The problem was, when the Dark Aster arrived, the dwarf leader was blunt with Ronan.
"With gold, we can craft anything. Without gold, ask the Allfather if he'll help the Kree Empire."
Ronan knew Odin was asleep, not dead.
If his fleet plundered the dwarves, Odin might settle scores later.
The Supreme Intelligence calculated and concluded, but Ronan increasingly doubted that monstrosity.
A brain in a giant tank, wired with tubes, no discernible cells—just data and energy. Was it reliable?
The Kree nation worshipped it blindly, so Ronan kept his doubts secret.
He was secretly planning to overthrow the Supreme Intelligence and restore the Kree Queen.
In his scheme, he needed options. Offending Odin now would only bring trouble.
Unless the Supreme Intelligence foresaw his rebellion and gave him a trap to ensure his demise.
As ruler, its orders were inescapable, even if Ronan sensed a setup.
So, he decided before arriving: no stealing, no robbing—negotiate peacefully.
Crafting a warship required astronomical amounts of gold, which he couldn't procure. His plan was to visit the Golden Palace and charm Prince Thor for aid.
Both warriors, both hammer-wielders, they'd have common ground, right?
Halfway there, Ronan recalled encountering the Dark Elves' fleet en route.
They thought the Kree hadn't noticed, but Ronan simply ignored them.
The Dark Aster, one of the universe's mightiest ships, gained nothing from crushing their "skiffs."
Everyone but the most isolated knew the Dark Elves were exiles, penniless.
Capturing their ships yielded no profit, only losses—fuel, ammo, fighters.
Their leader, Malekith, knew this, acting like a rogue. Their space tactics: stealth, then launch Cursed Warriors to board enemy ships.
One Cursed Warrior could wreck a ship from within, turning it to space junk unless a warrior like Ronan intervened.
Disgusting but effective, Cursed Warriors were suicide troops, sacrificing for their race.
Ronan avoided Dark Elf entanglements, but now things were different. Helping Asgard against them might ease ship-building talks.
If he supplied materials, it could save on gold.
He ordered his fleet to track the Dark Elves' course and follow.
He caught them looting a Light Elf city.
Food, clothes, drinks, energy—they took everything, like space pirates.
Ronan despised them more. Malekith, a king, stooped lower than Ravager mercenaries.
But contempt didn't sway his strategy. He covertly rescued some residents, directing them to flee to Asgard.
It was a performance—Asgardians had to see the Kree saving their kin for it to matter.
To silence witnesses, Malekith chased the skiffs, unaware they'd been upgraded with Kree tech, outpacing his ships.
By the time he caught up, they'd reached Asgard's airspace, drawing Odin's attention.
Seizing the chaos below, Malekith planned a quick raid on Asgard.
But the Dark Aster warped in, attacking instantly. The Dark Elves returned fire, seeking escape.
Both leaders saw "Odin" on horseback before the Golden Palace, gazing impassively upward.
...
"Gaze upon me! I am glory! I am the glowing ember at the end of all things!" Surtur roared, drawing his flaming greatsword, Laevateinn, from a lava pool—the blade fated to end worlds.
A divine weapon, it burned with World Tree-destroying flames and could resize at will.
In the giant Surtur's hands, it stretched over a hundred meters long, ten wide, its eternal fire curling the group's hair.
Surtur swung. Thor and the Warriors Three dodged as the sword smashed their footing, shaking the earth and forming a lava pool. The four were flung back.
"I forge weapons from all things, and all things meet death by my hand. You face me to your doom!" the red-skinned giant bellowed, raising Laevateinn overhead for another strike, aimed at Loki.
"No!" Thor screamed, scrambling toward his brother to push him from the blade's path.
Too slow. Surtur's swing was lightning-fast. In a blazing arc, the sword struck.
Thor hit the ground, despairing, but confusion followed.
The struck Loki split in two, twisting in the heat, making faces at Surtur.
It was an illusion. The real Loki hid behind a boulder a hundred meters away.
His face was ashen, far from the illusion's nonchalance.
Heatwaves and molten lava flooded the volcano's interior. Loki was drenched, as if pulled from water.
"Odin's ulcer… he was right. Why did I come in with these fools?" Loki muttered, clutching his hair, peeking at the others scrambling under Surtur's blows, then ducking back.
He racked his brain, but this was a sheer power gap. What could lies do now?
"I am your doom!" Surtur roared, the air trembling.
Loki crouched, whispering, "Yes, yes, you're right. But I've got a plan."