Sokovia — Hydra Base Laboratory
The dim, enclosed chamber buzzed with a low mechanical hum. Countless pieces of cutting-edge biological equipment—devices so advanced they rarely existed outside black markets or forbidden labs—were scattered throughout the room. Thick bundles of cables snaked across the floor, converging beneath a sleek sleeping pod at the center. Through the glass, a tall humanoid figure rested in silent, artificial slumber.
This was the final project bestowed upon Hydra by the God of Light: an artificial weapon forged through the fusion of advanced A.I., nanotechnology, and regenerative-cradle bioengineering.
"The body design is complete. All indicators are stable. The only thing we still lack—" Arnim Zola's squat digital avatar flickered into view, "—is the core energy source."
Two-thirds of the project was finished, yet without the Tesseract, progress had ground to a halt.
"What is that Pierce fool doing?" Baron Stryker muttered as he paced anxiously. He was responsible for overseeing the experiment, while Zola was in charge of acquiring the energy source. But after all this time, the essential component was still missing.
What kind of director failed at the one thing he was supposed to deliver?
"Doctor, what exactly is this Tesseract?" Helen Cho finally spoke up, hoping to diffuse the rising tension in the room.
She still believed she was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Her professional expertise had contributed significantly to the project, earning Zola's praise—and deepening her belief that she was assisting a legitimate government initiative.
"The Tesseract," Zola explained warmly, "is a divine relic—left on Earth by Odin himself. Some refer to it as the Dragon's Jewel."
Helen blinked. Even as a Korean, she was well aware of Thor thanks to government publicity, and her background in mythology made Odin an instantly recognizable figure.
"A divine artifact… so it's a kind of special energy generator? Like Stark's Arc Reactor?"
"No, no, no," Zola corrected, delighted by the discussion. "The Tesseract is the energy. My transmission network is merely the device."
As the two scientists slipped effortlessly into technical debate, Baron Stratt pinched the bridge of his nose. Scientists—always obsessing over the wrong details. Now he'd have to chase down Pierce himself.
Grumbling, he stormed out of the lab.
Washington D.C. — White House, Conference Room
"My lord, this is the situation. Nick Fury has summoned reinforcements—she calls herself 'Captain Marvel'—and he intends to mount a fresh challenge against you!"
Alexander Pierce bowed deeply toward the holographic image of Gilgamesh, his posture reminiscent of a deferential Prime Minister bowing before a foreign superpower.
He had received the news the moment Carol Danvers returned. Since Gilgamesh would discover it sooner or later, Pierce decided to report it first in hopes of earning favor.
Thus he initiated this secure video conference—to ingratiate himself with a god.
But Gilgamesh barely looked interested. Captain Marvel or Captain America—it hardly mattered. He'd crush them all the same. His true concern lay elsewhere.
Lounging back in his leather chair, chin propped against his palm, he asked lazily, "Has the research project I assigned to Hydra produced any results?"
The question made Pierce flinch. For days he had mobilized every available resource to hunt down the Tesseract, but Nick Fury had hidden the artifact too well. Pierce knew only that it was being studied—nothing more.
"We've completed most of the project, my lord. Only the Tesseract remains." His voice trembled with guilt. "I underestimated Nick Fury. Please… punish me as you see fit."
Pierce knelt on one knee, his face filled with remorse, every expression perfectly controlled.
Unfortunately, Gilgamesh wasn't buying it.
A cold, disdainful smile tugged at his lips as he crossed his legs, arrogance radiating from him.
"Underestimated? I think the word you're looking for is incompetence."
"Please… please forgive me, sir!"
Watching the faint sheen of sweat on Pierce's forehead, Gilgamesh couldn't even be bothered to continue. Hydra was nothing more than a toy for his amusement. If it failed to entertain him, he could destroy it and toss it aside without the slightest guilt.
Right now, he was simply waiting for his father, Odin, to release Hela. He'd never met that sister of his, but he fully intended to give her a proper real-world beating—teach her firsthand what cruel reality felt like—and then he could retire comfortably back to the heavens…
"Wait… why would I go back to the heavens? I've been bored there for thousands of years. What I should be doing is exploring the universe!"
The thought struck him suddenly. Deep space used to bore him, but now that he considered it, Odin's four children were all grown, and it was about time for the inheritance to be divided. Odin had already made arrangements for the others.
Thor would inherit Asgard.
Hela would take Nephalem.
Loki would claim Jotunheim.
So where was the God of Light supposed to live?
Logically, his title best suited Alfheim—the home of the Light Elves, a world of enchanted forests and fertile lands.
But the Light Elves already had their own rulers. He could descend and replace them—at worst, it would just require another massacre—but Odin would never approve.
Thinking of this, Gilgamesh couldn't help wondering what sort of legacy his father intended to leave for him.
"No, no… Odin's not even dead yet. Why am I worrying about this?"
He shook his head, amused by his own ridiculous train of thought. Throughout divine history, territories were seized by generations of god-kings. With abilities equal to Odin's, why should he obsess over a tiny corner of the Nine Realms?
His vision had been far too small.
Instead of fighting over a handful of realms, he should conquer an entire galaxy, shut his gates, and reign as a cosmic overlord.
Then he could build something new—like Greece, Asgard, or Heaven—but greater. Establish a brand-new pantheon, declare himself god-king, and let his glory echo across the stars.
Besides, his twelve Gold Saints had served loyally for years, never faltering. He would be ashamed not to grant them divine titles.
He could let each of them govern a galaxy, while he himself ruled all creation—the king of the stars. Compared to that, what did the Nine Realms amount to?
A true dragon does not live among serpents; coveting Odin's meager legacy was beneath him.
The realization ignited a rare surge of fighting spirit within him. Still, conquering the star clusters was a monumental task, one that required careful planning. The simplest approach for now was to gather the Infinity Stones and snap his fingers.
Alternatively, he could lead the twelve Gold Saints and seize Valhalla by force.
At the very least, he needed to break through to the Tenth Sense—reach the realm of a single universe, become a true god. After that, he wouldn't need to struggle for territory at all.
He could simply create his own star system.
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