aside as if the space belonged to her by right. When her eyes met mine for a brief moment, smugness flashed openly in them, satisfaction at the effect she was having on me shining through before she looked away again and continued on.
She reached her seat with practiced grace, the silence lingering just long enough to make the point.
I didn't think for a moment that her sitting across from me was a coincidence.
The music slowly started again, tentative at first, and conversations resumed in hushed tones before building back to their previous volume. It didn't take a genius to know what they would all be about. Even without looking, I could feel the attention shifting, whispers following her like an echo.
"You look good." I said, keeping my voice casual despite the way she had just upended the room.
"A queen must know how to present herself." She replied smoothly, the barb clear beneath the elegance of her tone.
I rolled my eyes.
"A princess." I corrected, meeting her gaze without backing down, fully aware that she wasn't talking about Odin's throne.
She smiled sharply, her gaze slow and deliberate as it traveled over me from head to toe, assessing rather than admiring.
"I see the servants provided you with… adequate clothing."
There was just enough pause before the last word to make it an insult.
"Your seamstresses do good work," I replied evenly. "Though they clearly paid special attention to your own dress."
Her smile widened by a fraction, pleased rather than offended.
"I couldn't very well wear rags, now could I?"
I glanced around the hall, taking in the richly dressed nobles reclining on their benches, the gleam of metalwork and embroidery, the servants moving between tables in uniforms that were simpler but still unmistakably expensive.
"Rags," I echoed drily. "If these are your standards, you would have seen me impoverished before long."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, chin lifting.
"A lord who can't afford his lady's happiness is no lord at all."
There it was. Not flirtation exactly—more like a challenge wrapped in silk.
"You really aren't going to let this go, are you?" I asked.
"That you would prefer a Midgardian harlot to a proper queen?" she said smoothly, her smile never twitching. "No, I don't think I will."
I shot her an annoyed look. Natasha was mine, and I wasn't about to let her be dismissed so casually, even if I knew she wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over Loki's opinion.
"A proper queen would have understood why I chose her," I said.
"Oh, I know why you chose her," Loki replied, smirking as she lifted her goblet. "I noticed exactly where your gaze lingered."
I let out a sharp laugh, the sound cutting through the low hum of the hall between us.
"And yours didn't?" I shot back. "Tell me—if it had been her instead of Barton that you controlled, would you have gone through with the invasion? Or would you have been too busy?"
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, the smugness faltering for a heartbeat before hardening into something sharper, more dangerous.
"I have no need to twist minds to find companions."
Her voice was cool, certain, carrying just enough pride to make it a declaration rather than a defense.
"I know," I agreed.
That made her eyebrows rise, surprise flickering across her face before she masked it.
I smirked, leaning back slightly in my chair, deliberately at ease.
"It isn't about need," I said. "You enjoy the control. Knowing that your partner isn't. That they're a toy for you to play with."
Her eyes sharpened, the air between us tightening.
"And if I do?" she challenged, chin lifting.
"Then we would have found out," I shot back without hesitation. "Who would be in control. And who would be made to serve."
She laughed, the sound low and dangerous.
"Do you think you can?" she asked. "Make me serve? Arrogant, aren't you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," I replied.
For a moment, she didn't answer. Her gaze swept over me again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if recalculating something she thought she already understood.
"Maybe I will," she said softly.
"Sister…" Thor spoke, his voice strained, like a warning pulled tight between his teeth.
The spell broke.
I became aware of the hall again—the music, the murmurs, the weight of too many eyes. I glanced to the side.
Odin's face was carved from stone, unreadable and immovable. I genuinely couldn't tell if he was moments away from smiting me for daring to flirt with his daughter, or if this was unfolding exactly as he intended.
Frigga, on the other hand, was far easier to read. She met Loki's eyes, and in that single look I saw the source of every sharp smile and carefully placed barb Loki had ever wielded. Where Loki looked suddenly mortified, Frigga was the picture of amused pride.
And Thor—
Thor was staring at me like he was weighing the merits of calling Mjolnir to his side and damn the feast entirely.
"We should eat," I said, mostly to break the silence before it curdled into something worse.
I reached for a piece of boar, more out of self-preservation than hunger. Thor was still radiating barely restrained violence beside me, and having something to focus on that wasn't the god of thunder's clenched jaw seemed wise.
I had just lifted the meat when something struck my leg under the table.
Not hard. Deliberate.
I glanced up, already half-expecting to find Thor glaring at me again, but instead my eyes met Loki's. For a split second I wondered if she was actually reckless enough to try something like that in the middle of the hall, under Odin's watchful eye and Frigga's far too perceptive one.
My hand twitched, instinct already reaching for the Space Stone. I was a heartbeat away from vanishing outright before Odin decided the feast had gone on long enough.
Then Loki looked away from me and tilted her head, just slightly, toward the exit.
When she looked back, there was no smugness this time. No teasing smile. Just a clear, unmistakable challenge in her eyes.
Suddenly, I wasn't hungry anymore.
"I need some air," she said, rising smoothly from her seat.
The hall barely had time to register what was happening before she was already moving away from the table. And if she put a little more sway into her hips than strictly necessary as she walked, well—given the circumstances, I found it difficult to complain.
Leaving the feast after just long enough that Thor wouldn't deck me in the face, I made my way through the palace corridors toward my assigned room. The distant sounds of music and laughter faded behind me, replaced by the soft echo of my footsteps against polished stone and the low hum of Asgard's ever-present enchantments. Gold-inlaid columns rose on either side of the corridor, catching the light and throwing it back in warm reflections.
I barely made it past the first column when she grabbed me.
Her fist twisted into my shirt, yanking me back hard enough that my shoulder hit the stone. Cold metal pressed against my chest, the tip of her dagger resting just over my heart. Close enough that I could feel the faint hum of enchantment running along the blade.
"You are an infuriating man, you know that?" she said, her voice low and tight.
For a fleeting moment, I considered the tactical angle. The dagger was sharp enough—and enchanted enough—to pierce my skin if she really wanted to. I would be fast enough to stop her before it became anything more than superficial, but the thought crossed my mind all the same.
Then I looked into her eyes.
There was no calculation there. No careful scheming or cold intent. What stared back at me was raw, burning need, tangled up with frustration and wounded pride.
"I try," I said lightly, unable to stop myself from chuckling.
"I should stab you," she said, pushing the blade a fraction closer, more threat than action. "You refused me. You turned me in."
"Then why don't you?" I asked, meeting her gaze without flinching.
She froze.
Just for a heartbeat, the steel in her expression cracked, and something unguarded slipped through. Her grip tightened, not in anger, but as if she were holding onto the moment itself.
"It is none of your business," she said, the words sharp out of habit rather than conviction, "but… I talked to Mother."
I didn't interrupt. Whatever Frigga had said had clearly struck deeper than Loki wanted to admit.
"Besides," she went on after a moment, her voice quieter now, "you aren't like these fools."
"I'm flattered, princess," I replied.
Her lips twitched. "You know, when people called me that before, I used to hurt them. Pranks. Spells. All sorts of creative misery."
She studied my face, searching, weighing, as if trying to decide which mask to wear with me.
"But with you," she said slowly, her eyes darkening as she found whatever she was looking for, "I have something else in mind."
The dagger vanished in a flash of green light, dissolving into magic as if it had never existed. Her free hand slid up, fingers threading into my hair, gripping firmly at the back of my head.
Then she pulled me in.
There was no hesitation in the kiss—no softness either. It was demanding, heated, all sharp edges and pent-up emotion, as if she were daring me to push her away again. The scent of her—something floral and ozone-sharp, unmistakably Asgardian—filled my senses as the world narrowed to the space between us.
She presses and I press back, both of us trying to take control and enjoying the struggle as much as the kiss itself.
But devils are built for this in a way Asgardians just aren't. Eventually, she breaks the kiss so she can breathe, and I enjoy the sight of her flushed skin and heavy breaths.
"Smug bastard." She grumbles. "Come on."
She starts dragging me away – to her room, if I had to guess – and I make a split-second decision.
Back when I was human, I didn't have much experience with sex. I wasn't a virgin, but getting laid happened rarely enough that I couldn't say I was skilled at pleasing my partner. And the instincts I inherited from Milllicas don't help there. While the Company did allow me to age him up to his mid-twenties when I took over, his skills and instincts are still those of an eleven-year-old.
I knew it was a bad idea. I was working for my credits and I didn't have enough to spare for frivolous purchases. But at the same time, I knew that my natural advantages from being a devil wouldn't be enough against an Asgardian, and my pride chaffed at being average.
So I bit the bullet and quickly purchased Sticky Fingers.
The effect was immediate, as a simple shift in how I was holding Loki's hand was enough to draw a look from her. Fortunately, she was far to impatient to question it, and we quickly found ourselves in her room.
The door to her room slammed shut behind us, the heavy oak rattling in its frame as she shoved me against it with surprising force. Her green eyes burned with a mix of triumph and hunger, lips curled in a familiar smirk. Green silk clung to her generous curves, the fabric already slipping from one shoulder as she pressed herself against me.
Her fingers threaded through my red hair, pulling me deeper into the kiss.
"What was it you said?" She asked against my mouth. "We will see who will be in control, and who will serve?"
I laughed. In a movement too fast for her to react, I spun her around. Her back hit the door, and I quickly pinned her arms over her head with one hand while the other traced her leg. A precise application of wind magic had the silk parting, letting my fingers make contact with her bare skin and drawing a gasp from her.
"I liked that dress, you bastard." She snarled, struggling against my grip.
"You will like this more." I said.
Our mouths crashed together again, our tongues battling for dominance. But now that I had Sticky Fingers, she was too busy fighting her own moans of pleasure to resist.
I pressed against her, trapping her body between mine and the door, and her legs parted instinctively as she gasped.
She managed to twist one wrist free, her nails raking across my back and her own magic shredding my shirt. I enjoyed the sharp sensation, and unwilling to let her win I backed off just enough to rip the front of her dress straight off.
"You are so sexy." I said, enjoying the sight of her bare body.
Her breasts were just as large as her dress suggested, and her creamy pale skin was completely flawless. I traced her curves, letting her enjoy my Lure at work while I explored her body.
I grinned when I saw that she was already damp.
"I'm not done yet." She grunted, shoving me towards the bed.
She straddled me in one fluid motion, grinding her panties against my bulge. She waved her hand, my pants and underwear disappearing in a flash of green light.
She grinned when she saw my now free cock. In one swift motion she took me inside her, her panties also having disappeared, and I enjoyed the tight hot glove that was her pussy.
She started riding me, and I took the opportunity to play with her wonderful breasts. Sticky Fingers fed me the supernatural level of skill needed to bring her to the edge of her first orgasm in moments.
I met her next movement with my own thrust, causing her walls to clench around me while she threw her head back, a silent scream in her lips.
I took advantage of her distraction to switch positions, pinning her down while I stood above her.
"Serving suits you." I teased.
"F-Fuck you!" She moaned.
I grinned.
"With pleasure."
I manifested my wings, using both my enhanced speed and flight to set a pace no normal person could match. I knew her every weak spot thanks to my Lure, and I mercilessly pounded all of them.
She fought—nails digging into my shoulders, hips bucking to throw me off rhythm, legs locking around my waist to try and roll us again. Every struggle only drove me deeper, and I let her fight, savoring the scrape of her nails, the way she snarled curses.
Soon, her struggles weakened; her nails stopped clawing and started clinging. I released her wrists to slide a hand between them, my thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy, circling in time with each deep thrust. The rhythm was perfect—inhumanly perfect—building pressure faster than she could counter.
She tried one last time to flip us, but her body betrayed her—thighs trembling, breath coming in ragged pants. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped.
The second orgasm hit her like a thunderclap. Loki's whole body seized, a choked scream ripping from her as she came undone around me, inner walls pulsing hard enough to drag a groan from my throat.
I slowed just enough to let her ride it, then built the pace again—steady, merciless, drawing out every aftershock until she was shaking, oversensitive and helpless beneath me.
Then I kissed her, deep and claiming, hips snapping forward one final time as I let myself follow her over the edge. Heat flooded her as I came with a low growl of her name.
Loki glared up at me through half-lidded eyes when I finished, but there was no real venom left in it—only dazed, reluctant awe.
It was almost better than fucking her.
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Chapter 5 – Unlimited Power
I shouldn't have been surprised that the entire palace—and probably a good chunk of Asgard beyond its walls—knew about me and Loki by the next morning. We hadn't exactly been subtle. Our flirting during the feast had drawn enough looks on its own, and when the true focus of the night left early—because no matter what the feast was officially for, everyone had been watching Loki—and I followed not long after, it didn't take a genius to connect the dots.
It probably didn't help that Loki, true to form, hadn't taken her defeat lying down.
If anything, she'd treated it like a challenge. One she refused to concede until exhaustion finally caught up with her and robbed her of the strength to keep pushing for control. Desire had carried her a long way, but even she had limits. Limits she hated discovering.
Servants talk. They always do. And while we were meticulous about cleaning ourselves and the room with magic, there were only so many questions that could be ignored when the crown princess didn't emerge until well after dawn. I strongly suspected that whoever was assigned to tidy her chambers afterward became the most popular person in the palace for the rest of the morning.
Arriving together—and late—to the royal breakfast certainly didn't help matters.
The hall had already settled by the time we entered, conversation dipping just a little too noticeably before resuming at a more careful volume. Loki, to her credit, slipped seamlessly back into her public mask, chin high and expression cool, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If anyone could pretend an entire night hadn't occurred, it was her.
Breakfast itself was… uncomfortable.
For me, mostly because Thor hadn't stopped glaring since we sat down. The look on his face suggested he was still weighing the relative merits of diplomacy versus beating me into the floor with Mjolnir, and only the presence of his parents—and perhaps the memory of the previous night's events—was staying his hand.
For Loki, the discomfort came from a different direction.
Frigga was in rare form, her tone light and affectionate as she asked question after question that danced just shy of explicit. They were innocent on the surface—comments about sleep, about the lateness of the hour, about whether Loki had enjoyed the evening—but each one landed with surgical precision. It was painfully obvious that she knew exactly what had happened and was taking a quiet, almost maternal delight in teasing it out of her daughter.
Loki endured it with clenched teeth and forced composure, cheeks just faintly flushed.
I focused on my food and did my best to look like I belonged anywhere else.
I also noticed that Odin was nowhere to be seen, and that absence nagged at me more than his presence would have. It made me wonder if the changes Universal Calibration had made to this universe had somehow mellowed him out. The Odin from the movies had been the perfect specimen of a king—wise, powerful, and calculating—but also utterly unwilling to have his authority questioned. He tolerated defiance only when it amused him, and even then only briefly.
Either this version of Odin wasn't like that, or he knew something I didn't.
And if it was the latter, that bothered me far more.
A king like Odin didn't simply ignore a foreign power who had walked into his realm carrying two Infinity Stones and walked out again by choice. If he wasn't making a move, it was because he didn't believe he needed to. Whether that confidence came from hidden contingencies, knowledge I lacked, or a long-term plan I hadn't yet glimpsed, I couldn't say—but the fact that he was treating me with what felt like kid gloves set my instincts on edge.
I was already preparing to leave Asgard before I found out which explanation was correct when Thor's patience finally snapped.
"Duel me."
The words cut cleanly through the low murmur of the hall. His tone made it clear it wasn't a request, or even a challenge meant for show. This was something he needed.
I met his gaze and saw the storm behind his eyes—anger, frustration, wounded pride, and something else beneath it all. A need to measure me. To understand where I stood in relation to him.
I considered denying him anyway. There were a dozen practical reasons to refuse. Politics, optics, Odin's unknown stance, the fact that antagonizing the crown prince of Asgard was rarely a good long-term strategy.
But in the end, I didn't.
I was fairly sure he wasn't going to do any permanent damage, and more importantly, getting real experience fighting someone on my level—or close enough to matter—was too valuable to pass up. For all of Millicas's prodigious talent and absurdly generous starting advantages, there was one glaring weakness I couldn't ignore.
Combat experience.
Raw power only carried you so far. Eleven years old or not, Millicas simply hadn't lived long enough to acquire the instincts that only came from repeated, high-stakes fights against opponents who could actually hurt you. That gap needed to be closed, and quickly.
Loki and Frigga both looked intrigued when Thor spoke, but neither of them moved to intervene. Loki's interest was sharp and calculating, as if she were already imagining how this might play out. Frigga's was quieter, more measured—curiosity mixed with a mother's confidence that her son could handle himself.
I took a breath and made a decision.
I bit the bullet and spent the last of the credits I'd gained from recruiting Natasha to purchase Martial Talent.
It wasn't ideal. I'd been hoping to save those credits for Paradox Immunity, but realistically I wasn't going to get enough credits from captures anytime soon to afford both levels anyway. And while my raw strength and durability were more than enough to keep me safe from any normal threat, they wouldn't carry me against opponents I couldn't simply overpower.
If I wanted to fight gods, kings, and cosmic monsters, I needed actual skill.
And if I was going to piggyback off someone's experience, there was no better candidate than a man who had been fighting wars for over a thousand years.
I looked back at Thor and nodded once.
"Fine," I said. "Let's duel."
Word spread quickly, despite the fact that Thor had made the challenge and immediately led the way from the table to one of Asgard's training arenas. By the time we arrived and the preparations were finished, a small crowd had already gathered—guards in polished armor, nobles in fine silks and metal-threaded cloaks, all of them pretending this was casual curiosity rather than the most exciting thing that had happened all day.
An outsider dueling the crown prince was not an everyday event.
The arena itself was circular, its stone floor etched with old runes worn smooth by centuries of combat. The walls rose high enough that stray blows wouldn't endanger spectators, and faint enchantments hummed beneath my senses—reinforcement spells, containment fields, wards meant to prevent the sort of collateral damage Asgardian sparring was infamous for.
Loki and Frigga watched from a raised platform overlooking the arena. Frigga's expression was composed, regal, but her eyes never left Thor. Loki, on the other hand, looked sharp and intent, her gaze flicking between the two of us with a calculating gleam that made it clear she was already analyzing outcomes, weaknesses, and what she could gain from either result.
Then I focused on Thor.
He stood across from me in the same armor he had worn during the Battle of New York, plates of enchanted metal fitting him like a second skin. Mjolnir rested easily in his grasp, the hammer humming with barely contained power, lightning crawling lazily across its surface as if eager to be unleashed. He looked completely at home here—grounded, confident, dangerous in a way that wasn't flashy but absolute.
It was only then that Martial Talent fully kicked in.
The shift was subtle but profound. My perception sharpened, patterns snapping into place as if someone had overlaid invisible lines onto the world. Just by watching how Thor stood—how his weight was distributed, how his shoulders were angled, how his grip on Mjolnir balanced readiness with restraint—I absorbed what felt like a decade of hard-earned martial experience in an instant.
Not all of it translated cleanly. Thor's style was built around overwhelming strength, battlefield dominance, and the use of a legendary weapon tied directly to his nature. Mine relied more on speed, adaptability, and powers that didn't map neatly onto traditional combat forms. But enough of it carried over that I instinctively adjusted my stance, shifting my center of gravity, relaxing my shoulders, grounding myself more firmly.
Thor noticed.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction, the barest acknowledgment that I wasn't as inexperienced as I looked.
"We fight until one of us surrenders or is knocked out," he said, voice carrying easily through the arena. "No killing. No crippling. The healers can handle the rest."
"Sounds good to me," I replied.
It really didn't.
The problem was my bloodline.
I considered the Power of Destruction the strongest of the devil pillar abilities for a reason. From both an offensive and defensive standpoint, erasing things from existence was hard to beat. In theory, it was the ultimate attack and the ultimate defense—anything that touched it ceased to be.
In theory.
In practice, it wasn't unstoppable. Even Sirzechs's Power of Destruction could be overcome, and he was a super devil at the absolute peak of his kind. I was merely high-class, powerful by most standards but nowhere near his level.
Still, "almost unstoppable" was more than enough to be a problem here.
The Power of Destruction was terrible for friendly matches. My control was good, but it wasn't turn existence erasure into a non-lethal tap good. Rias and the other users got away with it because almost every non-lethal fight they participated in was a Rating Game—controlled simulations where death and permanent harm weren't real consequences.
This wasn't a simulation.
If I killed Thor, he wouldn't get back up. There would be no reset, no referee intervention, no polite post-match handshake. Any goodwill I'd earned in Asgard would evaporate instantly, replaced by outrage, grief, and probably a very motivated Odin.
I'd have to fight while restricted in my use of my strongest ability.
"Begin!" Frigga's voice rang out from the stands, sharp and absolute.
Thor moved instantly.
There was no testing step, no circling. He spun Mjolnir in a tight, practiced arc, the hammer blurring as lightning crackled around it, and then hurled it straight at me. The air screamed in protest as it crossed the distance. I barely managed to throw myself aside, my wings snapping open as I took to the air, the hammer passing close enough that I felt the static crawl across my skin.
I didn't slow down. I was already moving when Mjolnir reversed course, snapping back toward me like it was tethered by fate itself. I twisted again, narrowly avoiding the return strike, and fired back on instinct, a compact fireball streaking toward Thor as I put distance between us.
He didn't dodge.
Thor ran straight through the flames.
The explosion washed over him in a burst of heat and force, but he pushed through it as if it were little more than a strong wind, boots cracking stone as he launched himself upward. Mjolnir slammed back into his palm mid-leap, the impact echoing like thunder. Lightning flared, stabilizing his trajectory and pulling him toward me with terrifying speed.
I reacted fast, throwing up a hurried gust of wind, but it barely slowed him. Martial Talent screamed warnings in my head, calculations firing off one after another as I relied on my superior aerial mobility to stay just ahead of his reach. He swung again and again, each strike precise, relentless, forcing me to keep moving or be crushed outright.
I slipped inside his guard for a heartbeat and drove my fist into his face.
It was the first solid hit of the match.
The impact would have shattered bone on a lesser opponent, but Thor barely flinched. His head snapped to the side, more from surprise than pain, and then he hit me back. The blow caught me across the torso, sending me spinning end over end through the air. My vision blurred as I fought to regain control, barely managing to right myself in time to dodge an overhead smash that cratered the stone floor where I'd been a moment earlier.
I needed space.
I poured more power into my next attack, unleashing a much larger fireball that detonated against Thor's advance, the blast forcing him downward and buying me a precious second. I took it immediately, drawing on Soul Talent as I began a proper cast.
A spell circle bloomed into existence before me, far larger and more intricate than anything I could have formed without it. Runes burned with molten light, layers of magic stacking and reinforcing one another as heat flooded the air.
From its center, a flaming spear formed and then shot downward toward Thor, incandescent and screaming with destructive force.
For the first time, he didn't try to push through it.
Thor answered my attack with one of his own.
Lightning erupted from Mjolnir in a blinding thunderbolt, the two forces colliding midair in an explosion of fire and thunder that shook the arena, the shockwave rippling outward as the crowd recoiled in awe.
I didn't give him a chance to recover. Before the smoke from our last clash had even finished dispersing, another spell circle manifested in front of me, its runes snapping into place as it unleashed a continuous torrent of flame toward him. Thor reacted on instinct, twisting aside and powering through the air to evade the worst of it, clearly dismissing the second spell circle that flared to life beside the first.
That was the mistake I'd been waiting for.
The second circle released a massive gust of wind, not aimed to knock him back, but angled just enough to intersect with the stream of fire. The two spells merged violently, the wind feeding the flames, compressing and accelerating them until the center of the arena became a roaring inferno. Heat slammed outward in waves, the stone beneath cracking and glowing as the firestorm swallowed everything in its path.
I wasn't particularly worried about killing him. A human would have been reduced to ash in an instant, but Thor wasn't called a god for no reason. Still, I was confident. Confident that even he wouldn't be able to push through that much sustained force. Confident that this, finally, would be enough to end the fight.
Which was why the sight of him bursting out of the flames made my blood run cold.
Thor flew free of the inferno, armor glowing red-hot and scarred, his cape completely gone, reduced to drifting cinders. Smoke curled from his form, and patches of his hair were visibly burned, but he didn't slow, didn't hesitate, didn't even look particularly bothered. If anything, he looked energized, eyes blazing as lightning crackled more violently around him.
The sky itself seemed to split apart as he raised Mjolnir and called down the storm.
Lightning slammed into me in rapid succession, bolt after bolt screaming from above. I threw up a magical shield, layers of force stacking desperately as I tried to keep my distance, wings beating hard to stay ahead of the rapidly approaching god of thunder. The shield shuddered under the impact, each strike sending vibrations through my bones, but the storm didn't relent. It pressed, unyielding, filling my senses with light and thunder.
Enough.
When the next bolt came, I met it head-on, releasing a controlled blast of my power of destruction. The beam tore through the lightning as if it didn't exist, erasing the magical energy completely and continuing upward into the sky until I forcibly dismissed it, cutting it off before it could do any real damage.
That moment of resistance gave Thor exactly the opening he needed.
He was on me instantly, Mjolnir swinging in a wide arc, electricity snapping violently along its surface. I barely had time to brace before the hammer struck, the impact slamming into me with overwhelming force. Pain exploded through my body as I was swatted out of the air like an insect, sent crashing down into the arena floor below.
Stone shattered on impact.
I forced myself up almost immediately, ignoring the ache in my ribs and the ringing in my head, already preparing to continue the fight. The crowd was roaring now, the sound a wall of noise pressing in from all sides.
Then Frigga's voice cut through it all, sharp and absolute.
"Enough!"
Thor turned toward the stands, disbelief clear on his face. "But mother," he protested, lightning still dancing around him, "we can still fight."
She didn't answer him. She simply looked at her son, calm, unwavering, and utterly immovable.
After a long moment, Thor exhaled, the storm around him dissipating as he lowered Mjolnir and stepped back, the fight—reluctantly—over.
And I lost.
To anyone watching from the stands, the fight might have looked like a draw—two combatants forced apart by Frigga's command before either could decisively finish the other. But I knew better. I could feel it in the way my body ached, in how close I had come to being overwhelmed even while holding back my most dangerous ability. If we'd continued, if the duel had been allowed to run its course, Thor would have taken the win.
Admittedly, I'd been fighting with one hand tied behind my back. The Power of Destruction was my greatest asset, and not using it freely had put me at a clear disadvantage. Still, I wasn't about to make excuses. I intended to live forever, and that meant I would eventually face opponents who could negate, resist, or outright counter that power. If I became dependent on it—if I treated it as a crutch instead of a tool—I would die the first time it failed me. This loss wasn't a humiliation. It was a warning, and a useful one.
"Perhaps I misjudged you," Thor said, stepping closer and extending a hand.
I took it, letting him haul me to my feet with casual, effortless strength. Up close, the difference between us was even clearer. He was still radiating residual power, lightning faintly crackling along his armor, while I was forcing my breathing back into something steady and controlled.
"I worry for my sister," he continued, his tone quieter now, stripped of the fury he'd brought into the arena. "Even with all she's done." He studied me for a moment, eyes sharp but no longer hostile. "But I see now that you can be trusted with her."
"You speak like we're getting married," I said lightly, brushing dust from my clothes. "Besides, she can take care of herself."
"Aye," he agreed with a nod. "She is smarter than most, that much is true."
A grin tugged at his mouth as he shook his head.
"Unfortunately, she believes she is even smarter than she actually is."
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, the gesture firm but not unfriendly, the kind that came from a warrior acknowledging another. It carried weight—not just physical, but symbolic.
"Feel free to visit Asgard whenever you wish," he said. "Just don't stay away too long."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the stands, where Loki waited, carefully composed and pretending not to listen.
"Loki clearly enjoys your company."
After my duel with Thor, it was finally time to go.
The adrenaline of the fight was still lingering in my system, a dull ache in my muscles and a faint buzz of power under my skin. I'd learned more in that single duel than I would have in months of isolated training. Fighting Thor had forced me to confront the reality of superhuman combat in a way theory never could. Strength on that level changed everything—timing, positioning, even intent. You couldn't rely on techniques designed to break bones or disable joints when your opponent could shrug off blows that would pulp a tank.
Most human fighting styles assumed fragile bodies, limited endurance, and the inevitability of pain. Against someone like Thor, those assumptions became liabilities. Power had to be layered, movement had to be three-dimensional, and every strike needed purpose beyond simply landing. Magic and flight gave me options, but they weren't substitutes for understanding how to fight someone who could meet me blow for blow.
With Martial Talent accelerating the process, those lessons were already settling into place, rearranging instincts I hadn't even realized were flawed. It wasn't a finished style—not even close—but it was a foundation. A solid one. From here, I could build something that actually belonged to me.
Frigga invited me to return whenever I wished, her words warm and sincere in a way that made it clear the offer wasn't just politeness. Loki, for her part, traded a few more barbs with me—sharp, teasing, and just a little too pointed to be meaningless. If that was her way of saying she'd miss me, I'd take it.
Then there was nothing left to delay.
The Power Stone awaited me.
I opened a portal with the Space Stone, the familiar distortion folding reality in on itself, and stepped through. One moment I was standing among Asgard's immaculate gardens, golden light reflecting off marble and living greenery. The next, the warmth vanished, replaced by cold, alien stillness.
I emerged inside an underwater temple halfway across the galaxy.
Ancient stone walls loomed around me, carved with symbols worn smooth by time and pressure. The water beyond the structure pressed in from all sides, dim light filtering through in wavering shafts that painted the chamber in shifting blues and greens. The silence was absolute, broken only by the faint, distant creak of the structure resisting the crushing depths.
I'd been prepared for the worst—hours or days scouring the flooded ruins of Morag, even with magic and enhanced senses—but the Space Stone, as always, proved unnervingly precise. It hadn't dropped me near the temple.
It had placed me exactly where I needed to be.
It was impossible not to sense the Power Stone.
To my perception, it didn't merely exist in the chamber—it dominated it. It burned like a second sun layered over reality itself, a blinding presence that pressed against my senses from every direction. My devil instincts reacted instantly and violently, split straight down the middle. One half recoiled, screaming danger, warning me that this was not something a sane being approached lightly. The other half was louder, more insistent, demanding that I take it now, that I claim it before anything else dared to notice it was unguarded.
The Power Stone wasn't just infinite energy.
In DxD terms, I had a frame of reference. Ophis, the Dragon God of Infinity, possessed endless power—but there was a difference between having infinite energy and being energy. Ophis's infinity manifested as a perpetually full reservoir, an inexhaustible pool that never ran dry. From that pool, she could create her snakes, fragments of infinity given form. Any being who consumed one gained a massive boost—enough to elevate fodder into genuine combatants and push already powerful figures into a tier where only the strongest could oppose them.
I had assumed the Power Stone would function along similar lines.
That assumption shattered the moment I truly felt it.
Yes, it contained limitless energy—but that description was almost misleading. The Power Stone wasn't a container. It wasn't a battery. It was energy in its most fundamental, stripped-down state, closer to a law of reality than a resource. Raw, violent, absolute. Where Ophis represented infinity as a quantity, the Power Stone embodied energy as a concept.
I had already been drawing on the Space Stone's power to open portals, bending distance and location by tapping into its domain. That energy felt external, something I channeled and shaped. The Power Stone was different. I could feel it resonating with my demonic power itself, vibrating in sympathy with my core as if recognizing something kindred—or perhaps something useful.
That realization sent a chill through me.
I stood there, suspended between reverence and hunger, genuinely awed. The stone's connection to energy ran so deep that it reached beyond the rules of this universe, brushing against something that wasn't supposed to exist here at all. Against all logic, against cosmology itself, it could touch me.
Not as a foreign artifact.
But as something that understood power.
There were no real defenses leading up to the stone.
I moved slowly through the temple anyway, senses stretched wide, half-expecting something to spring at me the moment I relaxed. A guardian construct, an ancient failsafe, some kind of automated response keyed to the Orb being disturbed—anything. But the corridors were silent, the architecture inert, the only sound the distant pressure of the ocean and my own footsteps echoing faintly through stone that had not been walked in centuries.
Nothing came.
Nothing but the force field surrounding the Orb.
It hovered at the center of the chamber, suspended in midair, the translucent barrier around it shimmering faintly with contained power. That was it. No turrets, no seals layered on seals, no hidden contingencies waiting to activate. I could only assume that secrecy itself was meant to be the true defense—that the stone's location, buried underwater on a forgotten world halfway across the galaxy, was considered protection enough. For most beings, it probably was.
Getting past the force field was simple.
If Peter Quill could bypass it with a jury-rigged electric gadget, my demonic power was more than sufficient. I didn't bother with finesse. I shaped a thin sheet of the Power of Destruction, no thicker than a finger, red and black energy crackling and warping the air around it. The space near it felt wrong, as if reality itself was flinching away.
I pressed it against the force field.
The barrier reacted instantly, light flaring as it strained against the contact. I could feel the resistance through my power, a stubborn attempt to hold its shape, to deny what I was doing. But it wasn't designed to withstand erasure. Not this kind. Not wielded deliberately.
The field began to fail, thinning where my power touched it, unraveling rather than breaking. I didn't need to destroy it entirely. I only needed an opening, and only for a moment.
As soon as the gap formed, I reached through.
My fingers closed around the Orb, cool and deceptively mundane in my grasp, and I pulled it free with an almost casual motion. The force field collapsed behind my hand, snapping back into place as if nothing had happened at all.
And just like that, I had another Infinity Stone in my grasp.
I looked down at the simple Orb in my hand—black, rough, almost crude in its stone-like texture—and found myself wondering how something so unassuming could possibly be trusted to contain an object as monumentally powerful as the Power Stone. There were no glowing runes, no obvious enchantments, no visible reinforcement. Just a shell. A box. A lie of safety wrapped around infinity.
Carefully, I reached out with a basic telekinesis spell. The kind I'd once used for the laziest of conveniences—pulling a book from a shelf, grabbing the TV remote without getting off the couch. The thought almost made me laugh. That this was the tool I was using to manipulate a fragment of the First Firmament, a relic older than stars and gods alike.
The Orb lifted from my palm and floated in front of me, rotating slowly in the air.
I sobered immediately.
I knew exactly how dangerous what I was about to do was. All Infinity Stones carried backlash when handled directly. That was the entire reason artifacts like the Tesseract, the Scepter, and the Aether's containment vessels existed in the first place—filters, regulators, compromises that allowed beings far beneath the Stones' weight class to channel fragments of infinity without being erased outright. Even then, the margin for error was razor thin.
And the Power Stone was different.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't conceptual in a way that could be sidestepped or softened. It was power—raw, absolute, universal. The very idea of force made manifest. It didn't test those who touched it. It crushed them.
Almost anyone who tried to hold it would be annihilated on the spot.
The Guardians of the Galaxy had managed it, briefly, but that had been a perfect storm of circumstances. Peter Quill's Celestial heritage had done most of the heavy lifting, and even then they had only survived by dispersing the load across multiple bodies, each of them screaming under the strain. And that was for seconds. Barely.
I was confident I could handle the other stones directly. My body was far more durable than most beings in this universe, my demonic nature already accustomed to containing and channeling absurd amounts of power. Space, Mind, even Reality—I could feel how they would bend around me rather than tear me apart.
But the Power Stone?
Whatever boost it offered to my demonic power, whatever reinforcement it granted to my durability, would be utterly eclipsed by the sheer volume of energy it would pour into me. This wasn't a matter of toughness or willpower. It was capacity. And the Power Stone did not care whether a vessel was willing—it only cared whether it could endure.
And I wasn't at all certain that I could.
But the benefits were too much to pass up.
I wasn't planning to keep the stones forever. Once I had gathered them all, they would go to the Company—that had always been the deal, and I wasn't naïve enough to believe I could simply rely on borrowed infinity to carry me through eternity. Power you can lose is power you don't truly have.
But learning from them? Growing while they were in my possession?
That was something else entirely.
Just channeling the Space Stone a handful of times had already reshaped my understanding of teleportation. What I'd been doing before—opening portals, folding distance—was crude by comparison. I could feel how space wanted to move, how it could be stretched, compressed, layered. Expanding and stretching it was only the most obvious application. There were subtler manipulations beneath that, things I hadn't even begun to explore.
The Mind Stone was another untapped well. I hadn't leaned on it yet, partly out of caution and partly out of disinterest. Mental manipulation wasn't my preferred tool—I liked problems I could punch, burn, or erase—but it was far too useful to ignore. And beyond control and influence, there was enhancement. Thought speed. Perception. Memory. Pattern recognition.
The idea of reinforcing my own mind with demonic power, guided by an Infinity Stone that embodied consciousness itself, made my instincts hum with anticipation. I didn't even know what the upper limits of that kind of growth looked like.
But the Power Stone…
That was the real prize.
Like I'd told Natasha, demonic power was a muscle. Use it, strain it, push it to its limits, and it would grow stronger. The well would deepen. The flow would become easier, more natural. That was how devils improved.
The problem was that training had limits.
Exhaustion set in. Recovery slowed. Reserves took longer to refill the deeper you pushed them. And most devils—especially those born into comfort and power—simply didn't have the mindset to endure months or years of weakness, of constantly operating at the edge of their limits. They plateaued, not because they couldn't grow further, but because they wouldn't tolerate the process.
I was different—but even I wasn't exempt from biology and metaphysics.
Normally.
With the Power Stone, all of that went out the window.
With it, my reserves would refill instantly. No downtime. No recovery period. No exhaustion creeping in to force me to stop. I could burn through my power as recklessly as I wanted and be back at full strength in moments.
Endless stamina.
Endless repetition.
Growth at a pace fast enough that motivation would never falter, because I would never be forced to sit in weakness long enough for frustration to set in.
When I'd first taken over this body, I'd wondered if Issei's absurd growth during canon was normal. If it was reasonable to expect to go from high-class devil to planet buster in the span of a year.
My instincts had laughed at me.
If it were that easy, every supernatural who'd lived for thousands of years would be an unstoppable god. Growth took time, pressure, and suffering. There were no shortcuts.
Except now, there was.
I had a cheat of my own.
And I fully intended to exploit it while I could.
Slowly, carefully, I twisted the Orb with my telekinesis. The shell separated with a muted click, unfolding to reveal the source of that overwhelming presence. A glowing purple gem hovered within, deceptively simple in shape, its surface smooth and almost serene.
Unassuming.
If not for the way reality itself seemed to lean away from it.
Power radiated from the stone in waves, pressing against my senses, against my instincts, against my very existence. My demonic nature recoiled in terror even as it screamed for me to take it, to claim it, to become more.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself.
Then I reached out—not with my hand, but with my demonic power.
The instant it touched the Power Stone, everything went black. Like ReplyReport Reactions:frostbart, Daimon Agafo, Rubén Martínez and 827 othersCyrusFallenDec 27, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 6 – To Defy Entropy New View contentCyrusFallenNot too sore, are you?