Not far away, there was a path paved with flagstones, and some purple wildflowers grew on both sides of the road.
The wind blew past him, carrying the scent of the ocean, even though there was no ocean surrounding this continent.
Asat Pramad walked a few steps along the path, then he stopped and listened attentively.
There was a sound in the distance.
It was not the wind, nor a waterfall, but human voices—the sound of an argument, carrying an angry, suppressed, and trembling high-pitched tone.
Two people were speaking, both suppressing their tempers, but the smell of gunpowder could be smelled from kilometers away.
Asat Pramad turned in that direction.
He passed through a few sparse woods, bypassed a low stone mountain, and then he saw the Golden Palace.
Viewed from a distance, it was magnificent; viewed up close, it was close to sacred—the golden metal surface was extremely smooth, without any traces of seams or rivets, as if the entire palace had been carved from a single piece of complete metal.
The walls of the palace were carved with reliefs depicting campaigns, victory, royalty, and glory.
Every figure was as big as a fist, and every movement was lifelike.
Deep inside the Golden Palace, within the huge porch guarded by two statues, stood two people.
A man and a woman.
The man was tall and built, wearing a golden armor inlaid with gemstones on the shoulder guards, and a dark red cloak hanging from his shoulders all the way to the ground.
He had long snow-white hair and a beard of the same color, but his face did not look old, with very few wrinkles, and his eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s.
He held a golden spear in his hand, the sharp edge of the spearhead reflecting a chilling cold light.
That was Odin, the King of Gods, the ruler of Asgard.
The woman had a slender figure, wearing a dark green battle skirt, with pitch-black greaves and battle boots exposed under the hem of the skirt.
Her hair was also dark green, slightly darker than her battle skirt.
Her face was very pretty, but that kind of prettiness carried the sharpness of a blade, as if the curve of every facial feature had been honed on a grindstone.
She draped a black cloak over her shoulders, her left hand hanging naturally by her side, while her right hand held a long sword.
The shape of the sword was very peculiar, as if it were pieced together from countless slender metal fragments, with tiny gaps left between each piece, like the scales of something.
Hela, the Goddess of Death, Odin’s eldest daughter.
Asat Pramad stopped at a distance of about one hundred meters from them.
He heard clearly, although his “ears” did not exist in the conventional sense, the vibration of the sound could be directly captured by his consciousness and parsed into language.
“…You have done enough, we have done enough.”
Odin’s voice was very low, carrying a long-accumulated fatigue.
He looked at the eldest daughter in front of him, the golden spear gripped so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“The Nine Realms have surrendered, and our campaigns end here.”
Hela’s eyes narrowed, and the corners of her mouth curved into an arc, but that was definitely not a smile.
It was something colder than anger, like the last reflection of a blade before it was unsheathed.
“Ends here?” Her voice was very soft, so soft that it was almost a whisper, but every word was sharp enough to cut the air open.
“Father, are you joking?
How many years did it take us to trample the Nine Realms under our feet?
How many Worlds have you personally led troops to lay waste to?
The enemies who fell under your sword number in the tens of millions—and now, you are telling me to stop?”
“We have already gotten what we should get.” Odin’s voice remained calm, but within that calmness was a restrained tension that could shatter at any moment.
“Now is the time to stop, Hela.
The Nine Realms need peace to recuperate, and our people need time to catch their breath.”
“Catch our breath?” Hela took a step forward.
The sword in her hand was not unsheathed, but those scale-like metal fragments began to vibrate slightly, making a faint sound like snake scales rubbing together.
“Father, do you think those Worlds we conquered will thank us for our peace?
Do you think they will live quietly in our mercy?
They will not.
They will lick their wounds, secretly accumulate strength, and counterattack the moment we let our guard down—by then, all the price we paid will be in vain.”
Odin looked at her, a trace of complex emotion flashing in those sharp eyes—the pain belonging to a father, suppressed firmly at the very bottom by the majesty belonging to a king.
“Hela, you are blinded by ambition.”
“My ambition?” Hela laughed.
The laughter was very short and light, like a steel needle falling on glass.
“Father, you are the one who taught me ambition, you are the one who brought me to the battlefield, and you are the one who told me to use the sword to win Asgard’s glory—and now that glory is in hand, you tell me I should put it down?”
“War is not eternal.”
“No, Father,” Hela said word by word.
“Only victory is eternal.
As long as we keep winning, as long as we crush everything that might threaten Asgard—peace will naturally come, not the kind of peace that requires catching breath as you said, but true, eternal peace built upon absolute power.”
Odin was silent for a long time.
The wind blew past between the two, making Odin’s cloak snap loudly.
The two statues at the entrance of the Golden Palace cast long shadows in the afterglow of the setting sun, and those shadows fell on Hela like two intersecting chains.
“No.” Odin finally spoke, his voice lighter than before, but even more unquestionable.
“I said, it ends here.”
Hela stared at him.
Something was surging in those dark green eyes, but in the end, she didn’t speak again.
She simply gripped that sword, took a step back, then turned around, strode down the steps of the Golden Palace, and walked along the flagstone path leading to the interior of the continent.
Her steps were wide and fast, each step carrying a suppressed anger that was almost overflowing.
Odin stood in front of the porch, looking at her back.
His hand tightened on the golden spear for a moment, then relaxed, and he did not call her back.
Asat Pramad stood within the shadow, the facets on the multi-sided die slightly flickering for a round.
He thought for a moment, followed in the direction Hela left, his pace neither fast nor slow, maintaining a distance of about fifty meters.
Hela passed through several residential areas.
When those Asgardian civilians saw her figure, they would actively retreat to the roadside and bow in salute, but those bows carried a trace of trembling.
Her reputation had obviously spread among the people, and the moniker “Goddess of Death” brought not only awe, but also a more primitive, deeper fear.
She walked all the way to the edge of the Asgard continent and stopped on an open plain.