Asgard was a rigidly stratified society. The gulf between nobles and commoners was so vast it might as well have been between two different species. In both lifespan and strength, nobles with greater concentrations of divine blood held every advantage. The average Asgardian commoner lived no more than five hundred years, while nobles measured their lifespans in millennia. Equality did not exist in this world. Perhaps some long-lived nobles still remembered the days when the great Odin waged war across the Nine Realms, but they avoided the topic like the plague—because their survival through that blood-soaked purge had depended on their silence. That was how they preserved their ten-thousand-year-old bloodlines.
They remembered all too well Odin's brutal methods.
Countless ancient houses—whose lineage dated back to Borr, Odin's father, and even Buri before him—were eradicated root and branch. The hooves of Sleipnir, the eight-legged steed, had trampled over the corpses of men, women, the elderly, and children, then marched straight into the gilded great halls of noble longhouses. Every book written about those families was burned. Every supporter was executed. Every statue and stele commemorating their deeds was smashed to pieces. The tongues of all bards who ever sang their glories were cut out. The smoke from the cremations once blanketed the grand golden spires of the palace itself. The mighty Valkyries—glorious, invincible—had their honors erased by Odin's cruel hands. The one-eyed king upon his throne buried the fire of betrayal beneath the cold weight of lies. Axe and blood served as excuses for forgetfulness. Tavern tales of the Valkyries were twisted, revised. The new generation of Asgardians grew up on lies. In the frenzied revelry of mead and banquets, truth no longer had a place.
And all of it stemmed from one cursed prophecy.
But they knew that Ragnarök would one day arrive. The venomous dragon Níðhöggr, who gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil, would unfurl its wings. And the same merciless goddess of death would rise aboard the ship Naglfar, built from the fingernails of the dead, lifted by icy springs and serpents, and ascend from the cold, misty world of eternal night into the realm of the gods to bring about their destruction.
"Of course, these are all just legends. Look around us, my friend—Níðhöggr is a fairytale to frighten children, and the goddess of death doesn't even exist. No one can survive in Helheim, north of the Ginnungagap. That place belongs to the dead. This place belongs to the living."
The Asgardian astronomer was a commoner. His knowledge had earned him favor, granting him the rare right to work within the Golden Palace. The last time Solomon had visited the Asgardian observatory, it was he who had guided him. After two goblets of mead, the old man declared confidently, "These myths were composed when our ancestors observed the heavens and were overwhelmed by awe. They're reflections of our fears for tomorrow and our anxieties about our kin, the Jotuns. Then the bards spread these stories, exaggerating them for attention. As scholars, we must never take such tales as truth."
"I didn't think Asgardians talked like that," Kaecilius remarked, motioning behind the scholar to keep his attention while Solomon, cloaked, moved through the revelers in Gladsheim. "I expected you to express fear, or at least analyze the logic of the prophecy in light of history."
"I'm a commoner, not a mage like you. I believe in numbers. My lifespan will top out at five hundred years. Even with the most expensive soul forge treatments, I won't reach a thousand. I have no time to indulge in the myths of nobles. For us short-lived folk, pursuing truth is the most important thing in life. We were not made from ash and elm. The world wasn't birthed from Ymir's corpse. The light elves and dark elves weren't worms that turned into life. And dwarves didn't come from the flesh of Brimir and Bláinn. Yes, the Aesir are gods—but that doesn't mean we have to worship them blindly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to work…"
Kaecilius was surprised. He hadn't expected this level of clarity from an Asgardian scholar. He let go of his original objective and respectfully asked, "Please, just one moment more, seeker of truth…"
Meanwhile, Solomon squeezed past the great doors and stood before the model of Yggdrasil, which reflected the real-time state of the World Tree. He unrolled the Ancient One's scroll.
"Good evening, my beloved goddess of death," he said softly as he released the spell within the scroll. "I hope you're pleased with the gift I've brought you."
"You've finally come! Before Fimbulwinter begins!"
As the pure white Pegasus spread its wings, descending through the clouds with light and heat, the queen whose blood dripped down the Sword-Thorn Throne rose to her feet. As Asgard's most powerful immortal, her wounds healed instantly. It was her trait—chosen by the concept of death itself—though she still believed it to be her innate gift, just like her talent for necromancy. All of it was her proof of destiny, her claim to the Asgardian crown.
"It seems you're ready to face death in your most valiant form." The goddess of death examined Solomon's armor with a pleased tilt of her chin. She opened her arms and took a deep breath of the cold, death-laced air. The fog over the river Gjöll was swept away by the powerful gusts stirred up by Pegasus's wings. The canopy of the ironwood forest glittered with an eerie white light. Hela welcomed Solomon loudly. "If your performance pleases me, I will grant you the right to remain by my side forever—as my greatest guardian, sharing in the glory of ruling Asgard."
Seated on Pegasus, Solomon offered a calm smile. "Then before we begin, would you care to enjoy a taste of Asgardian hospitality?"
"Of course. We didn't have a chance to talk last time. I don't mind showing you a bit of my masterly generosity before we fight. Move, Sluggish! Move, Sloth! You rotten corpses, brittle bones, and stupid skeletons—bring out the offerings for my guest. Oh… you two dolts aren't going to budge? Right. I forgot—you've been dead for centuries."
Hela strode away from Solomon with full confidence, not the least bit concerned that he might strike her down from behind. Her palace, Eliudnir—the Hall of Sorrows—was massive, carved into the heart of the mountain, with wide corridors and countless rooms filled with spirits and bones. The tortured screams of the damned leaked from under door cracks, weaving together into a stream of endless lamentation.
The Goddess of Death walked with joy, proudly showing her guest everything.
"Look here! This is my food—'Hunger.' These are my utensils—'Famine.' Come, come, let me show you my bedroom. It's called 'Destruction.' Draw back the curtains—they're named 'Conflagration'—and you'll see nine rivers. That one is called Slid—I throw blades I've forged into it daily. The Lie-King imprisoned me here for so long that now the river is choked with sharp steel. And do you see that grand bed named 'Sorrow,' warrior? I like warriors. I like fresh, living flesh. If you defeat me, you'll earn the right to lie upon it and share in my pleasure."
"Is that so?"
"So long as you don't die by my hand, that is your reward."
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I Am Zeus, KING OF GODS (Chapter 79)
Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 391)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 471)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 677)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 1059)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1418)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1422)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1452)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1504)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld!(Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 703)
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