The plasma blade met flesh with the sound of reality screaming.
Adam's weapon carved through Odin's throat, divine ichor erupting in a golden arc that painted the crystal floor in liquid starlight. The All-Father's single eye went wide—not with fear, but with the stunned realisation that he had finally encountered a variable he couldn't account for: absolute, suicidal determination.
Odin tried to speak, tried to voice some final curse or proclamation, but only wet gurgling sounds emerged from his severed windpipe. His weathered hands flew to his throat, divine fingers desperately trying to hold together the gaping wound that Adam's blade had carved from ear to ear. Golden blood poured between his fingers, each drop hissing as it struck the crystal floor.
