Having deceived even gods, how could Su Ming be outwitted by a mere horse?
At first, Sleipnir was suspicious, sensing a difference in scent. But Su Ming swiftly lashed its flank with the Eternal Spear.
That was enough to convince the eight-legged steed it was indeed Odin, and it nuzzled him affectionately.
Sleipnir wasn't the only pampered creature in Asgard. Thor's two goats enjoyed fine treatment, though even the prince had to personally shovel their dung.
But where there were those treated well, others fared poorly.
The Golden Palace kept a pig, Saehrimnir, a beast of legendary size.
Every night, Valhalla hosted a feast where the einherjar devoured a meal made from this pig, enough for forty million souls.
By dawn, the pig would resurrect, growing fat and robust, only to be slaughtered and eaten again that night.
It was said Saehrimnir would find release only at Ragnarök.
When Su Ming emerged from the grandest stables in history, all three had mounts.
He spurred his horse, galloping across the Golden Palace, leading the two women to the city walls.
The broad walls, forged from Uru metal by giants at Asgard's founding, resembled a grand avenue.
Though built by different hands, the walls matched the city's golden splendor—resilient and infused with technology.
The wall's crest was fifty meters wide, its height a mere thirty centimeters.
Yes, thirty centimeters—less a wall than a step, serving as a base for laser crossbows and other defenses.
Encircling the city, this "pathway wall" resembled an abstract sun or blooming petals, blending with the blue waters and port facilities.
From above, the city's outline was breathtaking.
The Golden Palace needed no walls—its people were the defense.
Clashing face-to-face with enemies was the ultimate ideal of Asgardian warriors. Hiding behind high walls? That was for cowards.
Besides, any enemy invading the Golden Palace would likely fly, rendering walls obsolete.
Now, warriors manned turrets, firing colorful lasers that scorched the air against the invaders.
The enemy looked nearly identical to Asgard's warriors—golden armor, piloting skiffs, employing similar tactics.
"The Vanir! They've betrayed Asgard!" Brunhilde exclaimed, instantly recognizing the foe, her voice heavy with disbelief.
The union of Asgardians and Vanir was key to Asgard's rule over the Nine Realms. Intermarriage and shared technology sustained their population and economy.
Now, every death, on either side, was a loss for Odin.
Whoever incited the Vanir's rebellion had played a cunning move.
When both sides were battered, the mastermind could swoop in to claim it all.
"Asgard's warriors! Hold the line!" Su Ming thundered, galloping along the pathway, raising his spear to issue commands.
Let the warriors hold for now, to see if the mastermind left any traces.
The Vanir had come in full force. Many, clearly not warriors, wore no armor—just robes, wielding crude weapons as they leapt from skiffs, charging Asgard's positions.
Their expressions were off, eyes burning like flames, their bodies glowing faintly.
Hundreds of thousands formed a sea of fire.
"The Allfather commands! Hold the line!"
"For Asgard!"
As Su Ming rode past, squad leaders echoed his orders, and warriors roared in response.
They formed ranks before the crossbows, spears pointed densely at the enemy.
The battlefield's fierce winds stirred Su Ming's blood, the warriors' thunderous replies intoxicating.
No wonder young Odin loved war, and Thor was a battle fanatic.
When your words were echoed by hundreds of thousands, even millions, it felt like standing atop the clouds, addictive.
But Su Ming stayed clear-headed. He wasn't Asgardian, and he had his own plans. This wasn't his first battlefield; the atmosphere barely fazed him.
For now, repel the Vanir and warn other defenses to stay vigilant.
The World Tree's fire was his bait, cast to lure enemies.
The bait was too enticing, its effect too strong.
Even Vanaheim, a staunch ally, had turned traitor. Asgard was now surrounded by foes.
Perhaps the dwarves and light elves remained allies, but while the forge-loving dwarves had some fight, the scholarly and agrarian light elves were useless.
Earth could count as an ally—Su Ming and the Ancient One, though with their own agendas, broadly supported Asgard. Only they knew the full picture.
For now, they had to hold the Vanir's frontal assault and guard other fronts.
The skies, the waters, the Bifrost—all needed defending.
Asgard had hidden spatial pathways. Loki knew some, but others were unknown. The Vanir likely used one to get here.
"Brunhilde, gather some men and check the Bifrost. Tell Heimdall I sense trouble there," Su Ming ordered, circling the pathway to ensure every warrior saw him before slowing, standing at the rear to watch the chaotic melee.
As "Odin," his command to Brunhilde was natural.
She left, half-doubting, and Su Ming turned his focus to the battlefield's details.
Logically, Asgard's warriors were stronger. Yet the front was stalemated, the Vanir fighting like berserkers, eyes glowing red.
Asgardians struck by their weapons bore scorched armor; direct hits caused burns or ignited flesh.
"Fire weapons? Enchanted, or something else?" Su Ming asked, glancing at Garth, who rode behind him.
"It's fire, but it's like it's surging from within them. I've never seen this," Garth replied, eyeing the battlefield.
She itched to grab an enemy for answers but had no armor or weapons, and her boss wouldn't let her go.
The battlefield's scent—blood and guts—wafted over. Garth touched her temple, her blood urging her to fight.
A force and emotion stirred in her chest, urging her to join the fray.
She restrained herself, answering calmly and standing loyally behind her boss, no longer sworn to Odin or Asgard.
Su Ming stroked his beard, his single eye scanning the battlefield, watching warriors fall amid screams and explosions.
He pondered.
Fire was common in the Marvel universe. Beyond Surtur, the prime suspect, many hell-lords wielded flame-based powers.
Ancient demons tied to fire could also grant such effects through magical pacts.
The Vanir's backer remained unknown, but this attack was likely a probe, just the beginning.
"I've got a bad feeling. Something's wrong at the Golden Palace," Loki said to Thor, wiping sweat from his brow as they rode at the army's head.
They'd reached Surtur's Muspelheim that morning, a world of fire and lava.
Red ash swirled, staining even the sky's distant stars crimson.
Marching here, time and place blurred, shrouded in flames and smoke, like a nightmare in hell.
Shortly after advancing, Heimdall recalled some troops. They didn't know why.
A gut feeling told Loki something bad was brewing.
Thor disagreed, his mind fixed on battlefield glory and spreading Asgard's honor.
He spurred his goats, charging ahead, skiff-bound warriors trailing behind.
The grand, unstoppable march felt exhilarating.
Spitting out ash-flecked saliva, Thor scoffed at Loki's words: "Scared, coward? Run back to the Golden Palace and cry to Mother."
"Ha ha ha!" The Warriors Three burst into laughter, mocking Loki's fear. This was Odin's command—no retreat.
Sif turned away, hiding a smile, striving for elegance. She loved Thor, dreaming of being his wife.
That meant no longer acting like a tomboy alongside Hogan and Volstagg.
Though she, too, sensed something amiss, seeing Thor's excitement, she said nothing.
Sif only wanted to please him, to make him happy.
But Thor still saw her as a childhood comrade, not a woman, leaving her anxious with no solution.
The Warriors Three laughed because, while Loki's words held some truth, this campaign was a test for both brothers.
Loki's feast had spread the Will of Fire. Now it was Thor's turn.
The sly Loki, God of Lies, was undermining Thor's confidence to win their contest—a despicable move.