The prismatic beam of light slowly faded, revealing hundreds of towering figures standing on the ice.
At their head stood a man clad in shimmering gold armor, his ornate helmet casting a regal shadow.
His ice-blue eyes remained cold and unblinking, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.
He was Aiolia, the Leo Gold Saint.
Behind him and to his sides stood hundreds of Heroic Spirits.
Among them was Cú Chulainn, the “Child of Light,” a legendary hero of the Ulster Cycle from Celtic mythology.
Nearby stood Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the “Lover’s Spot,” the peerless chief warrior of the Fianna of Ireland.
Lancelot, the “Knight of the Lake” and the strongest of the Round Table, stood stoically, joined by Gawain, the White Knight of the Sun, and his brethren—Tristan, the Child of Sorrow; Mordred, the Knight of Rebellion; and Agravain, the strategist.
Even Kojirō Sasaki, with his indigo hair tied back and the title of “Demon Sword” hanging over his head, stood among the ranks.
The oppressive pressure radiating from these hundreds of warriors filled the frozen tundra with a heavy, stifling silence.
Thor’s face lit up with excitement at the sight of them.
“You’ve come at the perfect time, Aiolia!
Join me, and let’s slaughter the lot of them!” The Warriors Three, Sif, and even Loki wore expressions of immense relief, expecting the tide of the battle to turn.
“I am afraid I cannot comply,” Aiolia said.
His icy blue gaze locked onto the Thunder God, and his refusal hit Thor like a physical blow, leaving him stunned.
“Why not?
I am the Prince of Asgard!
To see me is to see Karsa himself.
You should be taking my orders!” “But you are not Lord Karsa,” Aiolia replied, his tone chillingly flat.
The single sentence left the God of Thunder sputtering in speechless frustration.
It was true.
Everyone in the palace knew that aside from Karsa and Odin, no one could command the Gold Saints—not even Thor.
“Honorable Lord Aiolia, I, Laufey, King of the Frost Giants, pay my respects to you,” Laufey stepped forward, seizing the moment.
If these newcomers weren’t here to fight, he needed to tread carefully.
Jotunheim and Asgard had been enemies for ages, but ever since the God of Light, Karsa, had entered the fray along with his twelve Gold Saints and the spirits of Valhalla, the Frost Giant race had been brought to the brink of extinction.
If Odin hadn’t stepped in to stop the slaughter, Jotunheim would have become a barren, lifeless rock years ago.
Laufey himself had been humiliated by the Gold Saints more times than he cared to remember, and he knew Aiolia well.
The memory of those light-speed, brutal techniques still made the giants shiver in their beds.
For a king of an entire realm to bow before anyone was a humiliation, but here, in front of the Gold Saint, Laufey didn’t even dare to look him in the eye.
He remained stoically bowed, and none of the Frost Giants surrounding them dared to whisper a protest.
Why would they?
They remembered the massacre.
An adult Frost Giant stood three meters tall; Karsa had slaughtered every one of them over a meter high.
Today, the mere mention of the “God of Light” was enough to stop a giant infant from crying.
Laufey knew he could bargain with Odin because the All-Father was a man of peace.
But with Karsa?
That man was a monster who would burn a planet to ash if he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
The Dark Elves were living proof of that—only a handful remained, hiding in the shadows of some wretched hole somewhere.
“Very well,” Aiolia nodded, his eyes devoid of warmth.
“Lord Karsa gave me instructions.
If you release the two princes peacefully, I am to deliver a message.” “A message?” Laufey froze.
He realized with a jolt that Aiolia hadn’t come to negotiate—he had come to issue an ultimatum.
If he had hesitated for even a second, the message would likely have been delivered via a fist through his chest.
“Please, tell me the instructions.
My people will cooperate fully.” “You breached the borders of Asgard and sabotaged the Prince’s coronation, with the intent to steal the Casket of Ancient Winters…” “Wait!
That was the work of those few giants alone!
It was not my order!” Laufey pleaded, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He couldn’t admit to this—if Karsa decided he was guilty, he was as good as dead.
Aiolia’s gaze narrowed.
“You are shrewd, Laufey.
Too bad you are also foolish.
That excuse might work on the All-Father, but Lord Karsa does not play those games.” Aiolia stepped closer, his voice low and cold.
“If he says you did it, then you did it.
Do you understand?” “I…
I understand,” Laufey stammered, his eyes darting to the silent, menacing army of heroes standing behind the Gold Saint.
He had never felt so powerless.
“As the price for your invasion and the desecration of the coronation, every five years, the Frost Giants will tribute five hundred elite warriors and beautiful Frost-maiden slaves to Asgard.” “But…
the treaty between our realms…” Laufey tried to protest, but one look at Aiolia’s calm, detached eyes made the words wither in his throat.
“Very well,” Laufey whispered.
“The Frost Giants accept the terms.” Aiolia nodded and prepared to signal Heimdall for extraction, but Thor suddenly stepped forward.
“Wait!
Tell me, how did you cross Heimdall’s gaze to reach Asgard?” Laufey hesitated, his eyes flickering toward Loki, who was watching him nervously from behind Thor.
He could tell the truth; it would sow seeds of chaos and civil war within the Asgardian throne.
But then he paused.
If the two princes destroyed each other, who would emerge as the master of the board?
Karsa.
And if that devil became King of the Gods, life for the giants would only get even worse.
He decided to hold his tongue.
“The passage was a spatial node discovered by chance.
When the Nine Realms align, space overlaps.
The node was a remnant of that alignment.” Thor accepted the explanation, satisfied for the moment.
The rage he had felt moments ago evaporated—the giants were already so broken and cowed, offering up slaves every five years, that he found it hard to justify continuing the slaughter.
Meanwhile, Loki felt a wave of relief that Laufey had stayed silent, though his mind was racing with dark, complicated thoughts.
Frost Giants were freezing to the touch—they could burn anything they grabbed with absolute cold.
Yet, during the skirmish, he had been grabbed by a giant, and he hadn’t been burned.
Instead, his skin had turned the same shade of blue as theirs.
Loki stared at his own hands, doubt creeping into his heart.
Was he truly an Asgardian?
Why were Karsa and Thor so effortlessly strong, while he felt…
different?