Idunn's Orchard was a place where time seemed to hold its breath. While the rest of Asgard crumbled under the weight of war, here, the air hung still, heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and ancient, tangible magic. Every inhalation felt like drinking in the power of millennia.
The trees were made of silver wood, their leaves shimmering like polished emeralds, reflecting a soft light that danced across the moss-covered ground. And there, hanging from the branches of the central tree, were the Apples. They were not merely golden; they glowed with a gentle, rhythmic light, pulsing like the very heartbeat of the world.
"Boss…" whispered Lom, the youngest of the six, eyes wide with awe. "The air here… it's like drinking wine just by breathing it. Are we really going to do this?"
"We're already here, aren't we?" Fuku replied, though his own heart hammered against his ribs.
The orchard was unnervingly silent. No guards. No Valkyries. The Aesir had been so arrogant, certain that no mortal would ever dare set foot in their most sacred sanctuary, that they hadn't even left a single dog to watch the gates. Or perhaps… they were all already dead.
"The Tree…" Jörmungandr's voice slashed through Fuku's mind like a jagged blade. "Reach for the highest fruit. The one that contains the concentrated essence of dawn. Bring it to me, and our pact will be sealed."
Fuku approached the silver tree. His Golden Finger throbbed now, reacting to the raw divinity pulsing in the orchard. Every branch he grasped sent an electric thrill through his body, and he climbed with the grace of a cat, his crew below watching, breath caught, afraid to disturb the fragile balance of this sacred place.
Finally, he reached the top. There it was: the Prime Apple.
As his fingers brushed the fruit's skin, a surge of electricity coursed through him. Images flashed in his mind: the birth of the stars, the forging of Mjolnir, the first breath of the first man. The weight of eternity rested in his hand. The world itself seemed to whisper its ancient secrets.
He plucked it.
"Yes…" hissed the Serpent, a voice dripping with pure, unadulterated greed. "Now descend. Leave this place before the Norns realize the thread of fate has been cut. Bring it to the shadows, Fuku."
Fuku sat on the silver branch, gazing at the apple. It was warm, alive, almost conscious. He looked at his crew—six men who had followed him into the depths of Hell and back. Hungry, exhausted, mortal. Like him. As always.
He looked up at the empty sky of Asgard. The gods had used these apples to stay young, while humans withered and died in the mud. They had used this power to rule, to judge, to send men like him to Helheim for the simple crime of wanting a better life.
"Boss? What are you doing?" Lom called, sensing the sudden shift in Fuku's aura—cold, sharp, almost otherworldly.
Fuku looked at the apple, then at the invisible shadow of the Serpent lurking in the void.
"You know, Jörmungandr," Fuku said aloud, calm and icy, "in my world, the first rule of the streets is: never trust a guy stuck in a hole. You wanted this apple because it was your ticket out. But I think I'd rather have my own ticket."
"What… what are you doing, mortal? STOP!" screamed the Serpent.
Fuku didn't stop. With a defiant grin, he sank his teeth into the golden flesh of the apple.
The taste was an explosion. Not juice, but liquid sunlight, liquid lightning, liquid existence itself. Every fiber of his body thrummed with primordial energy, and his mind opened to the comprehension of the universe itself.
"NO!" The Serpent's voice screamed, a cry of cosmic agony.
But Fuku didn't listen. His body felt as if it were melting down and reforging in a furnace, every cell irradiated with power. His Golden Finger didn't just glow—it erupted into a pillar of brilliant, blinding light. The power didn't flow into him; it claimed him, reshaping him into something beyond human.
He threw the half-eaten apple to his six comrades.
"Eat!" he roared, his voice echoing with a new, metallic resonance. "Leave not a single bite for the Gods!"
The six outlaws scrambled for the remains of the divine fruit, and the sky above Asgard finally responded. A thunderclap, louder than any explosion, rocked the city.
The theft had been revealed. The fruit had been consumed. And in the center of the orchard, Fuku stood upright, his eyes no longer brown, but molten, burning gold.
He looked at his hand. He could see the ley lines of the universe. He could see the soul threads of his friends. He could see the fear of the Serpent.
"My turn," Fuku whispered.