The sky of Asgard had never hung so low.
The lingering smoke of war, like a thick gray veil, spread from the shattered spires of the Golden Palace all the way to the waterfall abyss at the edge of the continent.
Those golden domes that once shone with brilliant light under the sun were now covered with charred marks, and the tops of several towers were even completely sheared off, exposing the charred wooden structures and twisted metal skeletons inside.
The blood stains on the plaza had not yet completely dried.
Asgardian soldiers, dragging their weary bodies, moved through the ruins, carrying the corpses of their comrades out from under the rubble and arranging them in rows upon rows in the open space in the center of the plaza.
Those corpses still wore armor soaked in blood; some faces were serene, while others were frozen with the horror and pain of their final moments.
On the steps in front of the Golden Palace, a general knelt on one knee, quietly reporting the rough casualty figures to Odin.
His voice was hoarse, his throat as if sanded down by sandpaper; with every number he spoke, his shoulders would involuntarily sink a fraction.
Odin stood at the highest point of the steps, his left hand tightly grasping the Eternal Spear.
The golden light at the tip of the spear had dimmed much compared to before, like a candle whose oil was exhausted.
His single eye drooped slightly, his gaze falling motionless upon the neatly arranged corpses in the plaza.
His left eye had already been bandaged, and a pale golden trace oozed out from the white bandages.
That was the scar left by Hela’s fingertips, and also the final “gift” she gave him.
“Your Majesty.” The general finished reporting, raised his head, and waited there for the king’s response.
Odin did not speak.
The wind blew across the plaza, whipping up a wisp of ash and rags that slapped against the general’s armor with a crisp rustle.
“…Your Majesty?” The general called out again, a hint of unease in his voice.
Odin finally moved.
His right hand slowly rose, and facing the neatly arranged dead, he made a standard Asgardian military salute—right hand clenched into a fist pressed against the left chest, palm inward.
His movements were very slow, so slow that every joint seemed to be enduring immense resistance.
“Let them rest in peace,” Odin said.
His voice was very soft, so soft that it was almost blown away by the wind, but everyone below the steps heard it clearly.
“Record their names and carve them on the stone walls of Valhalla.”
The general nodded heavily, turned, and walked quickly down the steps.
Odin still stood above the steps, his hand pressed against his chest, not lowering it for a long time.
The corpses in the plaza were carried away one by one, piling up in long rows temporarily placed at the edge of the plaza.
The Asgardian people were accustomed to holding cremations for the dead after battle, letting the souls of the fallen heroes ascend to Valhalla riding the flames, but tonight it was clearly too late to hold any ceremonies; they could only properly collect the remains first and wait until dawn to settle them.
Odin’s gaze slowly moved away from those corpses, looking further into the distance—the wreckage left behind after the scattering of the Death Legion, the charred patches left after the Void Rangers were completely wiped out, and the damaged banners of the Nine Realms Allied Forces.
“Your Majesty.”
Another messenger trotted over, kneeling on one knee below the steps: “The Frost Giant King requests a personal meeting with you.
They have completed their retreat preparations and are reforming their ranks in front of the Bifrost Bridge.”
Odin pulled back his thoughts, and the majesty of a king gathered once more in his single eye.
“Take him to the council chamber.”
The messenger acknowledged the order and left.
Odin turned and walked toward the main entrance of the Golden Palace.
His stride remained steady, but every step carried a heavier dragging sensation than before, as if the ground beneath his feet were continuously sinking, dragging him down together into some invisible abyss.
The damage inside the Golden Palace was even more severe than it appeared from the outside.
A huge fissure split across the ceiling of the main hall, spanning the entire dome.
Sunlight—or rather, the night wind—poured in through that fissure, causing the torches in the hall to flicker continuously.
Most of the tapestries on the walls had been burned away; those fabrics depicting Asgard’s glorious battles now consisted only of charred fragments, occasionally revealing a corner of once vibrant colors, forming a dazzling contrast with the smoke-blackened walls.
Odin walked down the corridor covered in rubble.
Two guards in front of the council chamber’s doors saluted simultaneously, pushing open the heavy bronze doors for him.
Inside the council chamber, several main leaders of the Nine Realms Allied Forces had already arrived.
Frost Giant King Laufey sat on a temporarily moved stone chair.
His blue skin was covered with scars, and his left arm was wrapped in ice-blue bandages.
Chill seeped out from the gaps in the bandages, condensing into a thin ring of frost on the ground around him.
The Fire Giant stood opposite him.
His crimson lava body was likewise covered with cracks, some deep enough to almost see the burning lava core inside.
His expression was gloomy, and two flames seemed to dance within his crimson-gold pupils.
Dwarf King Eitri sat in a more distant position.
Lacking a suitable chair to sit on, he simply sat cross-legged on a stone slab.
His heavy rune armor was covered with slash and axe-cut marks, and in some places the runes had completely shattered, revealing the black metal base underneath.
His battle-axe lay horizontally across his knees, and black traces of annihilation still lingered on the blade.
The representative of the Vanir was a woman draped in light blue robes.
Her face was serene but her gaze weary, and she held a wooden staff in her hand.
The runes at the top of the staff flickered uncertainly, clearly indicating that the previous battle had also consumed a great deal of her energy.
The spear-wielding warrior from Wakanda stood in the corner, refusing the chair brought by the Asgardian attendant, choosing instead to stand against the wall.
His breathing had calmed down a lot, but the heave of his chest was still deeper than normal.
The Vibranium spear was held vertically by his side, with a trace of dark powder still lingering on the spearhead.
The trident warrior from Atlantis sat in the chair next to the Vanir representative.
His trident was laid horizontally across his knees, its deep blue light flashing and dimming alternately, like the externalization of some emotion.
The figure of the Sorcerer Supreme hovered mid-air.
She refused a seat, simply floating gently to one side of the room.
The red cloak swayed slightly in the air currents, and the ring artifacts on her hands had already been put away.
At this moment, she merely folded her hands quietly, her gaze sweeping across the face of everyone in the room in turn.
The moment Odin walked into the council chamber, all gazes fell upon him.
The emotions contained within those gazes varied—there was respect, wariness, scrutiny, gratitude, and also a deeper, concealed dissatisfaction.
Odin knew these gazes inside out; he had sat on the throne of the Nine Realms for thousands of years and had seen too many different gazes.
But he did not speak, simply walking to the head of the long table prepared for the meeting in the center of the council chamber, and taking a seat at the main chair.