The Eternal Realm, Asgard!
Within the resplendent halls of the divine palace, seated upon the throne of the highest gods, a figure leaned back with an air of effortless arrogance.
A hand propped up his chin, his posture one of languid indifference.
Beneath a cascade of brilliant, golden hair, his gaze was as sharp as a hawk’s.
His golden armor glowed, and his crimson eyes burned with a light that seemed to outshine the very grandeur of the temple around him.
He was Karsa, son of the All-Father Odin, the God of Light of the Eternal Realm, and the eldest prince of Asgard.
Before he had transmigrated, Karsa had been nothing more than a shut-in who kept to himself.
When the single-player game Comics Universe was released, he had built himself an incredibly overpowered custom character.
The “Hero King Gilgamesh” template.
The eldest son of Odin, Prince of Asgard, God of Light, Master of Valhalla, Commander of the Twelve Gold Saints.
Layer upon layer of background lore had been woven to create an invincible powerhouse.
He had assumed it was merely a game, but he had actually crossed over into the world of comics, where every setting, every detail, had become cold, hard reality.
At first, he had found it thrilling.
After all, the nobility of his status and the terrifying extent of his power were things he could never have dreamed of in his previous life.
But as time wore on, a profound, soul-crushing boredom set in.
Any desire he expressed was met instantly, every whim catered to.
The thrill of struggle and the joy of achievement had vanished entirely.
Karsa sank into a state of listless ennui.
Because the gods lived for so long, this feeling was stretched into an agonizing eternity.
Over time, he had developed a personality that was arrogant, dull, and detached.
He found himself unable to muster even a sliver of genuine interest in anything.
Unsurprisingly, this attitude didn’t win him many friends.
From the top of the hierarchy to the bottom—including Odin, Thor, and Loki—no one truly cared for his company.
Karsa, however, remained unmoved and continued to act exactly as he pleased.
Odin had originally intended for him to inherit the throne, given his immense strength.
But seeing how he behaved, Odin realized that if Karsa ascended, Asgard would be in trouble.
With no other choice, the All-Father had decided to name Thor the new King of Gods instead.
Today, as it happened, was the day of Thor’s coronation.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
The crisp sound of footsteps echoed through the hollow temple, snapping Karsa out of his daze.
He opened his eyes, and his red pupils reflected a golden-clad figure approaching.
The man wore gold armor, a horned helmet tucked under his arm.
His long hair flowed behind him, and his handsome face was set in an expression of deep respect.
He bowed slightly as he approached.
It was Saga—the Gemini Gold Saint, a warrior of exceptional mind, technique, and body, possessing both light and dark personalities.
“Lord Karsa,” Saga said, his deep voice resonating throughout the hall.
“Thor’s inauguration ceremony is about to begin.
The All-Father commands me to escort you to the sanctuary to witness the rite.” Karsa stirred, his curiosity piqued by the smallest fraction.
“Oh?
So my foolish brother, whose head is filled with nothing but muscle, has finally made it this far?” He tilted his head slightly, his tone remaining lazy and bored, as if the crowning of his own brother couldn’t stir even a ripple of emotion in him.
Saga bowed his head, saying nothing.
His downcast expression, however, betrayed a hint of agreement.
Everyone called Lord Karsa arrogant, but Thor, who thought of nothing but war and conquest, was hardly better.
And as for Loki—that conniving snake was even less fit for the throne.
“Inform the other Gold Saints to accompany me,” Karsa said, rising to his feet.
His golden armor clinked musically as he stood.
He spoke without haste, carrying himself with a cold, haughty air, as if nothing in this world could ever truly bother him.
“Let us go and witness my brother’s moment of glory.” Karsa paused for a beat, his expression unreadable.
“I hope he manages to make this event slightly amusing.
If not…” “…it will be dreadfully boring.” Saga bowed and turned to leave the temple.
When Karsa stepped outside, the twelve Gold Saints were waiting, standing like statues on the platform below the stairs, their heads bowed.
A gentle breeze whipped their capes about, lending the scene an aura of somber, crushing majesty.
Karsa glanced left and right, confirming they were all there.
Without another word, he descended the stairs, his movements elegant and unhurried.
Only when he had passed them did the Gold Saints rise in unison to follow him toward the sanctuary.
In the plaza, countless Asgardian citizens had gathered to witness the crowning of the new king.
A massive red carpet stretched across the square.
Odin, clad in golden armor and clutching the Gungnir, walked hand-in-hand with Queen Frigga.
Behind them followed Loki, the Warriors Three, and the warrior Sif.
Volstagg waved his arms, a goofy, bearded grin plastered on his face as he greeted the cheering crowd.
He was a die-hard fan of the Thunder God, and he felt a great sense of pride in Thor’s achievement.
Fandral, Hogun, and Sif were far more reserved; while they wore smiles, their movements were measured and lacked Volstagg’s theatrics.
In stark contrast to the others, Loki wore a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his brow furrowed with hidden anxiety.
As the third prince, he was outmatched in martial skill by Thor and lacked the sheer presence of Karsa.
He had always felt overlooked by the All-Father and longed for the throne, if only to prove his own worth.
But in the grand scheme of birthright, the crown was never meant for him.
He could only watch in sullen silence.
The party reached the high platform, yet the coronation did not begin.
The crowd began to murmur.
“Why haven’t they started?” “Someone must be missing.” “Is it Thor?” “No, it’s the eldest prince, Karsa!” “He’s coming!
He’s here!” As the doors to the sanctuary swung open, a wave of gasps erupted from the crowd.
On the red carpet, a golden-haired youth in radiant armor walked slowly forward.
Behind him, moving in perfect synchronization, were the twelve Gold Saints, their own armor shimmering with a golden light.
“Good heavens, it’s Lord Karsa!” “He’s so arrogant, he didn’t even glance at us.” “Look, that’s Lord Saga!
The incarnation of a god!” “My stars, Lord Aphrodite of Pisces is so handsome…” The cheers and exclamations continued, but Karsa kept his eyes down, acting as if he heard nothing.
He had seen this scene far too many times.
In the beginning, it had been a novelty, but it had long since become routine.
Some of the more infatuated onlookers had even tried to offer themselves to him in the past, chasing after him with hopes of winning his favor.
Karsa had found it utterly exhausting.
He had been forced to adopt this cold, aloof mask just to get them to keep their distance.
He strode up to the platform with his Gold Saints, folding his arms and looking down at the crowd.
The twelve warriors behind him stood in silent vigil, hands clasped behind their backs.
The sheer, oppressive pressure they exuded was so immense that it seemed to eclipse even Odin himself, leaving the onlookers in a state of breathless awe.