From Brunnhilde's choice of pronouns, Ben could discern that the arena's current champion was female—a detail that immediately piqued his curiosity. His knowledge of Sakaar's gladiatorial history was incomplete, limited to fragments gleaned from half-remembered comics and casual references in films. He recalled mentions of Horse-Faced Thor and perhaps Ares among the planet's legendary fighters, but those were little more than names floating in the periphery of his consciousness.
The identity of this "Red Wind Queen" remained a complete mystery, and Ben found himself genuinely intrigued by the prospect of meeting her.
When the spacecraft finally touched down with its characteristic lack of grace, Brunnhilde wasted no time in expediting their departure. Her boot connected with Loki's rear end in a kick that sent the would-be god tumbling unceremoniously from the ship's cargo bay. She then turned toward Ben with an expectant look.
Loki's indignation was immediate and vocal.
"Why did you kick me instead of him?" he demanded, his voice rising to that particular pitch that suggested wounded pride had overridden common sense once again.
"Because you're Odinson," Brunnhilde replied with a sardonic smile that could have cut glass. Without ceremony, she used the fallen prince as an impromptu stepping stone, her boot finding purchase between his shoulder blades as she launched herself gracefully to the landing platform.
From her new position, she looked up at Ben and extended her arms in a gesture of assistance.
"Jump down—I'll catch you."
The offer was touching in its consideration, and Ben could see that learning his age had triggered some kind of protective instinct in the ancient warrior. To Asgardian sensibilities, sixteen years old was barely past infancy—a period when godly powers were still developing and physical capabilities remained frustratingly mortal.
What Brunnhilde didn't understand was that Ben was far from ordinary, even by the standards of enhanced humans.
Instead of accepting her help, Ben took a running leap from the ship's threshold. Mid-fall, his wrist-mounted web-shooters deployed with mechanical precision, firing a line of synthetic silk that caught against the spacecraft's hull. He swung down in a controlled arc that would have made any seasoned paratrooper proud, landing beside Brunnhilde with athletic grace.
"Impressive," she said, genuine approval coloring her tone. "By Asgardian standards, you're quite capable for someone your age." Her expression grew more serious as she continued. "Are you absolutely certain you want to enter the arena? It's not a place for the inexperienced or faint-hearted. The Red King has turned this entire planet into his personal gladiatorial preserve, forcing every outsider who arrives here to fight for his entertainment. With your current skill level, I'm afraid those brutal warriors would tear you apart before you could draw breath."
"I appreciate the concern," Ben said, his voice steady with quiet confidence, "but I can't wait any longer."
"Your funeral," Brunnhilde said with a shrug, recognizing the futility of arguing with Ben.
Loki, meanwhile, had abandoned all pretense of royal dignity in favor of basic survival. Brunnhilde's casual but effective use of the shock collar had taught him the harsh mathematics of power dynamics—she held all the cards, and his only winning move was not to play. Every few seconds, she would tap the device almost absent-mindedly, sending mild electrical pulses through his nervous system that left his hair standing on end and his pride in tatters.
The former prince had achieved a state of sullen compliance, his head bowed and his mouth firmly shut. He'd learned the fundamental lesson that force trumped birthright, and that even gods could find themselves reduced to commodity status when they lacked the power to enforce their will.
The arena's interior resonated with thunderous approval from thousands of spectators, their voices rising in a crescendo that seemed to shake the very foundations of the massive structure. At first, the cheering was a chaotic mixture of alien languages and enthusiasm, but gradually it resolved into a unified chant that sent chills down Ben's spine.
"RED WIND QUEEN! RED WIND QUEEN! RED WIND QUEEN!"
The name rolled across the amphitheater like an avalanche of sound, carrying with it an almost religious fervor that spoke of genuine awe and admiration rather than mere entertainment appreciation.
"Red Wind Queen?" Ben turned to Brunnhilde with questioning eyes. "Who exactly is this person?"
"Sakaar's current champion," Brunnhilde replied, and for the first time since he'd met her, Ben saw something approaching reverence cross her features. "She's... extraordinary. So powerful that I'm genuinely humbled in her presence. I've fought alongside gods and monsters, but she's something else entirely."
A wicked smile played across her lips as another wave of cheering erupted from the arena floor.
"From the sound of things, some poor fool just made the mistake of challenging her. I almost feel sorry for whoever was stupid enough to think they had a chance."
The gloating satisfaction in her voice was unmistakable, and Ben could easily imagine the one-sided beatdown that was probably occurring just beyond the arena's walls.
"The rules here are simple," Brunnhilde continued, her tone shifting to something more instructional. "Win three consecutive matches, and you earn your freedom. Of course, that's far easier said than done. Each victory brings you closer to liberty, but it also brings you closer to exhaustion. The opponents get progressively more dangerous, the fights more brutal, until finally..." She gestured toward the source of the ongoing cheers. "You face her. The Red King would rather see you die spectacularly than let you walk away, so he saves his best for last."
She studied Ben's face intently, clearly searching for signs of fear or second thoughts. When she found neither, a look of genuine concern replaced her earlier amusement.
"You've never seen her fight, have you?" Brunnhilde said quietly. "That's the only explanation for your calm demeanor. Trust me—once you witness what the Red Wind Queen is capable of, you'll understand why even experienced warriors think twice before entering this arena."
"Don't worry about me," Ben said with a smile that held secrets she couldn't begin to guess. "I'm not planning to do anything stupid."
"Good," Brunnhilde nodded approvingly. "As long as you don't entertain fantasies of championship glory or liberation, you should be able to survive long enough to see another day."
Her boot found Loki's side once again—less violently this time, more of a gentle nudge than an actual kick—and the three of them began making their way toward the arena's entrance.
Two crimson-skinned guards flanked the massive gates, their alien features marking them as natives of Sakaar's harsh environment. They showed no surprise at Brunnhilde's arrival, suggesting that her visits were frequent enough to be routine. One of them stepped forward with the easy familiarity of someone greeting a regular business partner.
"The Red King is currently observing the Red Wind Queen's match," the guard explained in accented but clear English. "You may need to wait before conducting your business. In the meantime, I can escort you to see the lieutenant."
The guard gestured for them to follow, leading the group through corridors that spoke of the arena's dual nature as both entertainment venue and seat of planetary government. This wasn't merely a gladiatorial pit—it was the heart of Sakaar's entire civilization, a towering monument to the Red King's absolute authority.
They ascended through multiple levels of security, past checkpoints manned by increasingly elite guards, until finally arriving at a chamber that radiated authority and menace in equal measure.
The woman who awaited them was immediately striking—nearly two meters tall with silver-gray skin that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. Her black hair was styled in an elaborate fashion that left most of her head bare while allowing a single long braid to cascade down her back like a warrior's banner.
She stood with the perfect posture of someone accustomed to command, her presence filling the room with an almost gravitational intensity.
"Scavenger 142," she said, addressing Brunnhilde with professional courtesy rather than warmth. Her gaze shifted to Ben and Loki, and something like disappointment flickered across her features. "Your latest acquisitions appear... underwhelming. Compared to the Red Wind Queen's standards, these two look positively fragile."
Ben recognized her—this was Caiera the Oldstrong, a warrior whose strength was legendary even by Sakaar's brutal standards.
The future Hulk's queen and mother to Skaar.
"Not every hunting expedition yields a prize," Brunnhilde replied, taking a long pull from her ever-present bottle. "However, the merchandise this time comes with unusual status. I believe the Red King will find the political implications... interesting."
Caiera's expression shifted to one of mild curiosity.
"The Red Wind Queen you brought last time has certainly captured his attention," she said with a knowing smile. "Though I understand the feeling isn't mutual. She apparently considers him beneath her notice."
Brunnhilde nodded as if this development was entirely predictable.
"The Queen has exacting standards when it comes to worthy opponents. She remains in the arena by choice rather than compulsion—she stays for the joy of battle, not because anyone could force her."