The weapons chamber beneath Sakaar's Grand Arena was a testament to the planet's violent history—a cavernous space lined with racks of confiscated armaments from a thousand different civilizations. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of old blood and the lingering ozone of discharged energy weapons, while shadows danced between towering displays of implements designed for one purpose: killing.
Korg's gravelly voice echoed through the chamber as he examined a wickedly curved blade.
"You really shouldn't have challenged the Red Wind Queen," he said, shaking his rocky head with genuine concern. "Don't get me wrong—she's not as needlessly cruel as some of the previous champions, but that almost makes her more dangerous. She's completely unbeatable, and she never holds back during combat. Every fight is a masterpiece of applied violence."
The Kronan's gaze fell on Ben's slender frame, and his expression grew increasingly mournful. In his estimation, Ben's body would be torn apart by preliminary opponents long before he ever reached Princess Looma's level of competition.
The championship ladder wasn't designed for casual exhibition matches—each rung represented a potentially lethal encounter with progressively more dangerous opponents.
"Can't I challenge the Red Wind Queen directly?" Ben asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
He remembered that in the films, Thor had been able to face the Hulk immediately upon his arrival, but circumstances on Sakaar seemed to have evolved beyond that.
"That used to be possible," Korg explained with the patience of someone who had answered this question many times before. "But the Red Wind Queen grew tired of fighting opponents who couldn't provide adequate challenge. She complained to the Red King that weak challengers were boring and beneath her dignity, so he modified the arena rules specifically to accommodate her preferences."
The Kronan gestured toward the various weapons with resigned familiarity.
"Now you have to prove your worthiness with victories before you can even challenge the champion."
"Interesting," Ben murmured, lifting a war hammer that probably weighed three times his body mass. The weapon's surface was encrusted with dried blood and patches of alien fur that spoke of its previous owner's violent end.
"Disgusting," Korg complained "These fighters never clean their equipment properly. Who knows what kind of diseases might be lurking in those blood?"
Ben set the hammer aside with deliberate care. The truth was that he had no real need for weapons.
"Are the Red Wind Queen and the Red King romantically involved?" he asked, the similarity in their titles suggesting a possible connection.
Korg's expression shifted to one of amused disbelief.
"Hardly," he said with a chuckle that sounded like grinding stone. "The queen barely acknowledges his existence, let alone his romantic advances."
Hiroim looked up from his own weapon selection, joining the conversation.
"She calls herself the Red Wind Queen because she claims to be royalty from something called the Red Wind Empire," he explained. "As far as I can tell, it has nothing to do Sakaar—she just happened to choose a title that sounds similar to his."
"Red Wind Empire..." Ben repeated the name slowly, searching his memory for any reference to such a civilization.
The name felt familiar, hovering just beyond the edge of his recollection like a word on the tip of his tongue. He knew of the Skrull Empire and the Kree Empire, certainly, but this particular galactic power remained frustratingly elusive.
"What about your friend over there?" Korg asked, nodding toward Loki's hunched form in the chamber's far corner. "Shouldn't he be selecting weapons for tomorrow's match?"
The question highlighted an uncomfortable reality that everyone present understood but hadn't directly addressed: while Ben had declared his intention to challenge the Red Wind Queen, it would be Loki who faced immediate mortal peril in the arena's sand.
The fallen prince's public humiliation of the Red King had earned him a punishment fight—a spectacle designed to demonstrate the consequences of disrespecting Sakaar's absolute ruler.
At the moment, Loki resembled a broken marionette more than a god of mischief. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his normally pristine appearance reduced to a disheveled mess of tangled hair and bloodstained clothing. The neural inhibitors piercing his collarbones had robbed him of his magical abilities.
"He's a sorcerer," Ben said with calculated uncertainty. "Supposedly."
"I hope he can find some motivation before tomorrow," Druuk interjected, his concern genuine despite the casual tone. "The Red King doesn't forgive public insults. My guess is that they won't pit him against any of us regular gladiators."
Hiroim nodded grimly, elaborating on the implications.
"They'll probably throw him to one of the native trolls," he said. "Massive creatures unique to Sakaar—they'll eat absolutely anything organic and they're completely feral. If he doesn't find his fighting spirit soon, he'll end up as monster food before the first bell."
Ben studied Loki's defeated posture with growing concern. While he genuinely didn't believe the Red King possessed the courage to execute Asgardian royalty, rulers drunk on power often made catastrophically poor decisions. If Loki died in the arena, Odin's wrath would likely reduce Sakaar to space dust—an outcome that would severely complicate Ben's conquest plans.
Beyond the practical considerations, some of Loki's unique abilities could prove valuable in the coming campaign. The God of Mischief's talent for illusion and manipulation had potential applications that conventional strength couldn't match.
Of course, motivating Loki required a more sophisticated approach than standard pep talks and emotional appeals.
Ben rose from his weapon examination and approached Loki's position with deliberate casualness.
"Is this really all the son of Odin amounts to?" he asked, his voice carrying just the right note of contemptuous disappointment.
Loki didn't respond, his attention apparently focused on some invisible point between his knees.
"You're behaving like a beaten dog," Ben continued, settling beside the fallen prince with calculated familiarity. "What happened to all that rebellious fire you showed on Earth? Where's the proud defiance that made you think you could rule over mortals?"
Still no response.
Ben stood up with exaggerated resignation, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes.
"Well, I suppose I understand why Odin never seriously considered you for the throne," he said with surgical precision. "You're clearly inferior to Thor in every way that matters."
That finally penetrated Loki's protective shell of self-pity.
The God of Mischief's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with the kind of wounded fury that only came from having one's deepest insecurities exposed to public scrutiny.
"Odin gave the throne to Thor because Thor is his biological son!" Loki snarled, his voice cracking with years of accumulated resentment. "I never had a real chance—I'm just the frost giant foundling he keeps around for political convenience!"
Even in his current broken state, Loki's pride refused to accept the possibility that he might actually be less qualified than his adoptive brother. Thor was nothing but a musclebound brute whose only solution to complex problems involved hitting them with an enchanted hammer. Without Mjolnir, the precious golden prince was barely even godly.
But Ben understood the larger strategic picture that Loki's wounded ego couldn't see.
Asgard's dominion over the Nine Realms hadn't been achieved through diplomacy and cultural exchange—it had been carved out through centuries of brutal conquest that had left entire civilizations extinct or enslaved. The wealth and prestige of the Golden Realm had been purchased with rivers of alien blood, creating a legacy of hatred that stretched across the galaxy.
"If you became God-King," Ben said with quiet intensity, "Asgard would fall within a decade."
He reached out and deliberately tugged on the bloody chains that bound Loki's wrists, smiling as the prince winced in pain.
"Every enemy your father ever made would unite against a weak ruler. The frost giants would pour through the dimensional barriers, the dark elves would emerge from their hidden realms, and a thousand other civilizations would finally get their revenge. The warriors of Asgard would be slaughtered in their golden halls, and every citizen of Asgard would face the same fate you're experiencing right now."
Ben released the chains and let his words sink in before delivering the psychological killing blow.
"And your mother—the noble Frigga, Queen of Asgard—what do you think would happen to her when the conquest was complete?"
The question hit Loki like a physical blow to the chest.
Throughout his life in Asgard, surrounded by warriors and politicians who valued strength above all else, only Queen Frigga had shown him genuine maternal affection. She had been his sanctuary in a court that often felt hostile to his more cerebral approach to power, the one person who had never made him feel like a disappointing consolation prize.
For the first time since his capture, Loki's imagination began working against him in productive ways. He could visualize the enemies of Asgard storming through Asgard's palaces, could see his mother's elegant features twisted with terror as enemies finally claimed their revenge...
"Fortunately," Ben continued with calculated cruelty, "you'll never have the chance to disappoint anyone again. You're going to die tomorrow in this space garbage dump, forgotten and unmourned, your potential wasted on self-pity and broken dreams."
Loki's breath came in sharp, angry gasps as the full weight of his situation finally penetrated his defensive numbness.
"But perhaps that's for the best," Ben added with a shrug. "After all, you're just Odin's adopted charity case. What could you possibly accomplish that would matter?"
Then he leaned close enough that his whisper would be audible only to Loki's enhanced hearing.
"Unless, of course, you actually want to prove that you're capable of true kingship."
"Become... a king?" Loki's voice was barely audible, as if the concept was almost too dangerous to speak aloud.
"Not just any king," Ben replied with quiet intensity. "A king worthy of the name. Someone who rules through intelligence and will rather than brute force. Someone who proves that strength comes in many forms."
He gestured subtly toward the other gladiators, most of whom were pointedly not listening to their conversation.
"For yourself, and for all of us who refuse to accept that this is how our stories end."
Ben's next words carried the weight of absolute certainty.
"Heimdall can see across the Nine Realms with his sight, and Odin's ravens carry news from every corner of the universe. Do you really believe the All-Father doesn't know exactly what's happening to you right now?"
The implication hung in the air like a challenge to everything Loki thought he understood about his relationship with his adoptive father.
"So the question becomes: do you want him to watch you fade into obscurity, or do you want to show him—and yourself—that you possess the qualities that make a true ruler?"
The fire that ignited in Loki's eyes was almost palpable, transforming his features from defeated despair to something approaching dangerous hope.
Deep down, Loki had never really wanted the throne for its own sake—what he craved was recognition, proof that he was worthy of respect and consideration. The crown was just a symbol of the acceptance he'd spent his entire life seeking.
"What exactly are you proposing?" he asked, his voice steadier than it had been since his capture.
Ben smiled, recognizing the moment when a broken tool became a potential weapon.
"I'm proposing that we remind this entire planet what it means to face the sons of Asgard."