The black flame pulsed around Gorr—living, furious, desperate. Inside this cocoon of darkness, a war was raging that we could not see, but could feel with every cell of our bodies. Two wills clashed—the man against the parasite, millennia of symbiosis against a single moment of doubt.
The flame began to subside.
Gorr stood on his knees in the middle of the ruined throne room, his body wracked with tremors. The Necrosword in his hand pulsed—not rhythmically as before, but chaotically, like a heart that cannot decide whether to beat or stop.
"You are weak!" The voice was not Gorr's; it came from everywhere and nowhere at once, ancient and hungry. "I gave you power! I made you the God Butcher! And you betray me for the words of some Jotun?!"
Gorr raised his head, and in his eyes was a struggle—human will against something bottomless and dark.
"You didn't give me power," he wheezed. "You gave me chains. I thought I was free, that I chose whom to kill. But it was always you; you guided my hand, you fanned my hatred, you wouldn't let me stop..."
"Because you didn't want to stop!" The Necrosword struck mentally, and Gorr screamed in pain. "You enjoyed every kill! Every dead god was your revenge!"
"No..." Gorr clutched his head, trying to tear the sword from his hand. "No, it was your revenge. Your hunger. I only... I only wanted the pain to stop..."
He jerked his hand—and nothing happened. The Necrosword did not move, as if it had grown into his palm, becoming part of his body.
"You cannot let go," the Necrosword's voice was triumphant. "We are bound. Forever."
Gorr looked at his hand—at the black veins of necro-matter that had spread across his skin, at the blade that was an extension of his flesh.
"He cannot free himself alone," I said, addressing the others. "The sword has merged with him."
"And what do you propose?" Hela asked, still holding her blades ready.
I looked at her—at the Goddess of Death in her own realm, wounded but not broken. Then at my own hands—sliced by the Necrosword, covered in a crust of dried blood.
"Attack the bond directly," I said. "Your power over death and my cold. Together, we can tear apart what joins them."
Hela laughed—shortly, without mirth.
"You want me to help the one who tried to kill me? Who drank my realm like water?"
"If the Necrosword wins, you are next," I replied. "It already knows the taste of your power. Do you think it will stop with Gorr?"
Hela went silent. Her eyes—one living, one dead—looked at me with something resembling a re-evaluation.
"You have a way with words, Jotun," she said finally. "Fine. But if this is a trap..."
"It's not a trap."
"We shall see."
She stepped forward, and the shadows in the hall reached for her—obedient, living, hungry. I stood beside her and allowed the cold to rise from within, filling every cell of my body.
"Thor, Sif," I said without turning back. "Hold the perimeter. If something goes wrong..."
"What exactly could go wrong?" Sif asked with grim sarcasm.
"Everything."
Hela and I moved toward Gorr simultaneously.
The Necrosword sensed us—the black flame flared brighter in defense. But we didn't attack Gorr; we attacked the bond between him and the sword—the invisible threads that connected their minds, their will, their essence.
Hela struck first—authority over death, pure and absolute. She pulled at the part of Gorr that had already died, the part that belonged to her realm by right.
I added the cold—Jotun cold, searing, the kind that had slowed the necro-matter back in Omnipotence City. And along with it, something else. The part of myself that had already been to the other side, the memory of death I had carried since my rebirth. Helheim recognized this, responded to it—not to the cold, but to the void within me, the trace of non-existence I had brought from my past life.
Gorr screamed.
The Necrosword did too—a piercing screech of metal that should not be able to scream.
"Hold it!" Hela hissed through her teeth, her face distorted with strain.
I held. The cold flowed through me like a river, and I directed it into the point of connection—to where Gorr ended and the sword began.
"Let go," I told Gorr. "You must let go of the hatred yourself. We can break the bond, but only if you help."
"I..." he gasped from the pain. "I can't... it's all I have..."
"No. You have the memory of your daughter. Of how you lied to her so she wouldn't be afraid. That wasn't hatred—that was love."
Gorr froze.
"Remember her," I continued, not easing the pressure. "Not her death—her life. How she laughed. How she called you Papa. Remember the love, not the pain."
Something changed in Gorr's eyes. The rage began to recede, and in its place came something else—something human, something the Necrosword had hidden from him for millennia.
"Ara," he whispered the name. "Her name was Ara..."
The bond faltered.
"More!" Hela shouted.
I put everything I had into it—all the cold, all the power, all the belief. Hela did the same. And Gorr—Gorr finally let go.
The bond snapped.
The Necrosword flew out of Gorr's hand—it didn't just fall; it flew, like a living creature thrown back by force. The black blade hung in the air for a moment, pulsing with rage and hunger.
And then it moved.
Not toward me. Not toward Hela.
Toward Sif.
The sword flew at her like an arrow—black lightning carrying death. Sif raised her sword, trying to defend herself, but it was useless; the Necrosword wasn't going to attack—it was going to join.
I realized this before I had even finished the thought.
Sif. Within her was anger—hidden, suppressed, but real. Anger at betrayal, at lies, at the years she had believed the wrong person. To the hungry sword, she was the perfect target.
I lunged to intercept.
I don't know how I made it—maybe Jotun speed, maybe desperation, maybe something else. But I was between Sif and the sword at the last moment, and I grabbed the Necrosword with my bare hands.
Again.
The pain was familiar—the same void, the same hunger, the same pressure on the mind. But now, I knew what to expect.
You,—the voice of the Necrosword sounded directly in my head.—You are full of pain. Full of hatred. You will be the perfect host.
Images flooded in like a torrent—my own memories, twisted, distorted. Odin telling me the truth about my origin. Thor, shining and beloved, while I stood in the shadow. The fall from the bridge. The torture in the Sanctuary. The trial in Asgard.
See?—the sword whispered.—They all betrayed you. They all used you. Take me—and you will have your revenge. On every one of them.
I could have given in. A part of me—the part that still remembered the pain and humiliation—wanted to give in.
But I was not Gorr.
I had already died once—in another life, in another body. I knew what non-existence was. And I knew that I had returned.
The Necrosword could not frighten me with death. I had already been to the other side.
"You don't understand," I said aloud, and my voice was calm. "I will not be your host."
You cannot resist,—the sword insisted, increasing the pressure.—Everyone who held me thought they were in control. Everyone was wrong.
"You will be my weapon."
I reached for the void that Helheim had recognized in me. For the memory of death I had carried within me since my rebirth.
And I crashed that void upon its will—covering it like a gravestone, crushing it with the non-existence I knew from the inside. The Necrosword screeched—mentally, deafeningly. It tried to break free, tried to subjugate me, tried to find a weak spot in my defense.
But I was the God of Lies.
Not omnipotent—no power works that simply. I couldn't just believe Thanos would die and have it happen. I couldn't just believe I would become the All-Father and have reality obey. A lie that changes the world must have a foundation—a lever, a fulcrum. Without them, belief remains just belief.
But I had levers.
The Jotun cold that slowed the necro-matter—I felt the Necrosword resisting it, how the ancient blade did not like to freeze. The memory of death—not immunity, but an experience that prevented panic from flooding my mind when the sword showed me the abyss. And most importantly: I was not broken. Gorr took the Necrosword in a moment of despair, when hatred had burned everything else out of him, leaving a perfect vessel for the parasite. The sword grew into his pain, took root in his rage, fed on it for millennia.
In me, too, there was pain. There was rage. But they did not own me—I owned them.
On this foundation, I built a belief—and reality bent under its weight.
I am the master. The sword belongs to me. This ancient entity will serve me.
The Necrosword felt my confidence—absolute, unwavering. And for the first time in millennia, the ancient parasite encountered someone it could not break.
The Necrosword went silent.
Not destroyed. Not put to sleep. Subjugated.
I felt it—hungry, ancient, powerful. But now its power flowed according to my rules, obeyed my will.
"Loki!" Thor was beside me, his voice full of horror. "Drop it! It will consume you!"
I looked at him—at the brother who had just called me brother in battle, who had rushed to protect me without a second thought.
"No," I said. "It won't consume me."
The Necrosword in my hands began to change shape—black metal flowed like water, obeying my thought. The blade shrank, contracted, turned into a thin bracelet on my wrist. Black, smooth, almost invisible.
But I felt it—the pulsation of hunger that now beat in time with my heart.
"This is..." Hela was watching me, and in her eyes was something new, something I hadn't seen before. "You are full of surprises, Jotun."
"I try to live up to the reputation."
"This is madness," Sif said, her voice trembling. "You saw what it did to Gorr. Thousands of years of control..."
"Gorr was broken when he took the sword," I replied. "I am not."
A groan drew our attention.
Gorr lay on the floor—where he had fallen after the bond was severed. But something was wrong. His skin... was changing. The grey color was receding, replaced by something else—wrinkles, spots, signs of age.
The thousands of years the Necrosword had held at bay were catching up to him in seconds.
I approached him and knelt beside him.
"Gorr."
He opened his eyes—no longer burned out, no longer empty, but simply old and tired. The eyes of a man who has lived too long and finally received permission to stop.
"You... did it," he whispered, his voice weak and hoarse. "You subjugated it."
"Yes."
"How?"
I thought about how to explain. About death in another life. About the void I carried within me. About the belief that changed reality.
But some things are better kept to oneself.
"I am the God of Lies," I said. "The Necrosword feeds on rage and despair. I gave it lies instead—and it choked."
Gorr looked at me for a long time, and something resembling understanding flickered in his eyes. Not complete understanding—but enough.
"You are... stronger than I was," he said. "Don't let it win. Don't become me."
"I won't."
Gorr closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.
"I am tired," he whispered. "So tired. Thousands of years... and all that time I just wanted the pain to stop."
"Now it will stop."
He smiled—weakly, barely noticeably, but it was a real smile, the first in millennia.
"Ara," he whispered. "I am coming to you, little one..."
Gorr the God Butcher died.
Not from wounds, not from battle—but from old age, which had finally caught up with him. His body crumbled into dust, and a wind that should not have existed in the closed hall caught the ash and carried it away.
Silence.
I stood up and looked at the others—at Thor, who was looking at me with something between pride and anxiety; at Sif, who still couldn't believe what she had seen; at Hela, who was evaluating me anew.
"What now?" Thor asked.
I looked at the bracelet on my wrist—black, smooth, pulsing with hunger.
"Now, we go home."
Hela stepped forward, and a blade was already forming in her hand.
"Hand it over," she said, and it wasn't a question.
"No."
"This is not a request, Jotun. The Necrosword stays in Helheim. Here, I can control it; here, it won't find a new host if you lose it."
"I won't lose it."
"Gorr thought that too," she took another step. "A thousand years ago. Five thousand. Ten. Every time, he was certain he was controlling the sword, not the other way around."
Thor stood beside me, hammer in hand.
"Hela..."
"Do not interfere," she didn't look at him. "This does not concern you."
"Loki is my brother."
"And that is why you should want this thing as far away from him as possible."
She was right. Logically—absolutely right. The Necrosword in Helheim, under the supervision of the Goddess of Death, among the dead who have no need for hatred—the perfect solution.
But I was not going to give up a weapon capable of killing gods.
"Hela," I said calmly. "You just saw me subjugate it. Not put it to sleep, not lock it away—subjugate it. Do you really think you can take it from me by force?"
She froze.
We looked at each other—the Goddess of Death and the Jotun with the ancient weapon on his wrist. Thor and Sif stood nearby, ready for a battle that no one wanted to start.
"You are bluffing," Hela said.
"Maybe. Want to find out?"
A long pause.
"If you lose control," she said finally, her voice colder than the ice of Jotunheim. "If this thing breaks free and starts killing again—I will find you. And I will finish what Gorr didn't have time to start."
"Fair enough."
She withdrew her blade—slowly, reluctantly.
"You are either a madman or a genius," she said. "I haven't decided which is worse yet."
"When you decide—let me know."
Hela snorted—almost with approval.
"I like you, Jotun. And that concerns me."
She turned and walked toward the throne—to the rubble that remained of it after the battle. The dead warriors, the few who had survived, began to gather around her.
"Wait," I said. "The promise."
Hela stopped without turning back.
She turned around, and on her face was a strange mixture of hope and disbelief.
"Re-evaluating the terms of imprisonment," she said. "Do you really think Odin will listen?"
"I will speak with him. I don't promise a result—but I promise the conversation."
"And what will you tell him?"
"The truth. That you could have killed us at any moment, but you didn't. That you fought alongside us against a common enemy. That Gorr showed there are threats more terrifying than you."
Hela was silent.
"That is not enough," she said finally.
"Maybe. But it's a start."
She looked at me for a long time, and something changed in her eyes—the wall she had built over millennia of imprisonment cracked.
"You are strange," she said. "Even for a Jotun. Even for a son of Odin."
"I've been told."
"Go. Take your companions and return to Asgard. But remember—I will not forget your promise. And if you lie..."
"I won't lie," I interrupted. "Not about this."
Hela nodded—shortly, sharply.
"Then go. The gates will open where you entered."
We went toward the exit of the ruined throne room—me, Thor, and Sif. Thor was limping; necro-matter was still crawling up his shoulder, though more slowly than before. Sif was clutching her side; her wound had opened again. I felt exhaustion in every bone, in every cell of my body.
But we were alive.
"Loki," Thor spoke as we went out into the corridor. "That sword..."
"I control it."
"Are you sure?"
I looked at the bracelet—black, smooth, pulsing.
"Yes."
Thor did not look convinced but didn't argue. Maybe because he was too tired. Maybe because he was beginning to trust me.
The way back seemed shorter than the way here—or maybe time in Helheim flowed differently as we were leaving. Grey fields, black trees, endless ranks of the dead—everything flashed past like in a dream.
Frigga's amulet grew warm against my chest as we reached the gates.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Been ready for a long time," Sif muttered.
I activated the amulet, and golden light tore through the grey veil of Helheim.
Asgard.
We came out into the same hall we had left—the ritual room deep within the palace. Frigga was waiting for us—she stood at the altar, and the relief on her face was so sincere that something tightened in my chest.
"You are alive," she said, her voice trembling.
"Alive," Thor confirmed, hugging her.
She hugged him back, then looked at me—briefly, appraisingly. She nodded, as if convinced I was whole. That was enough.
She called the healers for Thor and Sif, and the palace came alive, filled with movement and voices.
An hour later, we stood in the throne room.
Odin sat on the throne—ancient, powerful, impenetrable. Huginn and Muninn circled over his head, and their eyes—his eyes—watched us without expression.
"Speak," he told Thor.
Thor told the story. Of the journey through Helheim, of meeting Hela, of Gorr's appearance. Of the battle that almost killed us all. Of how I stopped the God Butcher—not with force, but with words. And of what happened afterward.
"Loki subjugated the Necrosword," Thor finished, and his voice carried something between pride and anxiety. "The sword now belongs to him."
Silence.
Odin did not move, but something changed in the air—a pressure that could be felt on the skin.
"Show me," he said.
I raised my hand. The bracelet on my wrist flowed, changing shape, turning into a black blade—for a moment, enough for Odin to see. Then I returned it to the form of a bracelet.
"Do you understand what that is?" Odin asked, his voice heavy.
"Yes."
"That weapon has destroyed more gods than all the wars of Asgard combined. It is older than Yggdrasil. It is... hungry."
"I know."
"And you think you control it?"
"I don't think. I control."
Odin looked at me for a long time—his single eye seeing more than one eye should.
"Why didn't you leave it in Helheim?" he asked. "Hela could have..."
"Hela offered. I refused."
"Why?"
I met his gaze.
"Because it is a weapon that kills gods. And in this universe, there are gods worth killing."
A pause.
"You speak of Thanos," it wasn't a question.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Odin leaned back on his throne, and something changed in his face—not approval, but not condemnation either. Calculation.
"Sif," he spoke. "Is it true? He controls the sword?"
She stepped forward.
"I saw the Necrosword try to seize him, All-Father. And I saw how Loki... suppressed it. I don't know how long it will last, but for now—yes, he controls it."
Odin nodded. He was silent for a long time.
"You made a deal with Hela," he said finally. "In my name. Without my permission."
"Yes."
"And you took a weapon that by right should be sealed forever."
"Yes."
"And you expect me to accept this?"
"I expect you to understand," I said. "Gorr was one man. With the Necrosword, he killed hundreds of gods. Today we won, but tomorrow another threat will appear. And another. A weapon capable of killing immortals—it is too valuable to just seal away in Helheim."
Odin looked at me for a long time—his single eye seeing more than one eye should.
"You are thinking of the future," he said. "That is... unexpected."
"I'm learning."
Odin was silent. The ravens circled over his head.
"You risked your life," he said finally. "For Asgard. After Asgard condemned you."
I didn't answer.
Odin rose from the throne.
It was unexpected—the All-Father rarely left his seat during audiences. He descended the steps, slowly, leaning heavily on Gungnir, and stopped before me.
"You committed crimes against Midgard," he said. "That is not forgotten or forgiven."
I remained silent.
"But you also saved Asgard. You risked your life for those who imprisoned you."
He raised his hand—the one not holding the spear—and touched my forehead.
A flash of golden light.
I felt it instantly—a warmth that spread through my body, familiar and native. Seidr was returning, flowing through my veins, filling the void I had carried since the trial. The magic was mine again—completely, without restriction.
"Your magic is restored," Odin said, stepping back. "Your status as Prince of Asgard—is reinstated."
I opened my mouth, but he raised his hand, stopping me.
"Conditionally."
"Conditionally?"
"Prove that you deserve trust. Not with words—but with deeds. You have made a good start, but one victory does not atone for everything."
I nodded. It was more than I expected.
"As for Hela," Odin continued, returning to the throne. "I will think about it. I promise nothing—but I will think."
He sat on the throne and waved his hand—the audience was over.
We went out of the throne room, and Thor slapped me on the shoulder—too hard, as always.
"I knew it," he said, smiling. "I knew Father would see."
I didn't bother to reply. Odin saw what I showed him. No more.
The bracelet on my wrist pulsed—quietly, barely noticeably. The Necrosword waited, sleeping but not dead. Hungry, but subjugated.
"I need to rest," I told Thor. "Helheim... is exhausting."
"Of course, brother," he nodded. "See you at dinner?"
"Maybe."
I went to my chambers, and with every step, I felt the new power pulsing within me. Three sources of power. They shouldn't have combined—but they did.
Magic flowed through me—freely, without restriction. I created an illusion, a solid copy of myself, and it held longer than ever before. Denser. Realer. The copy smiled at me with my own smile, and I dissolved it with a single thought.
Then I looked at the bracelet.
The Necrosword pulsed under my skin like a second heart. I allowed it to change shape—the bracelet became a ring, the ring became a thin chain around my neck, the chain became a bracelet again. The sword obeyed, though I felt its hunger, its impatience, its ancient rage.
Let it hunger. Let it wait.
When the time comes—it will get what it wants. Но on my terms.
I clenched my fist and felt it all at once—the cold of the Jotun, the warmth of magic, and the hunger of the ancient blade. Three powers, woven together.
For the first time in a long time, I felt not like a survivor, but like a victor.
The stars over Asgard shone with a cold light, and somewhere out there, beyond the Nine Realms, other battles, other enemies, other opportunities waited.
I was ready.
---
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}