Chapter 712

Sif stood protectively in front of Evenson, sword in one hand and shield in the other.

It wasn’t because she’d suddenly developed a newfound appreciation for protecting ranged spellcasters from melee opponents. She’d simply made a decision.

If Evenson started fighting, she would stay out of it. If she joined the battle herself, he had better keep his hands to himself.

This had nothing to do with the rules of honorable combat. Sif had long since stopped expecting Evenson to respect those.

The man was a menace.

Whenever he got involved in a fight, there was no telling what underhanded trick he might pull out of his sleeve. Worse, he had a terrible habit of hitting everyone in the vicinity, including his own allies.

Take the time she’d fought the Destroyer, for example. She’d been in the thick of the battle when a certain green projectile had come flying out of nowhere and struck her squarely on the head. She hadn’t even seen it coming. The impact knocked her unconscious on the spot.

Then there had been the chaotic battle involving the Destroyer and Ghost Rider.

Ghost Rider had been acting as the frontline tank, preparing to withstand the Destroyer’s ultimate attack. Just as the situation reached its climax, Evenson had somehow managed to infect Ghost Rider and drain every last bit of his hellfire.

The good news was that Evenson had subsequently destroyed the out-of-control Destroyer with a single strike.

The bad news was that Ghost Rider had been left to withstand the Destroyer’s devastating attack in his ordinary physical form.

The resulting injuries had left him looking as though he’d been roasted alive.

He’d come dangerously close to dying.

So yes, Sif was understandably reluctant to fight alongside Evenson. With a man like him in the rear ranks, who in their right mind would charge into melee?

"Do you ever actually look at the enemy when you’re on a battlefield?"

Sif had been about to ask whether Evenson intended to join the fight when she noticed him glancing everywhere except toward the Dark Elves.

She stared at him in disbelief.

"Could you at least pretend to take this seriously? We’re in the middle of a war!"

Evenson rubbed his eyes.

"Mm. Enemies like these only need one look."

Sif froze.

Had his magical abilities improved that much since she’d last seen him? Perhaps he could lock onto every enemy after a single glance, then unleash some enormous spell that wiped them all out simultaneously.

"...You’re that powerful now?"

"Uh, no."

Evenson looked at her, realized what she’d assumed, and pointed toward the Dark Elves.

"I meant I’ve seen enough of those guys. One look, and I immediately thought..."

He paused.

"That’s plenty."

At first, Evenson had been watching the battle carefully. Curiosity had even prompted him to study the Dark Elves a little more closely.

Unfortunately, every single one of them wore a mask.

He’d initially assumed the masks offered some sort of meaningful protection, but their construction didn’t appear particularly impressive. Perhaps the Dark Elves were worried their natural beauty would distract their enemies, much like the legendary masked warriors of old, and had decided to conceal their faces behind something more intimidating.

Or perhaps they’d simply borrowed their aesthetic from a horror movie.

Then several masks were knocked off during the fighting, revealing the faces beneath.

Evenson took one look and reconsidered his entire understanding of the word elf.

Was there some kind of misunderstanding involved?

Their pointed ears technically qualified as elven, but they looked far more like the ears of vampires from old black-and-white horror films. Combine those ears with their corpse-pale skin, and the resemblance became impossible to ignore.

Even the San’layn looked considerably more handsome.

These people were an insult to the entire elven race.

A proper elf should be beautiful, elegant, and possessed of an almost unfair level of charm.

Like Evenson, for instance.

Not that he was remotely effeminate.

Absolutely not.

He was simply exceptionally handsome.

"Well, I take it you’re not planning to fight," Sif said, shaking her head.

She couldn’t believe he was letting an enemy’s appearance influence his willingness to fight.

"Fine. I’ll handle them myself."

She raised her sword and shield, then gave him a pointed look.

"You stay right here. Don’t even think about jumping in to help."

Evenson smiled.

"And what makes you think I haven’t already started?"

Sif paused.

Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the battlefield. Now that he mentioned it, something did feel wrong. A faint, unpleasant sound was tickling her ears, so subtle she’d barely registered it.

She looked back at Evenson.

"You’ve already cast a spell... How did I not notice?"

"Heh."

Evenson gave a quiet, smug chuckle.

"I’m not quite at the level of the greatest swordmasters of Britain or the legendary axe-wielders of Uruk, but I’ve learned one important lesson. A spellcaster’s greatest advantage is that the enemy shouldn’t know what hit them."

He glanced toward the fighting.

"If circumstances allow it, why would I foolishly march into the middle of the battlefield, draw a giant magic circle, and spend ten minutes charging some world-ending spell?"

He spread his hands.

"Unless I’m so powerful that nothing can threaten me except oxygen, carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and the noble gases, I see no reason to make myself a target."

By then, the strange sounds had grown louder.

The soldiers fighting below began to hear them, too.

Claws scraped across stone floors and walls, accompanied by a growing chorus of high-pitched snarls.

Then came a series of sharp barks.

Several lean Hellhounds burst from the shadows beside the throne room’s pillars, their bodies low to the ground as they raced toward the Dark Elves.

The attackers were too busy fighting the Asgardians to react in time.

One Hellhound sprang at a Dark Elf and clamped its jaws around his throat. Black blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the floor as the creature’s serrated teeth tore through flesh.

Several other Dark Elves managed to avoid the initial strikes, proving they had some battlefield experience. It did them little good.

The Hellhounds knocked them down and tore into them with claws and teeth.

Some died quickly, their throats ripped open or their major arteries severed by a single swipe. Others suffered far worse fates, their abdomens torn open as blood and entrails spilled across the floor.

It was a gruesome scene.

Only then did Evenson finally abandon his air of casual indifference.

"Rip them apart, girls!"

His shout rang through the throne room.

Then he noticed an Asgardian soldier raising his sword against one of the Hellhounds.

"Hey! Gentlemen! Could you please stop stabbing my pets?!"

The soldier’s blade plunged into the creature.

To be fair, Hellhounds weren’t exactly adorable. They’d appeared out of nowhere, looked like nightmares given flesh, and were currently demonstrating a remarkable enthusiasm for dismemberment.

The Asgardian had every reason to be startled.

Imagine fighting a man, only for a hundred-pound mastiff you’d never seen before to leap out of the darkness, bite your opponent’s head off, and start chewing while spraying blood and brains all over you.

Would you politely introduce yourself and ask whether the two of you could be friends?

Probably not.

Unfortunately, Evenson’s shout also alerted the Dark Elves to the source of their sudden predicament.

Those monsters belonged to him.

Three Dark Elf soldiers immediately broke away from the melee and charged toward Evenson.

He stared at them in disbelief.

He’d spoken in English. Fine, Asgardians apparently understood the language.

But since when had the Dark Elves become fluent in English, too?

Sif tightened her grip on her sword and shield, reluctantly advancing to intercept the attackers.

She glanced over her shoulder every few steps, watching Evenson out of the corner of her eye.

If that man so much as twitched, she was ready to roll out of the way.

Evenson, meanwhile, looked perfectly relaxed.

"Foolish."

He rolled up his nonexistent sleeves, despite wearing a sleeveless outfit.

"You think I’m afraid of a little melee combat?"

The three Dark Elves closed the distance.

They were still ten paces away when a chorus of shrill, monkey-like shrieks erupted overhead.

Tiny figures had somehow climbed the pillars lining the throne room. Now they leaped down from above, their feet trailing flames.

Wild Imps.

They descended on the Dark Elves with astonishing precision.

The three charging soldiers were among the first to be hit, but they were hardly the only ones. Nearly every Dark Elf still fighting in the room suddenly found a Wild Imp clinging to their body.

Some landed on their chests. Others latched onto their backs.

A few even attached themselves to their victims’ heads.

The resemblance to facehuggers from a certain science-fiction horror franchise was disturbingly accurate.

Fortunately, the Imps had no interest in laying eggs.

They had something much more explosive in mind.

Evenson snapped his fingers.

A succession of muffled detonations thundered through the throne room, one after another, like a string of heavy firecrackers.

Every Dark Elf hit by an Imp collapsed.

Their armor was reasonably durable, but that hardly mattered when an explosion occurred directly against the body, often near a vital organ.

At that range, even excellent armor couldn’t save them.

Evenson lowered his hand.

Who said I was afraid of melee combat?

He simply had no intention of participating in it personally.

With the immediate threat eliminated, he rubbed his hands together and sauntered toward the center of the battlefield.

To him, the floor was now covered in valuable loot.

The dungeon boss had gone down. The adds were dead. The only sensible next step was to collect the drops.

He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, chest puffed out and stomach thrust forward, looking every inch the victorious general.

Asgardians respected strength, and the surviving Einherjar watched their formidable summoner with open admiration.

Evenson drank in their attention.

His chin rose higher.

His gaze gradually drifted toward the ceiling, as though he were a conqueror surveying the heavens from the summit of the world.

Then he stopped.

His expression froze.

One foot remained suspended in midair, forgotten. Every trace of smug satisfaction vanished from his face.

The soldiers around him noticed the sudden change.

Puzzled, they followed his gaze toward the ceiling.

One by one, their expressions changed.

Within moments, the entire room had fallen silent.

Evenson had originally come to Asgard under the pretense of serving as an envoy.

He’d explained his real purpose to Odin almost immediately, but protocol still required him to participate in a formal audience in the throne room afterward.

He’d seen the enormous mural that decorated the ceiling during that visit.

He remembered it clearly.

The painting had depicted a peaceful and prosperous Asgard. Everyone in it wore a benevolent expression, from Odin and Frigga to the youthful Thor and Loki.

The mural presented the royal family as wise, compassionate rulers whose enlightened leadership had brought peace to their kingdom and even softened the hearts of their former enemies.

Among those enemies was Laufey, king of the Frost Giants.

In the original painting, Laufey stood beside Odin, dressed in magnificent robes and crowned with a radiant halo. He held a peace treaty in his hands, apparently having willingly accepted Asgardian rule.

It was a beautiful story.

A little too beautiful, perhaps, but still a story.

Now that mural was gone.

In its place was something altogether different.

The newly revealed painting depicted a scene of carnage, a nightmarish tableau of war and conquest.

Thor and Loki were nowhere to be seen.

Frigga was absent, too.

Instead, a woman stood beside Odin.

She wore close-fitting black armor beneath a flowing green cloak. A terrifying helmet crowned her head, its twisted horns and face-covering design giving her a distinctly sinister appearance.

In one raised hand, she held Mjolnir, Thor’s hammer.

She stood shoulder to shoulder with Odin as though she possessed equal standing with the All-Father himself.

Evenson stared at the unfamiliar figure.

He had never seen her before. He couldn’t recall encountering her in any account of Asgardian history, nor did her appearance trigger even the faintest sense of recognition.

Yet there she was, standing beside the supreme ruler of the Nine Realms.

Whatever her identity, she had once held an extraordinary position in Asgard.

The circumstances of the mural’s discovery were equally clear.

Sif’s earlier strike had sent the Dark Elf grenade flying toward the ceiling, where its strange gravitational explosion had stripped away the outer layer of the painting.

Beneath the peaceful image had been another mural entirely.

And the Odin depicted in this hidden artwork was not the benevolent king everyone knew.

He wore full battle armor and held Gungnir, the mighty spear of the All-Father, aloft in one hand. His expression was grim and vicious, his features twisted with the cold fury of a conqueror.

This was Odin the warrior.

Odin the god of war.

The scenes surrounding the central image reinforced the message.

Like panels from an epic saga, they depicted the same woman riding an enormous wolf and leading armies into battle. Beside her, Odin rode a gallows-like mount as the two of them charged across the battlefield, crushing their enemies beneath their advance.

There was no peace in these paintings.

No benevolent treaties. No willing submission. No suggestion that Asgard’s enemies had simply laid down their weapons after being won over by the royal family’s wisdom and kindness.

Only war.

Only conquest.

Only bloodshed.

So that’s how it was.

Evenson’s initial shock gave way to a grim sense of understanding.

The glorious Asgard everyone admired had not been built upon kindness and enlightened rule alone.

Beneath its golden halls and shining legends lay a hellscape stained red with the blood of countless victims.

The kingdom’s peaceful present had been purchased through a history of brutal warfare.

And someone had gone to considerable lengths to hide that truth.

"Cough! Cough!"

Evenson abruptly cleared his throat, forcing himself to break free from his thoughts.

He looked around at the stunned soldiers and raised his voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we’re still in the middle of a war. We can admire the artwork later."

His interruption snapped everyone back to reality.

The mural was shocking, but the Dark Elf invasion was still underway. Whatever secrets Asgard’s past concealed, they would have to wait.

Evenson, however, seemed to have already moved on.

He crouched beside a fallen Dark Elf, picked up two energy rifles, and helped himself to several grenades. One by one, he stuffed the weapons into his bag.

Then he turned his attention to the bodies scattered across the throne room.

Under the bewildered gazes of the surviving warriors, he dragged an Einherjar corpse into position and arranged it on its knees. Next, he pulled over a dead Dark Elf and positioned the two bodies together.

This was not an affectionate embrace.

Evenson arranged the Einherjar’s sword so that it pierced the Dark Elf’s chest. Then he manipulated the Dark Elf’s arm, positioning the spiral dagger mounted to his forearm so that it plunged into the Einherjar’s fatal wound.

The result was a tableau of two warriors locked in their final struggle, each killing the other in the moments before death.

Evenson stepped back to admire his work.

"Much better. Doesn’t he look more heroic like this?"

Sif seized him by the arm and dragged him away from the bodies.

"What in the Nine Realms are you doing?"

Her expression was furious.

To Asgardians, those who died in battle had earned the highest honor. Their bodies were sacred, and treating them with disrespect was an insult to their sacrifice.

Evenson looked genuinely puzzled by her reaction.

"I’m improving the composition. Two warriors fighting to the death and taking each other down? It’s a moving tribute to the courage of both sides."

Sif looked as though she was reconsidering every decision that had brought her into contact with him.

Evenson ignored her and turned toward the surviving Einherjar.

There were only eight of them left.

"You are members of the royal guard. Your duty is to protect the Golden Palace and the All-Father. Yet the enemy managed to launch a surprise attack directly in front of Odin’s throne."

His gaze moved from one warrior to the next.

Every one of them lowered his head in shame.

"What happened today was extraordinary, certainly. But that doesn’t erase your responsibility."

The soldiers went pale.

A failure of this magnitude could easily result in exile, if not something worse.

Evenson let the silence linger for a moment before his expression brightened.

"Fortunately, you’re all very lucky."

The warriors looked up.

"Every enemy who reached the throne room was killed in the course of your heroic defense. The throne remains unharmed, and the circumstances of the attack were exceptional. The All-Father may well allow you to redeem yourselves through your service."

One of the Einherjar hesitated.

"But... Lady Sif was the one who defended the throne room, and you were the one who defeated the invaders. We hardly contributed anything."

It was a fair objection.

Sif had been the one to confront Malekith, while Evenson’s summoned creatures had done most of the work of eliminating the remaining Dark Elves.

The eight guards had spent much of the battle trying not to become casualties.

Evenson smiled knowingly.

"Well, there are some things we don’t need to mention. If we keep quiet, who’s going to know?"

His eyes shifted toward Sif.

"Isn’t that right?"

Sif blinked, then slowly nodded.

She understood what he was doing.

Evenson intended to conceal both his own involvement and hers, allowing the royal guards to claim the victory and use it to atone for their failure.

Sif had no objection. Her reputation was secure, and she hardly needed another battlefield accomplishment to prove herself.

"Excellent." Evenson turned back to the guards. "As long as none of you tells anyone that I was here, the entire victory belongs to you. Can you manage that?"

"Of course!"

The eight warriors looked as though he’d just pulled them back from the brink of execution.

"We are deeply grateful!"

"Save the speeches for later." Evenson clasped his hands behind his back again. "Right now, you have work to do. Search the battlefield and make sure every enemy corpse gets an extra sword thrust."

"Understood!"

The Einherjar immediately scattered, drawing their swords as they moved among the fallen Dark Elves.

Sif watched them go, then noticed something strange.

Evenson’s right hand was concealed behind his back. His fingers were moving in a complicated series of gestures, forming one magical sign after another.

"What are you doing?"

Evenson merely smiled at her.

He didn’t answer.

The guards were still carrying out their grisly task when one of them suddenly felt a heavy weight settle across his shoulders.

He glanced back.

A creature was clinging to him.

One of the same monsters that had exploded against the Dark Elves.

Before the horrified warrior could react, Evenson snapped his fingers.

A sharp crack echoed through the throne room.

The Einherjar collapsed.

One after another, the remaining guards fell to the floor, black smoke rising from their bodies.

Evenson closed his eyes and extended his magical senses, carefully checking each of them.

All eight were dead.

He waited a moment longer to make certain.

Then he opened his eyes.

"I’m sorry. We had nothing against each other personally."

His expression remained calm.

"But..."

He glanced at the bodies.

"I trust the dead more."