"I'll make you pay!"
Thor roared. Even the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents outside could hear him clearly.
Amidst the mostly collapsed makeshift camp, Herman watched calmly as the Thunder God's palm gripped the handle of Mjolnir, bellowing his declaration of war.
"Is that all?"
Herman spat out the gum in his mouth.
"No! It can't be! This can't be the outcome! How could I lose its approval!"
Thor had struggled painfully to his feet, intent on lifting the hammer and striking Herman. Yet after his furious roar…
The atmosphere on the scene turned awkward. Thor had already raised his hand to grab the hammer and prepared to swing, but Mjolnir didn't budge an inch.
The misstep threw Thor completely off balance, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt once again.
"Even Mjolnir has abandoned me?"
The Thor who had just reignited his fighting spirit and bristled with fury now looked crushed by a blow even harsher than Herman's earlier humiliations.
His reaction was even stronger—he froze, eyes wide with disbelief, trapped in denial as he struggled to accept reality.
Thor had never imagined that the weapon which had fought by his side across countless battles would one day reject him like a stranger.
"No! No! It's me! I'm Thor!"
He staggered back to his feet and lunged for Mjolnir, desperate to convince himself that the hammer had only failed to recognize him for a moment.
Yet no matter how hard he gripped the handle, straining every muscle in his body, Mjolnir stayed firmly embedded in the ground.
The rejection was absolute.
Just like the countless Asgardian warriors it had spurned before—Thor's eyes burned red with fury, veins bulging across his neck.
"Mjolnir? You even gave a hammer a name. Pathetic."
Herman seized the moment, stepping before the kneeling Thor.
"This is Asgard's mighty God of Thunder? Without your hammer, you're nothing. Perhaps I should call you the God of Hammers instead?"
He sneered as he provoked the vacant-eyed Thor once more, effortlessly lifting Mjolnir and tossing it far into the distance.
The hammer didn't resist, tumbling end over end before vanishing into the night.
"How could you possibly lift it! Damn you! Who the hell are you!"
Thor's eyes bulged as he screamed, staring in horror at Herman, his face twisted with disbelief. Mjolnir had rejected him—but not this man.
"I told you, you don't understand possibility. And I must say, you've truly disappointed me."
Herman yanked the broken Thunder God from the ground once more.
"I've lost interest in you. So… are you ready to meet Odin?"
His words dripped with killing intent, sending an icy chill down Thor's spine.
This time, Thor didn't question or resist. Perhaps the endless string of blows had shattered his will to fight.
Asgard was gone. Odin was gone. His mother was surely gone too.
In such a world, what use was a Thunder God who couldn't even lift his own hammer?
Thor let out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with grim resolve.
"A warrior of Asgard… can only die in battle!"
Suddenly, the once-broken Thor burned with a warrior's determination. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Herman, who held him aloft, and hurled himself forward with all his strength—slamming his head toward Herman's skull.
The so-called God of Hammers would strike one last blow, even at the cost of his life.
Herman, reading Thor's surface thoughts with ease, made no move to dodge. The powerless Thor couldn't block his telepathy anyway.
He let Thor crash forward with his headbutt.
The result? Like an egg striking stone.
Thor collapsed instantly, knocked out cold. He hadn't even managed to touch Herman's head—only the invisible wall of telekinetic force that shielded him.
A swollen lump rose across Thor's forehead as his eyes rolled back and he fainted.
Herman sighed, staring at the limp Thunder God dangling like a broken shrimp.
"Damn idiot… hardheaded to the core."
Still, Thor's "valiant act" wouldn't hinder the next phase of the plan.
Carrying Thor out of the ruined base, Herman gave Coulson a nod, then shot skyward once more, soaring above the clouds.
Over the battlefields of Russia and Belarus, a grand performance awaited Thor—one Herman no longer needed to act in himself.
"Good thing he's unconscious. Saves me the trouble of staging that little 'accident' for his transition. All this trash talk has left my mouth dry."
Locking onto his path, Herman accelerated, leaving behind a trail of sonic booms.
Soon, he arrived at the war-torn lands between Russia and Belarus.
"Follow the script I had Coulson send you earlier. And don't screw this up."
Herman handed the unconscious Thor to the waiting S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
"You can count on us!"
They nodded in unison. Among them, Herman spotted several HYDRA operatives, but they didn't seem intent on meddling.
Of course not.
Hydra wanted to control the world, not ignite a war between two civilizations. Alexander Goodwin Pierce, one their leader within S.H.I.E.L.D., wasn't a fool.
Leaving Thor behind, Herman shot back into the sky.
"Is that the Homelander?"
For the foreign S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, this was their first time seeing Herman, though they had long heard of his reputation for being "brutally ruthless."
When they saw him depart, everyone let out a collective sigh of relief.
"Who would've thought someone this powerful really existed… Our world is insane."
A HYDRA agent gazed longingly in the direction Herman had left, his expression tinged with admiration. HYDRA had always revered strength—it was part of their creed—and their greatest admiration was reserved for ambitious strongmen.
To them, Herman's Homelander-like image felt strangely familiar, perhaps even relatable. That might be why they hadn't tried to cause him trouble—maybe they even saw him as someone worth recruiting, or perhaps as a future leader.
The legitimate S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, however, didn't notice their comrade's odd reaction. They too had stared after Herman for a long time before finally pulling their eyes away.
"We small fry should be more concerned about how to serve this Crown Prince properly."
Most of these agents were only Level 5 or 6, with the highest barely at Level 7.
Still, because of the mission, they had clearance to learn Thor's true identity. Each of them felt their worldview utterly shattered.
"I'm honestly considering wiping this memory once the mission's over. Otherwise, I don't think I'll be able to sleep at night."
One agent rubbed his temples. Sometimes, when missions were too traumatic—or too highly classified—agents would undergo memory erasure afterward.
"A prince of the gods… dressed like that?"
When their attention shifted to Thor, every agent's expression turned equally strange.
So this is the fashion trend in the so-called realm of the gods, Asgard?
One of them poked at Thor's leopard-print briefs.
"This godly prince's ass could probably rival Cap's."
He made the declaration with conviction, then pulled out a camera to snap a few pictures.
...
The next part of the script was meant to show Thor—the crown prince of Asgard—just how brutal war could be. To make him understand the suffering it inflicted on ordinary people, and more importantly, the misery common folk endured under the rule of a foolish king.
The current situation in Belarus provided a perfect stage. With only a few actors, Thor could experience it firsthand. No elaborate sets or props were even necessary.
It was sheer coincidence.
Some events in the Marvel universe had simply unfolded earlier than expected… This "prince's awakening" arc no longer required Herman's personal involvement.
Even so, having built this stage himself, Herman still wanted to watch. From the sky, he observed for a while… until he noticed one of the agents couldn't resist touching Thor's butt.
At that point, he lost all interest in directing.
Unbearable! Absolutely unbearable!
If he remembered Coulson's briefing correctly, this group of agents stationed in Belarus were all British nationals.
Thankfully, the so-called gentlemen didn't go further than snapping a few photos. Otherwise, Herman would have no idea how to explain this to Odin.
Your son comes to Earth once, and he's defiled? Or to put it politely, he loses his first time? Odin would never accept that.
"Awake?"
High above the clouds, Herman looked down at the earth.
He saw Thor slowly regaining consciousness as the agents began weaving him into their scripted scenario.
Everything was going smoothly.
If it stayed this way, in four or five days Thor would undergo the full transformation.
"I'm not hanging around up here for four or five days."
Herman had no need to watch the entire process. Dropping in occasionally would be enough.
He glanced at his watch—it was already past midnight. Dinner was long gone, and he'd be lucky to even catch a late-night snack when he returned.
"I'll check back in a couple of days."
Just as he prepared to use Raven Teleportation to leave—
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz—
The distant roar of fighter jets cut through the night. Even on the edge of the battlefield, patrols still flew nearby.
"We've spotted someone floating in the sky!"
The jet bore Belarusian insignia. The pilot, incredulous, radioed headquarters—and received a sharp, mocking reply.
"A person? Have you been drinking? How could anyone be up there?"
"I'm closing in on the target… It's the Homelander!"
The pilot, known for his keen eyesight, veered off once he got within range.
"Shoot him down!"
But then…
At that moment, a low, commanding voice came through the radio.
"What?"
The fighter pilot froze in shock.
He recognized the voice issuing the command—it was the President of Belarus, a legendary figure who had clawed his way up from a lowly stage actor to the presidency.
"I said, open fire on him! Shoot him down!"
The Belarusian President repeated his order sternly. Over the radio, the command center erupted in noise, his command sparking an uproar.
"But that's the Homelander!"
The pilot hesitated. He had seen the footage of Herman facing a sky filled with combat mechs, tearing through them like paper and claiming victory.
Thousands, tens of thousands, of more advanced machines couldn't do it… and now he was expected to attack with a secondhand, outdated fighter jet imported from the United States?
At that moment, the radio carried the voices of advisors trying to reason with the president.
"We don't need to provoke someone like that. He's not only the only superhuman alive today, but also a powerful tycoon with major influence in the United States."
"They're right. We still need U.S. support. We can't afford this. And besides, our jets probably wouldn't even be able to hit him."
Probably?
The pilot wanted to curse out loud.
One busted-up fighter jet against the Homelander?
This was the man who had destroyed tens of thousands of flying mechs by himself!
"America? And we're supposed to fear their reproach?" The President of Belarus had no intention of humoring his advisors' objections.
The radio remained open.
Highly unprofessional—allowing the pilot to hear every word from the command center.
"Don't forget—it's America that needs us, not the other way around!" the president declared, brimming with self-confidence.
"We shouldn't fear the United States! If they want our help against their rivals, they wouldn't dare to offend us so easily!"
His voice rang with conviction.
The advisors fell silent.
"Mr. President! Even if we don't fear America, we can't provoke the Homelander. He's a force even the U.S. military wouldn't dare to cross!"
After a few seconds, one aide couldn't help blurting it out.
But the President of Belarus only smiled faintly.
"Exactly. That's why we must open fire on him—prove we are stronger than the U.S. military. Think about it—if the world learns we shot down the Homelander, how much glory and admiration would that bring us?"
"I know you love this country as much as I do. That's why we must do this—for the rise of Belarus! We will earn the respect of the world!"
He spoke with unshakable confidence, radiating the arrogance of a man who believed himself destined to stand above all others.
But few advisors responded.
Many silently wondered how this man had ever become president in the first place.
Did he really think other nations weren't coveting the Homelander's power?
And yet not a single country dared to make a move!
Belarus?
We can barely handle our own problems... The advisors held back their words, too afraid that a president drunk on delusion might tighten his grip on power.
"Enough! For the greatness of Belarus, my son—shoot him down!"
The president, lost in the haze of "I am the greatest president," gave the order with absolute conviction.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot had already cursed the president's mother ten thousand times. Resigned to death, he prepared to pull the trigger.
...
"What the hell?"
Herman watched as a fighter jet circled him several times, utterly baffled. With a flicker of Raven Teleportation, he vanished from sight.
"Target lost! Target lost!"
The Belarusian pilot shouted, relief plain in his voice. What should have sounded like frustration was instead filled with the joy of survival.
…
"You're back just in time!"
Herman had no idea he'd nearly been the target of a fool's provocation.
He returned to the Stellar Tower.
There, he found the staff eating a late-night snack and casually joined them. No one asked where he had been—the incident in Mexico hadn't made the news, and some employees didn't even know he had left the office. Raven Teleportation truly made him come and go like a ghost.
...
The next morning, Herman rose early.
He didn't bother checking on Thor. Instead, he waited in his office with growing anticipation.
That's right.
It was time to draw a new identity again.
...
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