"Black Loki gave me two choices, and I'll give you two choices as well."
"We surrender!"
Young Loki blurted it out before Samuel had even finished the sentence. His posture was deceptively calm, but the words came out fast—like a man who'd learned from the previous example that hesitation meant death.
Samuel tilted his head. He accepted the surrender with a flick of his fingers, yet his expression didn't soften at all. Inside, he didn't believe them for a heartbeat.
Because a 'Loki' never truly surrenders.
Among them, surrender was just another tool—a mask they wore to preserve their skins while quietly plotting the next betrayal. In their minds, bowing to power today meant living long enough to stab it tomorrow. They didn't carry any "a scholar may die but never be humiliated" morality; their creed was pure survival and trickery.
Most Lokis called themselves the Nine Realms' First Mage, but in practice they were assassins in velvet gloves. They were exceptional at feints, ambushes, and backstabs. Honest ones like Old Loki were rare outliers—"purely not doing their job," as Samuel thought.
He didn't bother arguing. He wasn't naïve enough to take their words at face value, especially not from a Loki. Whatever charm the television show versions might have had, stripped of its halo a Loki was just another untrustworthy schemer whose "goodness" extended only to their own timeline's self, not to strangers.
Strength—that was the only leash that worked. As long as he was overwhelmingly strong, their little ideas of treachery would stay buried in their hearts, never daring to bloom.
Samuel smiled slightly. "My name is Samuel—the Quan of omniscience and omnipotence. I'm a very easy person to get along with. If you can't get along, find the reason yourselves."
He stood, cloak rippling faintly with power. "I won't stay here for long. When I'm gone, you will collect usable resources from the outside. And when I say 'outside'…" His eyes narrowed, "…I don't mean outside the castle."
The words landed like stones in a pond. Old Loki's pupils shrank, a tremor running through him. Not outside the castle… then outside the Void itself?
He had been here the longest. He had tried everything. His calmness came from despair. Yet Samuel's offhand remark cracked that numb shell. He risked the disappointment and asked anyway: "You—you can leave the Void?"
"Yes," Samuel said as if it were trivial. "If you can't leave the Void, what's the point of you collecting resources?"
He let his voice roll like distant thunder. "Remember firmly—my name is Samuel, the Quan of omniscience and omnipotence."
Omniscience and omnipotence—knowing everything, able to do anything. Including leaving the Void.
To Old Loki it was like a great drum struck beside his ear. Hope surged painfully in his chest.
"You have a Time Variance Authority controller?" Young Loki's tone trembled despite his effort to sound regal. The Void was supposed to be a one‑way grave. Only a TVA controller could open a door out.
Over the years they'd seen other TVA workers pruned and dumped here. None had a functioning controller. None had escaped.
Samuel shook his head. "For you, you can't leave without a controller. For me, this place is my backyard. I come and go as I please."
His smile sharpened. "When a new king ascends the throne he grants a general amnesty. Don't say I didn't give you a chance. Let's have a fight. The winner, I'll take out for some air. Then you'll work for me with peace of mind in the future."
Old Loki and Young Loki exchanged glances heavy with meaning. Young Loki forced a kingly air: "I concede. You go."
Samuel's gaze turned cold. "I told you to have a fight."
Black Loki's body wasn't even cold and already freedom dangled in front of them. They had no choice. Fight or lose everything. The two Lokis moved at the same time.
"Ding!"
"Detected combat, reward dropped: Invisibility (Old Loki)."
"Ding!"
"Detected combat, reward dropped: Cold Immunity (Young Loki)."
Samuel's eyes gleamed. Old Loki dropped another skill—Invisibility. Perfect for pairing with illusionary clones or stealth kills. As expected of the Nine Realms' First Mage: so many tricks hidden up his sleeves.
Young Loki's Cold Immunity was underwhelming, only a passive trait from his Frost Giant bloodline.
"Bang!"
Young Loki's Flame Sword clashed against Old Loki's emerald spell. Sparks of scarlet and green scattered like fireworks. Yet the "fight" was so polite, so half‑hearted it resembled Zhang Chulan and Feng Baobao's farce of a duel—an act more than a battle.
Samuel's gaze slid to the weapon. The Flame Sword was no toy; its power rivalled Mjolnir. In early comics it had been Loki's exclusive divine blade, the Sword of Victory. Thor had his hammer, Loki his sword. Young Loki should have used it to kill Thor in his timeline. And yet here he swung it like a prop.
The two exchanged a few more perfunctory blows. No blush, no panting, already a "winner." Samuel's mouth quirked in contempt.
"The sword is good. Prepare the supplies you won't need. I'll take them when I return," he said flatly.
He rose, stepped over, caught Old Loki by the arm, and simply left the Void.
Whoosh—
They appeared at the entrance of an alley on a bustling street. Samuel had not taken Old Loki back to Na Du Tong at all but straight into the world outside.
Old Loki inhaled sharply, feeling real air, real sunlight. "I actually left the Void. You—aren't you afraid I'll run away?"
Samuel waved a hand. "You can't outrun me."
A ripple of red energy rolled across his palm and condensed into a set of plain casual clothes. He tossed them to Old Loki. "Change. That costume of yours screams trouble."
The old man looked down at himself—green and gold, tight as a snake's skin, underwear‑outside like an old Superman. He grimaced. Ordinary clothes never looked so precious.