"Tyr, what is the meaning of this?"
Fandral and the others, who had arrived on Earth ahead of the main host, were utterly blindsided by the events in Asgard. With a sea of familiar faces suddenly manifesting around them, they had no choice but to demand answers.
However, the answer they received was far worse than anything they could have imagined.
"The All-Father has fallen. Cul has returned," Tyr declared.
Now transformed into a Worthy of the Serpent, Tyr spoke with a voice that carried to every ear in the vicinity. His tone was laced with a performative, agonizing regret for his own "powerlessness." His words did exactly what they were intended to do: they ignited a wildfire of terror among the Asgardian survivors.
To these people, the name Cul was synonymous with a dread they had no way to combat.
"That's impossible!" Fandral stammered. The Warriors Three stood frozen, unable to process the news of Odin's defeat.
The sudden arrival of the Asgardian host sent the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stationed at the New Mexico site into a state of high alert. This wasn't a group of dozens or even hundreds.
There were over ten thousand of them.
The sprawling crowds packed the temporary S.H.I.E.L.D. encampment to its breaking point. These agents knew exactly what Asgard represented. Through their previous interactions with Fandral's group, S.H.I.E.L.D. analysts had already compiled extensive data on Asgardian physiology.
Even without the "all-powerful" Odin, ten thousand Asgardians were a force no human army could hope to contain. Their cellular density was three times that of a human, granting them strength and durability that defied terrestrial physics. Their stamina was functionally bottomless.
Most terrifying of all was the "Bifrost." S.H.I.E.L.D. knew it wasn't just a transport system; it was a star-shattering weapon. Despite Fandral and his companions looking like relics of the Iron Age, S.H.I.E.L.D. had learned the hard way—at the feet of the Barbarians on Mount Arreat—never to mistake "primitive" for "weak."
"I believe we need a more suitable environment for this discussion. Earth is willing to provide a temporary sanctuary for the people of Asgard," a voice cut through the tension.
Natasha Romanoff stepped forward. As the commanding officer on-site, she approached Tyr with a practiced, enigmatic smile. She stood with her arms crossed—a defensive posture that, on her, looked like a gesture of calm authority.
"Asgard does not require your pity!" Tyr roared. He played the part of the displaced, arrogant king perfectly. In the eyes of the Asgardians, they were still gods, and even the most perceptive among them saw nothing amiss in his volatile behavior.
Tyr knew the world had changed. He knew the Sorcerer Supreme existed, but as a Worthy, he had no intention of sharing such truths with his kin.
"We simply wish to offer whatever assistance we can," Natasha said, taking a half-step back. It was a subtle, diplomatic retreat designed to de-escalate his temper.
"You should be offering us worship!" Tyr bellowed, brushing aside Fandral's attempts to restrain him. The former God of Justice showed none of his legendary stoicism; he was manic, irritable, and fragile—the image of a soldier broken by fear.
As a Worthy, Tyr's mission was simple: sow the seeds of dread. Diablo's methods of corruption were infinitely more sophisticated than Cul's. Tyr had become a sentient marionette, and every word he spoke sent a fresh shiver of hopelessness through the ten thousand souls behind him.
"Please, calm yourself. I need to consult with my superiors," Natasha replied. This time, she didn't retreat. She knew that conceding too much space would eventually be read as weakness.
She unfolded her arms, her pale hands curling into fists. Her knuckles showed no calluses, but the frame of her hands looked heavy, hardened by years of brutal training. No amount of cosmetic care could truly hide the marks of a lifetime of combat.
"Human! Bring us wine. Sufficient quantities of it! And a place to rest!" Tyr commanded, taking a deep breath. To harvest fear effectively, he needed to maintain the facade of a leader.
"We will provide what you need as quickly as possible. I suggest you refrain from anything… provocative. I assume you have no desire to start a war with humanity," Natasha said coldly. She turned and walked away before he could respond.
She didn't know Tyr personally, but she could feel the unnatural threat radiating from him. Finding a secluded spot out of sight, she stepped through a shimmering portal, heading directly for Mount Arreat.
There was an Asgardian prince there. Thor was a Barbarian now; he was the only one who could make sense of this.
As for "consulting her superiors"? S.H.I.E.L.D. agents would handle the paperwork. She had no doubt that Nick Fury was already in his office, likely having a stroke over the sudden appearance of ten thousand aliens.
"So you're telling me you found nothing?"
Nick Fury sat in his office, staring at Hawkeye and Coulson with his one good eye. A shadow of irritation crossed his face. He had just received the New Mexico report, and his headache was rapidly evolving into a migraine.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. Fisk and the others were… surprisingly professional," Coulson reported, keeping his head low.
Hawkeye stood silently, his eyes closed. He had no intention of telling Fury about Spider-Man or the "Parallel Universe" revelation. Some things were better kept from the Director.
"Natasha sent a report from the field. Ten thousand Asgardians have landed. According to them, Odin has fallen, and we're about to face a god named Cul," Fury said, dropping the information as if it were a casual observation.
Hawkeye opened his eyes instantly. "I need to go to Arreat. Anything you want me to tell Cap?"
"Tell Steve to focus on his training for now. As for the Asgardians, the military will provide the 'logistics.' We will provide the oversight." Fury rubbed his forehead, lamenting the hair he had lost years ago. The stress was starting to claim his eyebrows next.
"Understood. Doesn't sound like a job for the rank and file anyway." Hawkeye didn't wait for a dismissal. He opened a portal and vanished toward the Holy Mountain.
On Fury's desk, a tablet logged the energy signature of the teleportation.
"Coulson," Fury said, his voice dropping into a more serious register. "How is the research on the Purple Man progressing?"
"Since he… lacks a brain, the specimen is perfectly stable and controllable," Coulson replied. There was a flicker of revulsion in his voice. He had promised Bul-Kathos he would dispose of the body, yet here he was, overseeing its study. The guilt was starting to eat at him.
"Your vacation is over, Phil. I need you back at that blacksmith shop in New York. Find out exactly what happened in London. There are gaps in the official British reports that I don't like."
Fury was being blunt. He could sense that Hawkeye and Natasha were no longer fully "S.H.I.E.L.D." Their loyalty was shifting toward the Barbarians. He couldn't force them into an interrogation—not with Bul-Kathos looming in the background. The scars from his last encounter with the Barbarian King still hadn't fully healed.
"Understood, Director." Coulson accepted the mission readily. He needed to get away from the Purple Man research before it changed him in ways he couldn't take back.
"And Coulson… about Spider-Man. You mentioned a lead. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs its own 'special' assets. A street hero like him could be a valuable addition."
Fury went silent, letting the implication hang. He didn't want Spider-Man on the payroll; he wanted him as a secret weapon, one of the many "hidden bases" he was building in the shadows.
"I'll have a full report on your desk before I deploy," Coulson said.
In a dimly lit room in an undisclosed location, Blade stood frozen. An elegant, imposing figure had just reached out and clicked his phone shut, cutting off his call to Fury.
"Are you… Alucard?" Blade asked, his voice low. The vampire blood in his veins was screaming, reacting to a terrifyingly pure genetic pressure. But the man before him didn't look like the flamboyant Alucard. He looked like something older. Something original.
"How insulting. I expected you to say 'Dracula.' It's a shame that out of all those who stole my power, the only one with a modicum of talent is so… boring," the man whispered.
Dracula glanced around the room. In the corner, two Weeping Angels stood locked in a stalemate, staring at each other.
"Using them to petrify one another… clever. But you still don't understand that their power is not something your little organization can hope to tame."
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