Turning the corner, "Odin's" smile vanished.
If Frigga showed up, the ruse was over.
Su Ming had gleaned plenty from the Ancient One, like Asgard's current state. Only the Mothers of the Gods knew where Odin slumbered; everyone else was clueless, aware only of his absence.
He also learned Surtur was indeed causing trouble with his flames—not in Asgard, but on Earth, torching villages as if testing something.
Thor, still young and far from his Avengers days, acted without thinking, punching out fires on Earth and learning their unnatural nature.
So, Su Ming pulled military strings, claiming he needed to clear weeds on a new island. He bought heaps of napalm bombs.
No sale? He offered cash, kickbacks, and Wilson Enterprises' "friendship."
Giant napalm bombs, classified as engineering explosives, came in sets of twenty. Leaving Earth, Su Ming's pouch held ten sets.
The Ancient One opened the portal to Asgard, equipping him with a magical trinket to evade Heimdall's gaze.
If Dark Elves could sneak into Asgard, this was child's play for her.
In Asgard, Su Ming gathered intel covertly. Someone was jailed for defying the Mothers—likely Gin.
Su Ming, faithless and indifferent to gods, knew Gin's decades with him would carry his atheist habits.
He executed his plan, unloading all the bombs on the World Tree.
Lighting a cigar, he watched the flames spread. The World Tree, an ash, burned fiercely.
Stranglehold refused to emerge in the heat, so Su Ming couldn't mimic Odin's face.
No matter. Odin was a shapeshifter, often disguising as women or teaching Thor to skirt up.
A family tradition, it seemed, later perfected by Loki.
The Godslayer morphing into Gungnir was undeniable proof of kingship. Unless the three Mothers showed, anyone would buy the fake26fake Odin.
Thor and Loki arrived first, as planned. Higher status, faster fliers—perfect for deception.
Su Ming worried Loki might see through him. But this younger, pre-blackened Loki lacked his later "world-against-me" paranoia.
He didn't suspect a trick.
They assumed the World Tree's flames were the unquenchable ones from Midgard.
Su Ming never said they were.
Napalm was tough to douse, but it paled next to Surtur's divine flames.
To keep them from trying, he spun a "Will of Fire" tale. One too dumb, one too clever—neither noticed he was discouraging firefighting.
The odd flavor in their roast meat and fruit? Gasoline. Carcinogenic, supposedly, but Super Soldiers and gods didn't care.
During the meal, Su Ming steered their focus to rivalry, then pinned the blame on Surtur, rallying the Aesir to punish the Fire Giants for Earth's sake.
A multi-win.
Now, with everyone drinking around the giant bonfire, Su Ming could stroll into the unguarded dungeon and spring Gin.
How many Aesir would die fighting Fire Giants?
Not his concern. He was here for revenge.
Besides, the dead went to Valhalla—a mansion upgrade from their shacks. Endless booze, women, and brawls with old comrades. They might thank him.
Glory sought, glorious death gained.
But Heimdall, the sneaky-eyed Bifrost thief who nabbed Gin, was a key culprit.
Killing him was off-limits—Odin's close ally. That'd start a blood feud.
A harsh lesson was needed to show Earth wasn't to be trifled with.
Heimdall's skills didn't match Su Ming's. In a straight fight, he'd lose.
But beating him outright wouldn't do. Su Ming knew warriors—defeat could spur Heimdall on.
He'd move covertly.
Heimdall's weakness was his sister, Sif. Sif's was Thor. Thor's was Loki. And Loki? Full of vulnerabilities.
Loki craved the crown—a weakness. He adored Frigga, obeyed her—another. He feared Odin, envied Thor—all exploitable.
Post-blackening, Loki would shed these as the God of Lies.
Thor, too, would mature after betrayal. Now? A hormone-fueled teen in an endless puberty.
Mist sat cross-legged in her cell, the dungeon bare save for straw, its walls icy.
Like Hela's Hel, legend said dishonored warriors' souls went there.
Valhalla offered mead, love, and endless fights.
Hel? A drafty shack, viper venom dripping from the roof, only goat urine to sate hunger or thirst.
Old tales.
Valkyries weren't fooled. They knew Hel was Hela's realm.
Hela, Odin's eldest, Asgard's fiercest war goddess, commanded even the dead war god Tyr.
Her palace dwarfed Asgard's, its black spires piercing a dark sky.
Souls rained into her realm. Strong ones joined her army; weak ones became black soil or sprouted black flowers.
Mist saw one soul with a black flower on its head, face twisted in pain, unable to remove it.
That was its soul.
The flowers, born of torment, were toxic, brimming with curses and dark power.
That's all she saw.
Hela slaughtered the Valkyries. Mist survived, her pegasus taking a fatal blow, falling through a spatial rift to Midgard.
When she awoke, Midgard had changed—cars, crowds, bustling.
To blend in, she used illusion magic to pose as a man. In Valkyrie armor, passersby mistook her for a prostitute.
No food, no one offering free meals, her language rusty—she wandered the streets.
Then her boss found her. The one-eyed man spoke fluent Norwegian, gave her a home, taught her.
She stayed to learn Midgard's ways.
She realized Odin wouldn't come. Heimdall could've saved them but didn't.
An abandoned pawn, she swore allegiance to a new master.
She learned her boss wasn't ordinary—stronger than Asgardians, facing unimaginable foes.
She met the Supreme Sorcerer, the "strong mortal" Odin spoke of.
Overwhelmingly powerful, magic swirling around her, Vishanti's shadow ever-present, reshaping reality with a gesture.
Yet the Ancient One was kind, close to her boss.
Out of respect and gratitude for staying on Earth in secret, Mist gifted her fashionable lingerie and stockings she'd planned to keep.
At night, alone, she reverted to her true form—a short-haired blonde warrior—doing what she loved.
Watching movies from the sky or trying on clothes at home.
By day, she was a middle-aged Irish butler.
As a Valkyrie, she needed no sleep, always ready when Su Ming called.
She felt Earth was home, her infinite life detached from Asgard.
Then she was recalled, caught off guard.
Knowing her boss, he'd come, and if he saw Asgard as an enemy, he'd be ruthless.
He knew Asgard's weaknesses as well as she did, maybe more, like he was omniscient.
She hoped he wouldn't raze Asgard or start a massacre.
It was her home, with friends still here.
So, she sat in her cell, clutching a bottle of Skywalker Gin, staring at the black-and-yellow W label, waiting calmly.
That night, something odd happened.
The guards were inexplicably reassigned, leaving only prisoners. Some stirred, but the thin, transparent walls held.
Soon after, her boss strolled in, dressed in an Asgardian robe, casual as a picnic.
He peered into each cell, searching for her.
Glancing at her bottle and clothes, he didn't see her face—she kept it bowed in shame.
With a swipe at his waist, his starry greatsword appeared. A single swing shattered the energy wall like glass.
"Let's go, Gin. We're going home," he said, sheathing the blade with a wry look. "Seriously, all I do lately is rescue people."