Not long ago, Loki—freshly beaten and humiliated by Ben—had fled back to Asgard in utter disgrace.
Gone was the elegant, regal bearing he'd once worn like armor. Instead, he looked like some vagrant who'd crawled out of the gutter, battered and broken. Looking at him now, who would dare believe this pathetic figure was a king of Asgard? He appeared more like a common vagabond lost among the stars.
His once-magnificent golden armor hung in tatters, each piece torn and dented beyond recognition. Matted hair fell across his face in greasy strands, while dried blood and dust caked his pale skin. The very sight of him would have been laughable if not for the cold fury burning in his emerald eyes.
By his own estimation, he'd suffered at least three fractured ribs and possibly a hairline fracture in his left arm. For an Asgardian, such injuries were merely inconveniences—the godly blood flowing through his veins would mend bone and sinew within hours.
To truly kill a god required either overwhelming force capable of complete annihilation, or mystical energies that could counter godly power itself.
By the time Loki had slipped quietly back into Asgard's golden halls, his physical wounds had indeed healed completely. Yet the brutal Four-Arms monster had carved something far deeper—a wound that festered in the darkest corners of his mind.
Even now, the mere thought of that monstrous creature sent involuntary shudders through his frame. He sat hunched upon his throne, the seat of power that should have filled him with triumph feeling cold and foreign beneath him. His eyes stared into nothing, vacant and haunted, while his body trembled with barely suppressed trauma. Like a child waking from nightmares, he wrapped his arms around himself, seeking comfort that would never come.
Long minutes passed before Loki finally surfaced from his catatonic state. As the fog of terror lifted, it revealed something far more dangerous underneath—pure, incandescent rage.
"You damned Midgardians!" His voice cracked like a whip through the empty throne room, echoing off ancient walls that had witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations. "How dare you treat me like this!"
Resentment burned in his gaze as he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Through gritted teeth, he growled like a rabid animal, fantasizing about tearing that crimson creature apart piece by bloody piece, savoring each moment of agony before swallowing the remains whole.
In his fury, Loki had unconsciously classified Four Arms as native to Earth—a reasonable assumption, given his ignorance of Midgard's true nature. Though nominally one of the Nine Realms, the backward little planet had never warranted serious attention from Asgard's nobility. What strange evolutionary paths might such a primitive world have taken? What monsters might have crawled from its depths?
But regardless of the creature's origins, this represented a humiliation beyond measure—not just for Loki personally, but for the entire realm of Asgard. It was as if a king, traveling through his own domain, had been beaten senseless by common street trash. Worse than beaten—humiliated. Ground beneath the heel of some upstart mortal who dared lay hands upon royalty.
The very thought made Loki's blood boil with righteous indignation. His first instinct upon returning had been to mobilize Asgard's armies and reduce Midgard to dust. Let the bifrost burn their pathetic cities to ash. Let their screams echo across the void as payment for their insolence.
But cold reality quickly tempered his fury. Loki possessed no true authority in Asgard—his claim to the throne was tenuous at best. He'd seized power through cunning and circumstance, taking advantage of Thor's exile and Odin's sleep. A usurper's crown, worn by sufferance rather than right.
Few in the realm truly acknowledged his rule. Even fewer would follow him into battle. The Warriors Three—Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun—had grown increasingly suspicious of his involvement in recent events. Their loyalty remained with Thor, and they made no effort to hide their contempt for their temporary king.
Heimdall, guardian of the Rainbow Bridge, watched Loki's every move with those all-seeing eyes. The gatekeeper's disapproval was palpable, his cooperation grudging at best. Even Loki's journey to Midgard had required slipping past Heimdall's notice, using forgotten pathways known only to those who trafficked in secrets.
Now, burning with the need for vengeance, Loki discovered he lacked even the basic right to command military action. The irony was not lost on him—a god of mischief, trapped by his own machinations.
"If Thor had been the one humiliated today," Loki mused with bitter laughter, "would the Asgardian warriors hesitate to sharpen their blades for war?"
The answer was obvious. Had the golden prince suffered such indignity, the entire realm would have rallied to his banner. Warriors would have competed for the honor of avenging their beloved heir. The bifrost would have burned with righteous fury as armies marched to restore Asgard's honor.
But for Loki? Even seated upon the throne of his fathers, he remained an outsider. A pretender tolerated only because the alternatives were worse.
The injustice of it all crystallized into a single, terrible truth: as long as Thor and Odin lived, Loki would never be anything more than a placeholder. The warriors dreamed of Thor's return, when their true king would lead them to glory once more. They clung to hope that Odin would wake from his enchanted slumber and restore Asgard's golden age.
"Only when you all die," Loki whispered to the empty throne room, his words carrying the weight of absolute conviction, "can I truly become the king of Asgard."
Shadow seemed to gather around him as he spoke, as if the very walls recognized the darkness growing in his heart. Yet even as murderous intent consumed him, practical considerations remained. Killing Odin directly was impossible—too many eyes watched, too many questions would be asked. Even a god of lies had limits to his deception.
But Loki knew of others who shared his desire to see the All-Father fall. Ancient enemies who had nursed their hatred across millennia, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Laufey," he breathed, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. "My... father."
The word came reluctantly, laden with self-loathing and bitter irony. The King of the Frost Giants—his true sire, though the very thought made his skin crawl with revulsion. The blood of Jotunheim flowed in his veins, marking him as something other than the pure Asgardian he'd always believed himself to be.
It was a secret that ate at him like acid, a shame he could never wash away. But perhaps that shame could serve a purpose. If he could not command Asgard's armies, he would find others willing to do his bidding.
Once again, Loki bypassed Heimdall's watchful gaze, slipping through the same dimensional crack he'd used to reach Midgard. This time, however, his destination lay in a very different direction—toward the frozen wasteland of Jotunheim, where giants nursed ancient grudges and plotted revenge against the realm of the gods.
He took time to compose himself, smoothing his hair and adjusting his armor until he appeared every inch the royal prince. Let none who saw him suspect the desperation that drove him to such desperate measures.
Yet even as Loki believed himself unobserved, the all-seeing eyes of Heimdall tracked his every move. The gatekeeper's expression remained stoic, but concern flickered in his golden gaze. Whatever the young prince planned, it would not end well for any of the Nine Realms.
Jotunheim stretched before Loki like a vision of cosmic winter—a realm where ice and snow had reigned supreme since the dawn of time. Though many species of giants called this dimension home, the Frost Giants had long ago established themselves as its undisputed rulers, their ancient kingdom standing in eternal opposition to Asgard's golden halls.
The brutal cold that would have killed lesser beings barely registered to Loki's godly constitution. Still, he found himself glancing down at his pale arms, where blue veins pulsed beneath the surface—a reminder of the giant's blood that flowed through his body. The sight filled him with familiar self-disgust, a secret shame that he'd carried alone for so long.
He had no desire to acknowledge Laufey as family. Blood meant nothing compared to the throne he'd seized and the power he craved. This would be a transaction, nothing more—a mutually beneficial arrangement between temporary allies.
The plan forming in his mind was elegant in its simplicity. Let the giants deal with Odin while he himself retrieved the Destroyer from its vault. The ancient weapon would serve as the perfect instrument of vengeance against Midgard. Every living thing on that backward planet would burn—including his dear brother Thor, who had proven himself unworthy of the throne.
When the smoke cleared, Loki would emerge as Asgard's undisputed king. Odin would be dead, taking the secret of Loki's parentage to his grave. Both Midgard and Jotunheim would lie in ruins, their usefulness expired. And he—the god of mischief, the rightful heir to Asgard's throne—would lead his realm into a new golden age.
"I am the one they have been waiting for," he murmured to himself, the words carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "I am the king they deserve."
Meanwhile, on Earth...
Agent Coulson knelt beside Steve Rogers, a standard SHIELD medical kit open at his side. With practiced efficiency, he cleaned and bandaged the super soldier's wounds, his movements precise despite the unusual circumstances.
"You're lucky," Coulson observed, applying pressure to the wound. "The injury isn't too serious, and I don't have a second serum to spare."
Steve winced as antiseptic burned through torn flesh, but his attention remained fixed on the figure kneeling in the crater nearby. Thor had collapsed to his knees after failing to lift Mjolnir, his entire world shattered by the hammer's rejection. The god of thunder looked utterly broken, as if someone had reached inside his chest and torn out his very soul.
"Is this serum really that rare?" Steve asked, looking at Thor who had collapsed to his knees. The god of thunder looked utterly broken, as if someone had reached inside his chest and torn out his very soul
"Extremely. Osborn hasn't officially launched it to market yet—what we have came through Director Fury's connections. He managed to acquire a few samples in advance, partly for field use and partly for analysis. If our scientists can crack the formula, we won't have to keep buying it at premium prices."
Steve nodded slowly, though something about the explanation sat uncomfortably in his mind.
"What about him?" Steve asked, nodding toward Thor's motionless form.
Coulson followed his gaze, his expression troubled. "I honestly don't know. We'll have to wait for Director Fury to arrive and make that call. Given the circumstances, I suspect he'll be taken into custody for questioning."
"Fury's coming here personally?"
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