Inside the resplendent throne room of the Asgardian palace, Odin sat high upon his seat, staring down at Thor.
His aged face was etched with deep lines of disappointment.
“I told you this matter was to end at the vault.
Why did you insist on storming Jotunheim?
Do you intend to drag Asgard into yet another war, spilling the blood of countless innocent subjects?” “Father, I had to uncover how they bypassed Heimdall’s watch!
If I hadn’t, Asgard would have remained exposed to further danger!” Thor stood his ground, his neck stiff with defiance.
He didn’t believe he was in the wrong; he simply felt Odin was being painfully antiquated.
“Exposed to danger?” The All-Father let out a weary sigh, his grip on the Gungnir tightening until his knuckles turned white.
His disappointment was heavy and absolute.
“Asgard’s strength is known to all.
Even after your rash intrusion, what did Laufey, King of the Frost Giants, actually do?” Thor opened his mouth, but no words came out.
It was true; he had been the aggressor, yet Laufey hadn’t just offered an apology—he had agreed to pay tribute of five hundred elite soldiers and beautiful Frost-maiden slaves every five years.
It was all thanks to the terror Karsa’s name inspired, and that alone was a testament to Asgard’s power.
Could anyone truly question the safety of a realm so formidable that even the Frost Giants bowed in fear?
Odin, seeing his son’s silence, felt his frustration mount.
“I had hoped you were ready for the crown, but I see now that I was mistaken.
Like Karsa, you lack the temperament to be a true king.” “But Asgard requires a monarch,” Odin continued, his voice echoing through the silent hall.
“And so, I have decided to initiate…
‘The King’s Trial’.” Back in the Palace of Light, Karsa listened to Aiolia’s report, his eyes widening in mild surprise.
“The plot has changed?
And what exactly is this ‘King’s Trial’?” Aiolia bowed respectfully.
“The trial will involve all three princes and will take place in Midgard.
Each of you shall descend to the mortal realm.
Whoever can secure the support of the people of Midgard and defeat the other two shall be declared the victor and crowned the King of Gods.” “This decision is to be ratified by all the gods of Asgard,” Aiolia added.
“Interesting.
Truly interesting.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Karsa’s mouth.
“I never expected the old mule to come up with something so amusing.
It is quite unexpected.” “Due to the vast disparity in your strength,” Aiolia continued, “and to ensure fairness, the All-Father has decreed that you shall descend in order of age: Loki the Trickster shall depart first, followed by Thor, and finally, yourself.” “Doesn’t that simply give them more time to prepare?” Saga, the Gemini Gold Saint, stood nearby, his brow furrowed in concern.
Karsa, however, remained utterly unbothered, his arms folded and his expression dripping with disdain.
“Even if a pack of jackals gathers together, can they truly challenge a lion?
My father’s plan suits me just fine.
If this were merely a test of strength, it would be dreadfully boring.” Saga fell silent.
He realized his concerns were indeed excessive.
Karsa’s power was absolute, unrivaled across the Nine Realms.
Even Odin might not be able to best him; Midgard would be little more than a playground for him to sweep through.
Meanwhile, for Loki, the news brought a swirl of conflicting emotions.
Ever since he had discovered his true nature as a Frost Giant, he had been haunted by questions: Was he neglected all these years simply because he wasn’t born of Asgard?
Yet, Odin’s decision sparked a glimmer of hope.
In the race for the throne, his father hadn’t cast him aside.
By sending him to Midgard first, Odin was giving him the advantage of time.
Perhaps, if he could prove his worth, the gods would finally see him as a true prince.
This rekindled hope drowned out his resentment, and he swore to himself that he would defeat his brothers, no matter the cost.
As for Thor, his reaction was characteristically boisterous.
Thrilled to finally have a chance to compete on equal footing with Karsa, he couldn’t sleep.
He threw a massive banquet that lasted through the night, getting so drunk he nearly missed Loki’s departure ceremony the following morning.
The next day, before the assembled gods, the Trickster Prince of Asgard—clad in gold and shimmering green robes, looking for all the world like a gilded stag—was transported to Midgard via the Bifrost.
He descended upon a shipping port in New York City.
It was a primary hub for the drug trade run by the underworld kingpin, Fisk.
It was the dead of night.
Bullseye, one of Fisk’s top lieutenants, was overseeing the loading of cargo.
He stifled a yawn.
Daredevil had been a thorn in their side lately, disrupting countless shipments and cutting into the kingpin’s profits.
While Fisk didn’t care about the money, he did care about the insult to his authority.
Bullseye possessed a natural, terrifying talent for throwing.
He could turn anything into a lethal weapon with impossible precision—tearing a throat with a playing card, spitting a tooth through a skull, or pinning a man to a wall with a toothpick from ninety yards away.
Fisk had sent him here personally, waiting in ambush for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to shock the rest of the New York criminal underworld.
But instead of the vigilante, he got a god.
Suddenly, the night sky was swallowed by thick, roiling clouds.
Thunder rumbled, and the clouds formed a swirling funnel directly above the port.
The gang members stared up in confusion, and even Bullseye’s casual arrogance vanished, replaced by a tense, professional alertness.
Then, the sky shattered with light.
A rainbow-hued column descended, striking a shipping container with enough force to make the ground tremble.
When the light faded, a figure stood there, adorned in gold and green, his head crowned by golden antlers.
Bullseye’s hand moved instinctively to his belt, gripping two throwing knives.
The sheer scale of the arrival unnerved him—who had ever seen a beam of light fall from the stars?
Aliens, he thought, his blood turning cold.
The other gang members scrambled, raising their guns, their faces pale with panic.
“KNEEL!” The command was a thunderous roar, echoing like the voice of a god.
Suddenly, dozens of identical figures appeared atop the shipping containers, all clad in shimmering gold and green, their faces radiating regal, terrifying authority.
Loki held his pride buried deep, but his arrogance was on full display.
He didn’t even bother to introduce himself; he simply demanded total subservience.
Bullseye’s eyes darted wildly, trying to track the multiple apparitions.
He was genuinely spooked by the illusions, but before he could speak, the terrified gang members—their fear spiking into desperation—opened fire.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The bullets whizzed through the air, piercing the golden-clad figures as if they were nothing more than mist.
Not a single lead projectile touched the Prince of Asgard.
— Don’t forget to send some Spirit Stones for more chapters.
Extra chapter when we reach 100 Spirit Stones .