The words hung in the air, sharp and poisonous as a serpent's fang.
"Your daughter seems to be talented enough to awaken the god-killing sword. Congratulations. You should be proud."
Hermes's smile, a beautiful, cruel masterpiece, lingered for a moment before he turned and walked away, leaving Ares standing alone on the golden pathway, seething in a silence that was louder than any battle cry.
A few feet away, a translucent, shimmering distortion in the air—the concealed form of Jack Hou—was trying very, very hard not to laugh. It was a struggle. His shoulders shook with suppressed cackles. The sheer, unadulterated pettiness of the gods was a source of endless entertainment.
He watched as Ares, his massive frame trembling with a rage that made the very air around him hum, finally moved. He didn't shout. He didn't roar. He just stomped away, his heavy, armored boots cracking the pristine marble with every furious step, heading toward his own territory.
Hermes had told him to follow, to stay close. But Hermes wasn't the one with a vested interest in the angry, muscle-bound god currently having a divine temper tantrum.
'Hooo, big baby Ares seems mad,' Jack thought to himself, his grin widening in the invisible space he occupied. He began to float silently after the retreating God of War. 'Well, I still owe Alexander something. And what better way to help a kid with daddy issues than to gather some high-quality blackmail material on her deadbeat dad?'
And so, unbeknownst to Hermes, who was now striding confidently toward his own domain, Jack Hou did not follow him. He followed Ares.
Jack leaped from rooftop to rooftop, a silent, invisible shadow tailing a storm of divine rage. He followed Ares through the grand, empty avenues of Olympus, the air growing strangely serene the further they went. Jack had expected Ares's territory to be a monument to conflict—a place of jagged, volcanic rock, smoking forges, and the distant, echoing clang of steel on steel.
But this… this was not that.
The landscape softened into one of perfect, almost sterile beauty. Grand villas of pristine white marble and polished gold stood amidst perfectly manicured gardens. Fountains, their water sparkling like liquid diamonds, flowed in silent, symmetrical patterns. Peacocks, their feathers a dazzling display of iridescent blues and greens, strutted across flawless lawns. Everything was in its proper place, a testament not to chaos, but to absolute, unquestionable rule.
Jack's invisible grin faltered for a second. Then, he saw her. A regal figure, her presence as commanding as the grand palace she occupied. Hera.
'Aawww,' Jack thought to himself, the realization dawning on him with a fresh wave of unholy glee. 'Big baby Ares can't think for himself, so he went to his mother's titties to suck on them. Kekekeke.'
He watched as Ares stormed into a grand, open-air pavilion, his menacing stature a stark, brutalist contrast to the elegant serenity of the space.
"Mother," Ares growled, his voice a low rumble.
Hera, who had been observing the graceful movements of her attendant Nymphs, turned, her expression calm and unreadable. "Ares. What are you doing here?"
"Hermes is home," he said, the words clipped and sharp.
"Has he now?" Hera's tone was even, betraying no surprise. "Did he go to your father's chamber?"
Ares shook his head. "No. It seems he is still mad at Father."
Hera's gaze sharpened. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the barely contained fury in his eyes. "You seem angry at something," she observed. "Is it Hermes?"
Ares shook his head again, a flicker of something deeper—shame, frustration—crossing his face. He was about to tell her, to confess the real source of his rage, the taunt about his daughter, the shame of his own curse, when—"KEKEKEKEKEKEKE!"
The sound was a bomb of pure, unadulterated mirth, shattering the divine serenity of the palace. It was so loud, so unexpected, so utterly out of place, that even the peacocks stopped their strutting.
Jack couldn't hold it in anymore. The image of the great God of War, the embodiment of brutal conflict, running to his mother to complain about his little brother was just too perfect.
His laughter, a wild, chaotic thing, broke his concentration. His Bodily Concealement spell shattered.
And suddenly, there he was. Crouching on the roof of the pavilion, visible to all, clutching his stomach as he howled with laughter.
Ares, Hera, and the dozen or so Nymphs and Graces in the pavilion all froze, their heads snapping up to stare at the strange, laughing man who had appeared from nowhere.
Jack's laughter died in his throat as he realized what had happened. 'Oops.'
He met the furious, murderous glare of the God of War and the cold, calculating gaze of the Queen of the Gods. Without a second thought, he did the only thing a sane, rational person would do in that situation.
He pointed a dramatic finger at the empty, cloudless sky.
"OMG! WHAT IS THAT THING?!" he shouted, his voice full of a convincing, theatrical terror.
For a split second, it worked. Every single divine being in the pavilion, caught off guard by the sheer, idiotic randomness of the diversion, looked up.
And in that split second, Jack was gone, a blur of motion as he leaped from the roof and sprinted away, his own fading cackles the only proof he had ever been there.
…
The journey home to Alfheim was not one of boisterous celebration, but of quiet, profound relief. The Alfar tribe had returned from the frozen battlefields of Jotunheim without a single casualty, a feat that was a testament to their skill, their courage, and the timely information they had relayed.
The realm of the Light Elves was a breathtaking sight. Sunlight that felt like warm honey poured over emerald hills, and the air hummed with the gentle, life-giving energy of a world in perpetual bloom. In the heart of the realm, the palace of Freyr, the Vanir god of fertility, prosperity, and sunlight, stood not as a fortress of stone, but as a grand hall woven from living wood and starlight.
Askasleikir, his silver hair braided with small, victorious blossoms, made his way to the throne room alone. He approached the throne of golden willow, where Freyr sat, his presence as warm and life-giving as the sun itself.
Aska knelt, his head bowed. "Your Majesty, I, Askasleikir of the Alfar tribe, have returned."
Freyr smiled, a gentle, radiant expression that seemed to make the very air around him warmer. "Rise, Chieftain. I know you well. The information your tribe provided from the front lines was invaluable. I can even say that your intelligence hastened our victory."
Aska rose, but his gaze remained respectful and low. "I cannot take such credit, Your Majesty. It is the duty of all in Alfheim to serve."
"Do not be so modest," Freyr said, his voice a calm, melodic hum. "Now, tell me. What is it you need of me?"
Aska took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I wish to petition for your grace, My Lord. For ages, my tribe has maintained a tradition in secret. A yearly journey to Midgard, to craft and deliver gifts to its inhabitants, a custom they call 'Christmas'."
Freyr's smile did not falter. In fact, it widened with a gentle, knowing amusement. "Ahh," he said softly. "So you have decided to come clean with it now."
Aska's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. "Your Majesty… you already knew?"
"I have known from the beginning," Freyr said, his voice kind. "But I saw the joy it brought your people. I saw no harm in it, only a light of your own making. And so, I let you continue."
A wave of profound relief washed over the old Alfar. He bowed his head again, this time not just out of respect, but out of a deep, heartfelt gratitude. "Then it is not recognition I seek, Your Majesty, but your formal permission. A decree that will allow this tradition to continue, not in shadow, but in light. For my children, and their children after them."
"So be it," Freyr declared, his voice resonating with the quiet power of a king. "I, Freyr, Lord of Alfheim and Ruler of the Light Elves, hereby give my official sanction to the Alfar tradition of gift-giving on Midgard. Let it be a symbol of the joy and prosperity our realm can share."
Aska smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile that seemed to erase the weariness of the long war. He bowed one last time, his heart full.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. My tribe, and all the generations to come, are forever in your debt."
…
Jack was a blur of black silk and panicked adrenaline, sprinting away from Hera's pristine, orderly territory. Behind him, the thunderous, earth-shaking stomps of the God of War grew closer. Ares was far away, but it was clear he would catch up. Jack didn't have a plan. He was just running, his mind a chaotic whirl of "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."
He veered sharply, diving into the first territory that didn't look like it was designed by a goddess with a ruler and a color-coordinated death wish.
The air changed instantly. The cold, regal silence of Hera's domain was replaced by a gentle, golden-hour light. The air hummed with the faint, distant sound of a lyre, and the scent of sun-warmed marble and fresh paint filled his lungs. This was a place of art, of music, of unrestrained creativity. Unfinished sculptures stood in sun-drenched alcoves, and massive canvases splashed with vibrant, chaotic color leaned against the walls.
In the center of a grand studio, a still-life was set up. A half-finished painting stood on an easel, depicting a bowl of pomegranates, a silver goblet, and a cluster of grapes. Beside it, on a small, ornate table, sat the real bowl of fruit, a perfect reference.
A hiding place.
Jack's training, his very essence, kicked in. His 72 Transformations had evolved. He could now transform freely, as long as it was something, or someone, from within his own territory. He focused, pulling on the very essence of his Golden Peach, and with a soft, shimmering ripple, his form collapsed inward, reforming into a perfect, blushing peach. He rolled silently onto the table, nestling himself amongst the grapes.
Moments later, Ares stormed in, a walking storm of divine fury. He scanned the room, his eyes sharp, searching. He looked at the half-finished painting, then at the table of fruit. He noticed it instantly. There was no peach in the painting.
He strode toward the table, his hand reaching for the out-of-place fruit.
"What are you doing, brother?"
The voice was calm, melodic, and held a note of amused authority. Apollo stood in the doorway, a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other, his golden hair catching the light.
Ares's hand froze. "I will need to check that peach," he growled.
Apollo's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. He realized it instantly. There had been no peach on the table before. But out of a deep, simmering resentment for what Ares had done to his twin sister, he was not about to make this easy for him.
"What of it?" Apollo said, walking calmly into the room. "The peach is the main character of my painting. I will paint it last, for it needs respect for its standing." He paused, his gaze flicking to Ares with a cool, pointed look. "Unlike someone who doesn't know respect."
Ares was done for the day. He had been mocked by Hermes, and now by Apollo. He was outnumbered and outwitted. "Lucky for you this is your territory," he snarled.
"Unlucky for me my territory has been breached," Apollo countered smoothly. "By you."
Ares just snorted, turned on his heel, and stormed out, his angry footsteps echoing down the hall.
Apollo waved goodbye with his paintbrush, a picture of serene, artistic triumph. As he heard his brother's footsteps fade, he sighed and turned his attention back to the table.
"Okay," he said to the fruit. "What are you, and why are you in my references?"
The peach let out a faint, muffled giggle.
Kekekekeke.
With a soft, shimmering ripple, the peach on the table wobbled, its form stretching and contorting. In a blink, it was Jack Hou again, standing in all his black-hanfu-wearing glory. In the process of his transformation, he accidentally nudged the table, sending the carefully stacked fruit tumbling to the polished marble floor.
Apollo just exhaled, a long, slow sound of pure, artistic suffering.
"Kekeke, sorry," Jack said, not sounding sorry at all. His tail swished behind him, and the golden headband on his forehead seemed to complement the dangling earring perfectly.
Apollo, however, was not looking at the ruined still-life. He was looking at Jack, his divine artist's eye narrowed in critical assessment. "Your style is a mismatch," he declared, his voice a melodic hum of disapproval. "A cacophony. You wear darkness like a shroud, but your soul is a wildfire. You need contrast. Flowing silks in sunset orange or dawn-gold, accented with the deep blue of twilight. Something that doesn't hide your chaos, but frames it."
Jack blinked, genuinely considering it. "Ohh, now that I think about it, I got this style from this fashion youtuber."
Apollo's brow furrowed. "Fashion… youtuber? Is this a new profession you mortals on Earth have chosen to grant authority over the arts?"
"Yeah," Jack said cheerfully. "I recommend you check one out. They're great."
But their conversation was cut short as the door to the studio burst open. Hermes stood there, his golden hair disheveled, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.
"Brother! Have you seen a lost monkey in your territory?!" he asked, his voice a frantic rush.
He then saw Apollo, standing in the middle of the room, talking to the very monkey he was looking for.
"Is that the monkey you're talking about?" Apollo asked, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face.
"Yes!" Hermes said, his relief quickly turning back to panic. He rushed forward, intent on getting Jack out of there as fast as possible.
"Whatever your reason for bringing that monkey here," Apollo said, his tone shifting, becoming more serious, "you should know, Father just had a meeting with the other Skyfathers. So you better hurry, or that monkey of yours will be electrocuted to death. A thousand times."
Jack, who had been listening with a detached amusement, chimed in cheerfully. "Don't worry. It is said that a crazy monkey is immune to being electrocuted."
"Just hush your mouth," Hermes hissed, grabbing Jack by the collar of his hanfu like a mother grabbing a wayward child. He looked back at his brother. "Thank you, brother."
He then began dragging the still-grinning Jack out of the studio.
Apollo just shook his head, a fond, nostalgic smile on his face. He looked over at the golden lyre resting in a corner, then to a herd of cattle grazing in a sunlit field far away on his territory.
It really did bring back a sense of nostalgia.
…
The shores of Asgard were lined with silent figures, their faces illuminated by the dying embers of the setting sun. Upon the dark, still waters, a fleet of longships rested, each one a pyre, each one carrying the body of a warrior who had fallen in the war against the Jotuns. The air was heavy with the scent of salt, pine, and a grief so profound it felt like a physical weight.
Odin, his kingly armor gleaming in the twilight, stood at the head of the shore. He raised Gungnir.
"Let loose," his voice commanded, a low, solemn rumble that carried across the water.
In perfect unison, a line of archers drew their bows. The arrows, their tips wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, were lit from a single, sacred flame. With a sound like a collective, sorrowful sigh, they loosed.
A hundred streaks of fire arched through the twilight sky, a final, beautiful salute to the fallen. They landed on the ships, and one by one, the pyres ignited. Flames licked at the ancient wood, climbing the masts, consuming the sails, and embracing the honored dead in a final, fiery embrace.
The crowd watched in silence. Wives clutched their children, their tears silent tracks on their stoic faces. Old warriors, their bodies a map of a hundred battles, bowed their heads in respect. A low, humming chant, a song of remembrance, began to rise from the crowd, a melody of loss and of glory. Baldur stood beside his father, his earlier anger now a shared, heavy grief, his golden light a soft, comforting glow in the growing darkness.
Meanwhile, in the cold, dark dungeons beneath the palace, a different kind of fire was being kindled.
Loki sat on the stone floor of his cell, idly tossing a small, tin cup in the air, his expression one of utter, bored indifference. The sound of a single set of footsteps echoed down the long, empty corridor.
He caught the cup without looking. "Took you long enough," he said to the empty air.
A figure emerged from the shadows, her form a sinuous, seductive silhouette against the dim torchlight. It was Amora, the Enchantress.
"My, my," she purred, her voice a melody of honey and poison as she stopped before his cell. "The prince has become the prisoner."
Loki simply stood, his face unreadable.
"Fine," Amora said with a pout, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. She raised a hand, and with a soft, shimmering glow, the rune-etched lock on his cell door dissolved into dust. She pushed the heavy door open.
Loki stepped out, his movements fluid and unhurried. "Where is it?"
"I thought your time in the dungeon might have taught you some patience," Amora teased. She then reached into the folds of her silken robes and pulled out an object that seemed to radiate a cold that was older than winter itself. The Casket of Ancient Winters.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Loki's face as he took it from her.
"Our deal," Amora reminded him, her voice turning sharp. "Now, you tell me. Where is my handsome Thor?"
"He is on Midgard," Loki answered simply.
Amora's eyes narrowed. "Even a low servant knows that. I need his hair."
Loki's smile widened. He reached into his inner coat and, with a flourish, produced a single, golden strand of hair.
Amora's face lit up with a greedy, possessive glee. She took it, her fingers brushing against his. "Thank you, love," she purred. "Bye now."
She turned and walked away, her laughter a faint, echoing thing in the dark corridor.
Loki stood alone in the silence, the Casket of Ancient Winters cold in his hands, a plan of beautiful, terrible chaos blooming in his mind. He smiled.
**A/N**
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**A/N**