Su Ming peered down, but the hollow beneath the World Tree revealed nothing but clouds and mist.
Not only was there fog from the ice, but also smoke from yesterday's fire, as if a well had been stuffed with snowy cotton.
The wind stirred by his steed's gallop made the wisps tremble faintly.
A wide, steep staircase of ice spiraled around the World Tree, plunging into the clouds below.
Neither Hydra nor Frost Giants could fly, but Zemo had devised a way to craft this staircase from ice. Given time, it would melt, erasing all traces.
The stairs were already dripping, shimmering with rainbow-like light under the sun. Time had clearly passed.
Su Ming knew a bit about what lay at the World Tree's roots.
The three Norns resided there, beside the Well of Wisdom, spinning threads of fate.
Though they belonged to the Olympian pantheon, they cherished the tranquility around the World Tree and its deep connection to the cosmos.
Golden threads of fate flowed from the void, smoothed by their hands, and fed into the Well of Wisdom.
Time grants wisdom's accumulation but also ushers souls from the world.
That's the essence of fate—a cycle, born from the world, returning to it.
Mimir's Well, the fabled Well of Wisdom, looked like a murky pond.
Sometimes it was littered with debris, other times overgrown with lotuses or duckweed.
A single sip could grant boundless wisdom.
But nothing came free—power or knowledge demanded a price.
Even Odin paid with an eye, the weight of knowledge erasing his smile forever.
Beyond that, a modest cavern at the tree's roots served as Asgard's highest-security prison, capable of holding Skyfather-level beings. It even had a "life-support system."
This system was a massive serpent that gnawed the World Tree's roots, spitting special venom onto prisoners' faces—their only sustenance.
In short, being jailed there was a fate worse than death. The venom, while non-lethal and nutritious, burned the innards, causing unbearable agony.
In all of Marvel's history, only Loki endured this torment. Lesser criminals were kept under the Golden Palace.
Otherwise, the roots held little of value.
The flowers and grasses were lovely, the critters curious, but Su Ming doubted Zemo cared for such things.
If Zemo had led a horde to the roots just to catch butterflies, Su Ming would concede defeat and ignore his schemes forever.
Today, butterflies with Hydra and Frost Giants; tomorrow, crickets with a Chitauri army—what was there to fear?
At that level, he'd never cause real trouble.
"Guard the perimeter," Su Ming ordered the surrounding soldiers, tasking them to stay alert for surprises. Then he rode straight down.
Flying through the misty clouds was surreal. No one could say how tall the tree was. The journey revealed nothing but white haze.
His visor's numbers flickered wildly, all metrics jumping except the altitude, which showed an error.
Deep in the clouds, after an indeterminate time, green ground appeared. The steed braked sharply, avoiding a crash.
The scene below had changed drastically. The grass around the roots was trampled into chaos, and the three Norns looked ravaged, leaning disheveled against the tree.
Su Ming patted the steed's neck, signaling it to graze, and strode toward the three witnesses.
The golden threads of fate on the ground were tangled, snapped into pieces. The Norns stared blankly at the thick clouds above.
Ahem! "Still alive?"
Su Ming drove his spear into the soil, flipping up black earth as the grass bent slightly.
The youngest Norn, a maiden, glanced up at him.
"Outsider, you're too late. The thread of fate has been severed."
He still wore Odin's guise, but the Norns saw through him instantly. Intriguing.
Fate's thread being cut didn't bother him—he wasn't of this world, beyond fate's reach.
But their ashen faces suggested something major had happened. Out of basic decency, he had to ask.
"What happened?"
"Frost Giants and human soldiers attacked us," the middle Norn, a matron, answered, her flower crown fallen, petals scattered on the ground.
"What did they do, besides cutting the threads?"
"A human in a purple mask… he violated me," the eldest Norn, an old crone, said, tears glimmering in her eyes as she slumped against the roots like wilted wreckage.
Her skeletal frame and face like weathered orange peel radiated despair.
Cough—what?!
Su Ming nearly choked on his own spit.
Zemo violated her?
Of the three Norns—a youthful beauty, a voluptuous matron, and this shriveled crone—Zemo chose her?
That taste was beyond heavy.
Looking closer at the crone's appearance, Su Ming gagged.
He suddenly didn't want details. His opinion of Zemo shot straight to "lunatic."
But the crone wasn't done. "Come closer, see the atrocity he committed."
"No, I'm good."
As she tugged at her gossamer chest, seemingly to show evidence, Su Ming shook his head like a rattle.
He only had one eye left—he needed it. What if the sight was so horrific it burned out?
But she only bared her neck, revealing purple handprints.
"He choked me, saying he'd strangle fate's throat," she sobbed.
Su Ming exhaled in relief. That's all?
He'd feared something far worse.
These goddesses were just naive. A chokehold in battle was standard, wasn't it?
Still, it offered some intel.
The bruises suggested young Zemo was under five-foot-seven, with a child-sized hand.
Yet he could lift someone by the throat single-handedly, hinting at enhancements—chemical or mechanical.
The Frost Giants' footprints were dense but orderly, showing Zemo's strong control, likely through hefty incentives.
The Norns were shaken but unharmed, save for the severed threads.
Zemo had come to prevent some future event by cutting fate's threads—an event Su Ming didn't know.
Lastly, young Zemo was a Beethoven fan, unlike most Nazis who preferred Strauss's Blue Danube.
Su Ming's gaze shifted to the pond, where water lilies bloomed, and a golden boat drifted without wind.
"Did he drink from the well?"
The matron comforted the sobbing crone, while the maiden stood, brushing her skirt, and answered.
"He did. He scooped a handful and drank it."
"What price did he pay?"
The maiden pointed at the water, her voice trembling. "See for yourself."
Su Ming peered into the murky pond. At its shallow bottom lay a complete human face—skin peeled off.
Knowing Zemo drank from the Well of Wisdom, Su Ming casually reknotted the fate threads, reconnecting the broken ends, and handed them back to the Norns, gesturing for them to resume their work.
He needed to hurry back to the Golden Palace. He had a hunch about Zemo's plan.
The kid was after runes.
With the Well's wisdom, he'd gained the ability to comprehend all runes.
Odin's discovery of runes was in every Norse mythology book—a beginner's guide to godhood.
With a horde of followers and Frost Giant allies, Zemo likely chose a broadly beneficial prize to appease them.
Wisdom didn't directly boost combat power.
Zemo's knowledge of Asgard might not rival Su Ming's, but with runes mastered, he'd need updated intel.
The library, packed with records, was inside the Golden Palace.
Su Ming bet Zemo would go there.
He was also curious how young Zemo moved through Asgard undetected.
Back at the palace, the guards reported no disturbances.
The corridors and rooms carried no unusual scents.
Thanks to Brunnhilde's tip, Su Ming relied on Stranglehold's sense of smell to track Frost Giants.
Living in icy wastelands, they used ironstone pillars as weapons, didn't light fires, and certainly didn't bathe.
Centuries of body odor would make anyone dizzy.
Yet Stranglehold detected nothing—not the Giants' stench, nor Zemo's or Hydra's.
Odd, considering the hundreds of varied footprints at the World Tree, proof Zemo was moving with a large force.
Su Ming veered toward the infirmary to find Heimdall.