The journey passed with Loki gloating and Thor sulking, unable to endure Loki's veiled taunts any longer.
Thor hadn't planned how to face the people after defeat, hoping to linger on the road.
"Heimdall, take us back!" Thor shouted, raising Mjolnir skyward.
Silence. No sign of the Bifrost.
What was wrong? Odin had just arrived via the Bifrost. Why was Heimdall ignoring them now?
"Heimdall! Hear your prince? Open the Bifrost!" Thor called again, to no response.
Loki, creator of the earlier illusion, sensed trouble. Heimdall watched the Nine Realms. The only reason not to open the Bifrost was an attack on his post. Recalling Heimdall's redeployment of troops, Loki grew certain.
"No use shouting. Heimdall's likely facing enemies. He pulled back forces—Asgard's probably under attack," Loki told his dimwitted brother.
The air grew hotter. Blood and sweat dripped from Thor's face, trailing down his beard.
Unwilling to believe Loki, he reasoned: if there was time to send Odin, why not retrieve the army? It didn't add up.
"Heimdall!" he bellowed.
A black-green pillar of light erupted nearby—not from the sky, but the ground.
Thor exhaled, relieved. The gate opened, though the color was off. He recognized a portal.
Loki yanked his goat back, retreating several steps.
"The Bifrost opened. Why pull me?" Thor asked.
"Foolish brother, since when is black in the rainbow?" Loki sighed, exasperated. The portal's color was wrong, and its other end radiated dark, deathly energy.
This wasn't Asgard.
It felt like…
As Thor opened his mouth to argue, the green pillar widened from well-sized to World Tree-thick, large enough for an army.
From the emerald light stepped a scruffy, disheveled figure.
"Thor, you should listen to Loki or get a new brain," the figure said.
Thor squinted. The silhouette was familiar, but backlit, unclear.
Loki recognized the arm. "Tyr? Is that you?"
It was Tyr, with his underworld army. At Loki's question, he gave a stiff, corpse-like smile.
"Yes, brothers. Asgard's war god returns!"
Thor relaxed, dismounting to embrace Tyr but stopped. "Long time no see. Where've you been… wait, aren't you dead?"
"Wondering why I died gloriously but didn't reach Valhalla?" Tyr rasped, his voice resonating from his chest.
"Yeah," Thor scratched his head. If the war god didn't qualify for Valhalla, who did?
Tyr glanced at Thor's battered Warriors Three and Asgard's army, spotting familiar faces.
"Someone was faster than the Valkyries." He flexed his Uru prosthetic arm, which morphed into a greatsword crackling with magic. "You know why I'm here."
"To Valhalla?" Thor ventured, stroking his beard. "You'd qualify, but your undead army? Not all are Asgardians, and their deaths weren't glorious."
Tyr shook his head. Making Thor guess riddles was pointless. Action would answer.
He lunged, his sword thrusting at Thor.
Tyr didn't just want Valhalla—he aimed to drag others to the underworld.
"Careful!" Volstagg raised his shield, blocking a piercing blow for Thor. Despite his bulk, he was flung back like a ball.
Tyr flicked his wrist, turning the thrust into a slash at Thor's head. Sif's shield blocked it, but she was slammed to the ground, kicking up dust.
Thor, stunned, couldn't fathom Tyr attacking. They'd been friends. Why this sudden deathblow?
Another strike came. Thor raised Mjolnir, clashing with Tyr.
Tyr's skill and experience outmatched Thor's superior gear, making it an even fight.
Loki had slipped away.
He left an illusion to watch the chaos as Tyr's undead army poured from the green pillar, clashing with Asgard's forces.
Countless, they kept coming—some humanoid, others not, from stone-axe primitives to Midgard soldiers with muskets.
Rotting, clad in rags, their eyes glowed black.
Loki had seen similar in the underworld, but he didn't know it had an army, clearly hostile to Asgard, led by a vengeful war god.
Thor might defeat Tyr, but Asgard's army couldn't beat an undead horde ten times their size.
In this indefensible, unsupported terrain, the undead needed no rest or food. Attrition would kill them all.
Loki saw the outcome: total loss, though Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three could escape. No one could stop them.
No point staying.
He'd heard of a secret passage from Muspelheim to Vanaheim. He'd slip through, return to Asgard, and pin the army's loss on Thor.
When Thor, persuaded by the others, sought Loki to retreat, he saw only a smiling illusion fade away.
Thor wasn't alone in his confusion. Ronan and Malekith were baffled too.
They'd seen "Odin" watching their fleets clash, each with their plans.
Malekith considered fleeing. Odin was too much without the Aether. Facing him now was suicide.
Ronan fought harder, ordering full firepower to impress Odin and gain favor.
But neither expected Odin to watch briefly, then casually return to the Golden Palace.
What now?
Wasn't Asgard his realm? Why ignore the sky battle?
Didn't he see that cruiser about to crash, exploding into hundreds of homes? Did he not care?
Odin's actions answered: he didn't.
The Golden Palace's gates stood open, a leaf drifting past, silent. No sign of Odin emerging.
This baffled both leaders. What was this?
If they kept fighting, Asgard would be ash.
Su Ming sat on Odin's throne, holding a fake Gungnir, propping his head, dozing.
Garth and Brunhilde ate and drank at a table below.
Let it burn, let it break. Weaken the army, then the infrastructure. When half of Asgard was rubble, Su Ming would negotiate with Ronan.
Malekith had to die eventually, but Ronan was useful. Toppling the Supreme Intelligence depended on him.
If he restored the Kree Queen, he'd be second only to her. He hated Xandar and the Nova Corps but was sympathetic to Earth—specifically, the Inhumans.
Ronan pitied genetic experiments, and many Inhumans saw themselves as Earthlings.
A contradictory man, he scorned Earth yet admired its music and dance.
The Kree, a military empire, had no entertainment—war was their pastime.
Kree and Skrulls balanced each other, both checking the Shi'ar Empire, maintaining cosmic equilibrium.
If Su Ming had his way, he'd let the universe dogfight, leaving Earth in peace.
A pipe dream. Earth was Marvel's center, always targeted.
The Golden Palace was quiet, as if Su Ming were alone in the vast hall, built for thousands, pondering.
Hela likely wouldn't come. Cunning, she'd seen the World Tree's fire as bait. Everyone else was here.
Time to wrap up. He awaited a damage report and talks with other factions.
As he considered calling for wine, Freya and Gullveig approached.
"Warrior from Midgard, we'd like to speak," Freya said, regal and composed, unfazed by Su Ming's disguise on Odin's throne.
Her voice was clear, warm, and courteous, without a hint of offense.
Gullveig clutched a laptop, its black frame clashing with the hall's golden splendor.
"Greetings, Queen of Asgard, Queen of Vanaheim." Su Ming stood, shedding his disguise, descending the golden steps with a nod. "What brings you?"
Freya faltered at his innocent act. Shouldn't I be asking you?
Her poise held. "We don't know your name, Earth's champion."
Su Ming lit a cigarette, mumbling, "Names are just labels, meaningless. I go by Deathstroke."
The hall's massive hearths burned whole trees, casting soft light across the floor.
Yet Freya felt a sudden chill in the warm room.