Thor gave Darren a quick rundown of the arena's rules.
It was simple, one-on-one combat. The winner climbed the rankings, and the ultimate champion who managed to secure ten consecutive victories would earn a reward directly from Odin himself, along with having their name forever engraved into the Hall of Glory.
To Darren, it sounded perfect.
Ranked mode. Classic. Right up his alley.
The rules were flexible enough: no lethal or permanently crippling attacks, but beyond that? Anything went. Even weapons were allowed.
Darren's eyes glinted. "Anything goes, huh? So, can I bring a sniper rifle?"
He reached into his inventory and, without a hint of irony, pulled out an RPG launcher.
Thor blinked. "..."
Unfortunately, the officials clarified that only melee weapons were permitted.
After all, this was a coliseum, not a warzone.
"Boring," Darren muttered as he reluctantly put the launcher away and signed up.
...
He didn't have to wait long for his first match.
His opponent was a mountain of a man, bald, broad, covered in scars, with two thick black marks tattooed across his skull. In one hand, he wielded an enormous double-headed axe that looked like it could split a mountain in half.
Darren glanced at his opponent's info display.
[NPC: Skurge]
[Codename: The Executioner]
[Favorability: 0]
[Notes: Dual-wielding warrior. Official title: Asgard's Second-Generation Doorman.]
"Oi!" Skurge called out, tossing his axe onto his shoulder with a grin full of teeth. "Black-haired boy, you're unlucky! Your first match, and it's me you're facing."
Darren ignored the taunt. His eyes were glued to that axe, admiring the craftsmanship.
"Nice weapon. Looks expensive."
"Of course!" Skurge puffed his chest proudly. "Forged by the dwarves themselves, cost me a fortune!"
"So it's a rare drop, huh?" Darren said casually.
"Absolutely."
He didn't even get to finish the sentence before Darren's body tensed, muscles bulging under the Gantz suit.
In the next instant, he launched forward like a fired bullet.
The speed was so absurd that Skurge barely managed to react, swinging his axe in panic, trying to ward off the charge.
But Darren was already there. He ducked low under the heavy swing, his fist flashing upward in a brutal arc.
WHAM!
The blow connected square with Skurge's jaw.
The massive warrior's vision went black as a dull thud echoed across the arena. He stumbled back, eyes spinning.
"Disarm!"
Darren's voice cut through the dust as he lunged forward, both hands grabbing the axe handle.
Then, with one sharp kick to Skurge's chest, he wrenched it free.
The blow sent the Executioner flying backward like a ragdoll. He landed hard in the sand, rolling several meters before coming to a stop.
Blinking in disbelief, Skurge struggled to rise, only to find Darren already standing over him, his own axe pressed coldly against his neck.
"I yield!" he shouted without hesitation, hands up, face pale.
He dropped to his knees faster than Thor's hammer in a gravity field.
"Victory to the red side!" announced the referee, his booming voice echoing through the arena.
The crowd erupted into cheers. Asgardians had always revered strength above all else, and this newcomer from Midgard had just humiliated one of their own champions in seconds.
Darren simply tossed the axe over his shoulder and walked off the battlefield without a glance back.
Another win secured.
Behind him, Skurge lay sprawled in the sand, muttering weakly, "Wait... you forgot to give my axe back..."
...
Over the next few days, Darren breezed through match after match, winning every single one, and keeping every opponent's weapon as "loot."
The defeated warriors were too embarrassed to demand them back, so Darren's collection grew steadily.
Still, the arena only scheduled a limited number of ranked matches each day.
At this rate, reaching the top would take time.
So Darren developed a routine,
He'd go back to Earth to complete his daily missions, then teleport straight to Asgard for more matches.
A perfect grind cycle. Efficient. Addictive.
And, surprisingly, fun.
He hadn't felt this nostalgic rush of "leveling up" since his earliest gaming days.
...
Meanwhile, Heimdall saw everything.
From his post at the Bifrost, his all-seeing eyes followed Darren's constant coming and going between worlds, and each day his expression darkened further.
In all his centuries guarding Asgard, he had never witnessed anyone abuse the laws of the realms so casually.
Coming and going like he owned the place!
Was Heimdall just decorative furniture now?
But since Odin's own son had granted tacit approval, there wasn't much the old gatekeeper could say.
He did the only thing he could, look away and sigh, following his king's eternal philosophy: "Pretend you didn't see it."
...
The matches were going well.
Every Asgardian warrior was a powerhouse by Earth's standards, each one stronger, faster, and tougher than most superhumans.
But with the Gantz suit amplifying Darren's already monstrous stats, none of them could match him.
He crushed his opponents with effortless precision, barely breaking a sweat.
Soon, the name Darren of Midgard spread throughout Asgard like wildfire.
Stories flooded the golden halls, of a mysterious outsider who defeated Asgard's finest in single combat and took their weapons as trophies.
Warriors whispered about him with a mix of awe and fear.
And yes, he had a reputation.
The Midgardian had a strange habit: he always looted his opponents mid-fight.
Weapons, shields, even bits of armor, if he liked it, it was his.
It got so bad that several Asgardian fighters, especially the female ones, immediately surrendered upon seeing him step into the arena.
Because between losing a duel and losing your armor in front of a few hundred roaring spectators... well, there was only one real choice.
Asgardians weren't afraid of death.
But social death? That was another story entirely.
...
One afternoon, Thor approached Darren with a hesitant look on his face.
"Tell me," he began, "your teleportation ability, can it carry others with you?"
Darren shook his head. "Nope. Solo trips only."
Thor sighed, shoulders drooping. "I see."
Darren raised a brow. "Why? Planning a vacation to Earth?"
Thor nodded, his voice softening. "I promised Jane I'd return to her once my duties here were done. But then... the Rainbow Bridge was destroyed. She must think I abandoned her. Perhaps she's still waiting in Midgard."
Darren was genuinely surprised. In all their time together in Asgard, he'd never once heard Thor mention anyone named Jane.
Usually, it was just "Loki this" and "Mjolnir that."
"Jane" sounded like a brand-new NPC he'd just unlocked.
"Well," Darren said after thinking for a moment, "you could always record a video message. I'll send it for you next time I'm back on Earth."
Thor's eyes lit up instantly. "That's brilliant! You're a genius!"
Darren handed over his phone. Thor held it up at arm's length, but being the absolute chad he was, he didn't bother finding a flattering angle.
Instead, he shoved the camera directly into his own face, capturing every unflattering detail as he began his heartfelt speech.
At first, it was normal.
He talked about duty, honor, and the destruction of the Bifrost.
But then... he started talking about Loki.
And didn't stop.
The video quickly spiraled into a long, rambling monologue about his brother, their complicated relationship, the revelation that Loki was adopted, their endless arguments, his guilt, his sadness, his,
Just. Endless. Loki.
Darren could already picture Jane's expression when she'd receive this masterpiece.
Her boyfriend disappears for weeks, claiming he'll be back "tomorrow." Then, after ages of radio silence, he finally sends a video,
and it's ten minutes of emotional oversharing about his brother.
Yeah. That was going to go well.
If she didn't break up with him on the spot, it'd be a miracle.
Darren sighed. "Thor, my friend... you're hopeless."
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