The Grand Arena of Sakaar erupted in thunderous approval as two titans clashed in the center of the bloodstained combat floor. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the force of their collision, sending shockwaves through the packed stands where thousands of spectators roared their appreciation for the spectacular display of power unfolding before them.
At the heart of the carnage stood a figure that commanded absolute reverence—the Red Wind Queen herself, resplendent in her battle regalia. Her armor was a masterwork of both function and aesthetics: a black helmet crowned with golden trim, its sides adorned with distinctive horned projections that caught the arena's blazing lights like burnished bronze. Beneath the ceremonial headpiece, golden plates protected her torso while allowing for the fluid movement that made her such a devastating opponent. A brown-gray battle skirt, crafted from the hide of some exotic beast, completed her ensemble and gave her an appearance that was both regal and terrifyingly martial.
But the Red Wind Queen's most striking features weren't her carefully crafted armor—they were the biological gifts that marked her as something far beyond ordinary humanoid limitations. Four arms moved with perfect coordination, each limb capable of wielding weapons or delivering crushing blows with equal devastating efficiency. Two pairs of eyes, arranged in perfect symmetry across her face, provided her with depth perception and peripheral awareness that made surprise attacks virtually impossible.
Had Ben been present to witness this display, he would have immediately recognized the warrior's true identity: Princess Looma of the Tetramand Empire, daughter of the Red Wind Dynasty, one of the most feared combat specialists in known space.
Princess Looma's arrival on Sakaar had been relatively recent, and like so many of the planet's unwilling immigrants, her journey had begun with an encounter with Brunnhilde. Unlike most of the scavanger's acquisitions, however, Looma's capture had required actual combat—a brutal confrontation that had ended with the Valkyrie defeat and a grudging mutual respect between the two combatants.
Through Brunnhilde, Looma had learned of Sakaar's unique culture and the opportunities it presented for someone of her particular inclinations. For a Tetramand princess raised on tales of glorious battle and honorable conquest, the arena represented the perfect testing ground for her abilities.
Female Tetramands possessed inherent physical advantages over their male counterparts—superior strength, enhanced reflexes, and a warrior's instinct that had been refined through generations of selective breeding among the nobility. Looma embodied all of these traits in their most refined form, making her ascension to championship status as inevitable as sunrise.
Her fighting style was a thing of beauty to witness: strength without brutality, power without clumsiness. Where future champions like the Hulk relied on overwhelming force and mindless rage, Looma combined devastating physical capabilities with tactical brilliance and an almost artistic appreciation for combat technique. Her body was lean and athletic rather than massively muscled, radiating the kind of dangerous grace that spoke of years spent perfecting the art of warfare.
High above the arena floor, perched on his elaborate throne like some predatory bird surveying his domain, sat the Red King—Angmo-Asan, absolute ruler of Sakaar and self-styled emperor of this garbage world.
From the moment he had first laid eyes on Princess Looma, the Red King had been utterly captivated. Her combination of lethal competence and exotic beauty had awakened desires that transcended his usual crude appetites for domination and control. Here was a woman who embodied everything he imagined himself to be: powerful, noble, commanding, and utterly without fear.
Unfortunately for the Red King, Princess Looma regarded him with the kind of casual disdain typically reserved for particularly unimpressive insects.
In her estimation, the ruler of Sakaar was nothing more than a technological parasite—someone who had achieved power through gadgets and subordinates rather than personal prowess. His control over the planet's population relied on shock collar, automated defense systems, and an army of slaves rather than the kind of individual strength that commanded genuine respect among warrior cultures.
The Red King's occasional forays into arena combat only served to reinforce Looma's contempt. When he deigned to fight personally, he did so encased in a high-tech exoskeleton that amplified his natural abilities to superhuman levels while protecting his relatively fragile organic form from harm. To a Tetramand warrior who viewed personal combat as the ultimate expression of honor and skill, such tactics were not merely cowardly—they were fundamentally offensive to the very concept of noble warfare.
The Red King's usual methods of breaking new gladiators fell flat the moment Looma stepped into the arena. Neural shock collars, compliance drugs, pain-loop implants—none of it worked. Her Tetramand biology shrugged it all off. Her skin was like living armor, and her body's internal chemistry resisted anything they pumped into her system. What turned other fighters into obedient weapons barely made her blink.
The handlers tried again—upping the dosage, changing the collar frequency, switching out sedatives. Still nothing. Looma stood tall through it all, unmoved, unimpressed. Every failure only made the Red King's frustration worse. He was used to control. To obedience.
When the Red King's technological solutions failed, he had attempted more direct methods of persuasion. That experiment had nearly resulted in his exoskeleton being torn apart by Looma's bare hands—a humiliation that had taught him to maintain a respectful distance from the object of his obsession.
Fortunately for all concerned, Princess Looma genuinely enjoyed her current circumstances. The arena provided her with a constant stream of opponents and the kind of combat challenges that were difficult to find in more civilized corners of the galaxy. Rather than chafing under captivity, she had embraced her role as champion and made Sakaar's gladiatorial pits her personal kingdom.
The only frustration in her otherwise satisfactory arrangement was the relative scarcity of truly challenging opponents. Most fighters who reached her level of competition had already been worn down by the preliminary rounds, leaving them damaged and exhausted by the time they faced her in final combat.
Today's challenger, however, had proven to be a notable exception.
Looma's fist connected with empty air as her opponent rolled away from her strike, the force of her missed blow creating a concussion wave that spider-webbed the arena floor beneath their feet. Fragments of alien concrete sprayed in all directions as both combatants used the moment of separation to reassess their tactical positions.
The Red Wind Queen straightened to her full imposing height and studied her adversary with genuine appreciation. Her opponent was a warrior of obvious quality—brown-skinned, with distinctive facial ridges that marked him as non-human, and eyes that burned with the kind of unwavering determination that separated true fighters from mere survivors.
Despite the punishment he had clearly endured during his journey to this final confrontation, the warrior's stance remained strong and his weapon steady. Blood streaked his alien features and exhaustion was evident in every line of his body, but his white eyes held no hint of surrender or fear.
"You have fought with honor," Looma declared, her voice carrying easily across the arena's acoustically perfect architecture. "Tell me your name, warrior, so that I might know what manner of opponent has earned my respect."
The battered fighter raised his weapon—a weapon that seemed to hum with barely contained cosmic energy—and his voice rang out with pride that transcended species barriers.
"I am Beta Ray Bill, son of Korbin, protector of my people!"
"Excellent!" Looma's response carried genuine warmth and admiration. She raised all four of her arms in a gesture of salute, her voice building to a commanding roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena.
"I am Looma, First Princess of the Tetramand Empire, Commander of the Red Wind Legions, and rightful Queen of this arena! You have earned the honor of facing royalty in combat, Beta Ray Bill of Korbin!"
Her proclamation ignited the crowd like a match touched to kindling. Thousands of voices rose in unison, chanting her name with a fervor that bordered on religious devotion. The sound built upon itself, creating layers of harmony that transformed the arena into a vast instrument of worship.
"RED WIND QUEEN! RED WIND QUEEN! RED WIND QUEEN!"
The chanting was accompanied by traditional Sakaar celebration—great gouts of crimson smoke billowed from pyrotechnic devices throughout the stands, creating an atmosphere of apocalyptic grandeur. Spotlights converged on Looma's position, bathing her in radiance that made her armor shine like burnished gold while casting dramatic shadows across her noble features.
From his elevated position, the Red King watched the display with eyes that burned with possessive hunger.
"Magnificent," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the crowd's adoration. "Absolutely magnificent."
His expression shifted darker as the reality of his situation reasserted itself.
"I will have you, Looma," he growled, his hands clenching into fists. "One way or another, you will be mine."
On the arena floor below, the battle between titans had reached its inevitable conclusion.
Beta Ray Bill lay unconscious but breathing, his noble features peaceful in defeat. Two Sakaarian medics approached cautiously, clearly intending to remove the fallen warrior from the field of combat.
"Ensure his survival," Looma commanded, her voice carrying the absolute authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "This one has earned the right to heal and fight again."
The medics nodded their understanding and began the careful process of evacuating the defeated challenger. Looma remained in the center of the arena for several more moments, drinking in the crowd's adoration and savoring the satisfaction of another worthy battle concluded with honor intact.
Finally, she strode from the combat floor with the confident gait of someone who owned everything she surveyed, leaving behind only the lingering echo of her people's cheers and the promise of future violence.
As the spectacle concluded and the audience began filing toward the exits, the Red King immediately rose from his throne. His intention was clear—he wanted to intercept Princess Looma while the afterglow of victory still surrounded her, hoping to use her elevated mood to advance his personal agenda.
His plans were interrupted by Caiera's approach, her silver-gray features bearing news that commanded immediate attention.
"My lord," she said with the respectful efficiency that marked all her communications, "Scavenger 142 has returned with new acquisitions. Two fighters this time."
The Red King's interest was immediately piqued. Ever since Brunnhilde had delivered Princess Looma to his arena, he had come to regard her as his most valuable asset. The ability to locate and capture beings of genuine quality was rare among the scavenger population—most natives lacked either the knowledge to recognize valuable prizes or the capability to subdue them once identified.
"She mentioned that one of the acquisitions possesses unusual status," she continued, emphasis adding weight to her words.
That sealed the matter. The Red King's pursuit of Looma could wait—business always took precedence over pleasure in his carefully ordered hierarchy of priorities.
"Assemble the court," he commanded, gesturing to the guards and attendants who surrounded his elevated position. "Let us examine my newest assets."
The royal procession descended through the arena's administrative levels until they reached the holding areas where new acquisitions were processed. When the massive doors swung open to reveal the Red King's approach, Ben finally came face-to-face with Sakaar's absolute ruler.
The man who commanded an entire planet proved to be somewhat less imposing than his reputation suggested. Red-skinned like many of his species, but possessed of a lean build that spoke more of privilege than power. His elongated features held a permanently arrogant expression, as if the very act of existing in his presence should be considered an honor.
"Scavenger 142," the Red King began, his tone carrying the casual authority of someone who had never been meaningfully challenged, "what surprise have you brought to grace my arena?"
His gaze swept across the two prisoners with the calculating assessment of a merchant evaluating livestock. After a moment's consideration, his attention focused on Loki, whose torn but clearly expensive clothing suggested higher status than Ben.
Brunnhilde stepped forward with professional efficiency, grasping Loki's shoulder and presenting him like a prize at auction.
"An Asgardian noble," she announced with obvious satisfaction. "Specifically, a prince of the royal bloodline."
Loki's glare could have melted steel, but he remained silent under the combined weight of his restraints and his recent education in the consequences of defiance.
"A prince of Asgard?" The Red King's interest was unmistakable. Throughout the known galaxy, few civilizations commanded the kind of universal respect—or fear—associated with Asgard. The political implications of holding Asgardian royalty were staggering.
It was, in fact, his knowledge of Brunnhilde's Asgardian heritage that had earned her the unusual privilege of operating freely on Sakaar. Any other off-world scavenger would have found themselves fighting for their life in the arena within hours of arrival.
The Red King began circling Loki like a predator evaluating wounded prey, his examination both thorough and deliberately intimidating. Ben, meanwhile, was completely ignored—clearly dismissed as nothing more than incidental cargo.
Loki's patience finally snapped under the weight of such casual inspection.
"What are you staring at, you pretentious tyrant playing king in a cosmic garbage dump?" he snarled, his voice heavy with contempt. "Now that you know my true identity, surely even someone of your limited intelligence can understand the wisdom of immediate release? Or do you truly wish to invoke the wrath of Asgard itself?"
The challenge hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet.
The Red King's features twisted into an expression of pure malice, his earlier hesitation evaporating in the face of such blatant disrespect.
"You want to know what I enjoy most about defiant prisoners?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
He turned toward Caiera without taking his eyes off Loki.
"Prepare the neural chains. Pierce his collarbones and schedule him for the next tournament bracket. Let's see how royal blood looks when it's spilled on arena sand."