Chapter 727

"Father of All, the prisoners who assisted the two princes in their escape have all been apprehended. They await your judgment."

In the throne room of the Royal Palace of Asgard, a Einherjar warrior stood before Odin, reporting the latest developments. The All-Father’s response was an explosive roar.

"What good is passing judgment on them?! Find those two fools! That’s what matters!"

Odin looked ready to tear the palace apart with his bare hands. His beard bristled, and blood vessels stood out around his single eye, which bulged with barely restrained fury.

The sheer force of his bellow nearly drove the unfortunate warrior to his knees.

It was a vivid demonstration of divine majesty, along with a reminder that even an old dog still had teeth.

Odin had every reason to be furious.

He had convened a royal council in his capacity as King of Asgard and personally established the strategy for the coming conflict. Yet Thor, the heir to his throne, had done the exact opposite of what a dutiful son should do.

Instead of supporting his father, Thor had rallied a band of subordinates and recruited convicted criminals to defy the royal decree.

Worse, he’d even persuaded Heimdall, the ever-watchful guardian of the Bifrost and one of Odin’s most trusted servants, to join his rebellion.

And as if that weren’t enough, Thor had also spirited Jane Foster, the host of the Aether, out of the palace.

Every carefully laid plan Odin had made was now in ruins.

What would the court say when word of this reached the nobles? What punishment could he possibly impose on the Crown Prince? And after such a spectacular display of insubordination, how was Thor supposed to inherit the throne?

Frigga stood in the throne room as well.

Sif and the Warriors Three weren’t foolish enough to expose the Queen’s involvement in the escape, so she had been able to present herself as a concerned mother who wished to hear the latest news about her son.

Yet her attention seemed strangely divided.

Standing at the top of the steps, she stared at the throne with an almost wistful expression. Every so often, she reached out to stroke one of its armrests.

"Thor has taken Jane, and he’s brought Loki with him," Frigga said suddenly. "They must be heading to Svartalfheim to confront Malekith. You should dispatch an elite force to support them at once. If we want this battle to end in victory, they mustn’t face the enemy alone."

"Hmm..."

Odin’s anger subsided a fraction as he considered her words.

After a moment, he turned to the Einherjar warrior.

"Release Heimdall and have him reopen the Bifrost. Take a squad of our finest Einherjar to Svartalfheim and reinforce Thor."

The situation had already deteriorated beyond the point where Odin could hope to resolve it through punishment alone.

There was only one sensible course left: send reinforcements and make certain Thor won.

If Thor emerged victorious, his defiance could be recast as a bold decision that had saved Asgard, perhaps even the entire universe. His earlier transgressions would quickly become irrelevant in the face of such a triumph.

Would that victory make Odin look rigid and short-sighted? Would it prove that his original judgment had been wrong?

So be it.

He didn’t have many years left, anyway. If this helped clear the path for his son, he could afford to swallow his pride.

Besides, he’d been losing face over Thor for so long that one more humiliation hardly mattered. He was practically accustomed to it by now.

"Release Sif as well," Frigga added just as the warrior was about to leave. "Send her with the others. She can earn back her honor through her service."

The Einherjar hesitated.

Only after confirming that Odin had no objection did he bow and accept the order.

Naturally, Odin had no reason to oppose it.

Sif was the woman he’d chosen to become Asgard’s next queen. He couldn’t allow her reputation to remain stained by this incident. Sending her to Svartalfheim would give her an opportunity to clear her name, distinguish herself in battle, and perhaps grow closer to Thor in the process.

Besides, the girl was a capable fighter. During the escape, she’d managed to knock down an entire squad of Einherjar with her bare hands.

Her methods had been somewhat excessive, admittedly, but there was no denying her effectiveness.

With Sif accompanying Thor, their chances of success would improve considerably.

Odin continued considering the situation while Frigga remained beside the throne.

For a fleeting moment, she savored the feeling of standing there and issuing commands.

So this is what it feels like to give orders from the throne.

Then her expression abruptly changed.

A faint red light had begun blinking on the very armrest she’d just touched.

That chamber...

Hela?

Frigga immediately recognized the warning.

Her first instinct was to turn and alert Odin. But just as she moved, she stopped.

Something seemed to occur to her.

After a brief pause, she lightly tapped the armrest, extinguishing the warning. Then she went a step further and completely dismantled the magical alarm system.

It wasn’t difficult.

After all, Frigga had been the one who created the enchantment in the first place.

Meanwhile, inside Hela’s prison, Evenson stared at the countless weapons surrounding him.

They pointed toward him from every direction, filling the air with enough steel to outfit an army.

One of the defining traits of a Warlock was the ability to remain calm when death was breathing down one’s neck.

It was a necessary survival skill.

Many Warlock spells involved playing dangerous games with forces that could easily kill the caster if handled carelessly. Panic was rarely helpful when a single mistake could turn you into a cautionary tale.

And the Warlocks who couldn’t learn to keep their heads under pressure tended not to survive long enough to improve.

Evenson examined the arsenal surrounding him.

There were blades, spears, swords, halberds, axes, hooks, forks, tridents, staffs, clubs, and maces. Whips, flails, chains, throwing weapons, and all manner of strange implements filled the gaps between them.

Some had sharp edges. Others had wicked points. A few bristled with chains or concealed blades.

There were even weapons that looked as though they’d been designed specifically to make their victims regret every decision that had led them to this moment.

And then there were the two assault rifles floating off to one side.

An AK-47 and an M16.

Evenson stared at them.

Could someone explain why Hela has modern firearms in her magical sword collection?

"Surprised?" Hela asked from a distance, folding her arms with obvious satisfaction.

"To be honest, I am too. The range of weapons I’ve created over the ages has grown far beyond anything I originally imagined. In countless worlds, the legendary weapons wielded by their gods were forged in imitation of mine."

She raised a hand.

One of the floating weapons drifted toward her: a black, one-handed warhammer.

"Take this one, for example. Doesn’t it look familiar?"

Evenson examined it.

Aside from its entirely black finish, the weapon was practically identical to Mjolnir, Thor’s famous hammer.

"Yes," he admitted. "It does."

"Of course, it’s nowhere near as powerful as the one you’re thinking of. You needn’t point that out." Hela gave him a mildly reproachful look. "Some of the imitations created later may surpass my weapons in raw power, but they’re still copies. Mine are the originals."

"Well, sometimes the knockoff turns out to be better than the original," Evenson said.

He kept the conversation going while desperately considering his options.

He’d already managed to awaken Hela’s appetite for battle, and she had clearly decided to enjoy herself before killing him. At this point, even if he surrendered, he doubted she would simply let him go.

Unfortunately, Void Protection wouldn’t hold against that many weapons. Resolute Barrier probably wouldn’t save him, either.

As for Demon Armor and Fel Skin...

Those two spells were about as reassuring as bringing a paper umbrella to a hurricane.

He needed something else.

Something powerful enough to let him survive an assault from an entire armory of divine weapons.

Evenson lowered his head.

A pair of enormous black wings unfurled behind him.

When he raised his face again, his eyes had turned bloodred, and his mouth was filled with rows of razor-sharp fangs.

Metamorphosis.

Warlocks who mastered demonology generally preferred to summon an army of demons and overwhelm their enemies with sheer numbers. But that didn’t mean a Warlock became helpless when summoning wasn’t an option.

Not even when trapped in a sealed space like this one.

Demonology contained a forbidden pinnacle of magic: Metamorphosis.

By gathering the demonic power within his body and applying his knowledge of demonkind, a Warlock could temporarily transform himself into a powerful demon. His physical capabilities would be pushed to their absolute limits, potentially surpassing those of a genuine demon.

Evenson had once used this very ability to turn the tables in a desperate battle against Ghost Rider.

The transformation had saved his life.

Even the Eredar Twins had approved of the results, admitting that he was considerably more formidable in demon form than he was normally.

Back in the day, Metamorphosis had been one of the defining abilities of a Warlock. It was an invaluable tool for adventuring, fighting monsters, and surviving situations where spellcasting alone wasn’t enough.

But as generations of Warlocks became increasingly obsessed with convenience and efficiency, many powerful techniques fell out of use. Metamorphosis had gradually become a forgotten art.

Evenson, however, possessed a grimoire containing the full breadth of Warlock magic.

Naturally, he’d learned it.

He’d always assumed that the five demons he relied on weren’t going to be dependable in every situation. If he ever encountered an enemy powerful enough to force him into close combat, he needed a way to defend himself.

Now, as he prepared to face Hela, he couldn’t help reflecting on the absurdity of his situation.

Most Warlocks brought their demon companions into battle.

Somehow, he’d ended up feeling like a helpless little pet Warlock raised by five demons.

Absolutely not.

He refused to become a Beast Master Hunter in all but name.

Somewhere along the way, he’d lost track of who was supposed to be controlling whom.

"You’re a demon..." Hela observed, examining his transformed appearance from a distance. "No. Merely an imitation."

Evenson cut an imposing figure.

Curved horns rose from his head, and an intricate purple sigil glowed on his forehead. His skin had turned pitch-black, matching the enormous wings spread behind him. His legs ended in backward-jointed hooves, while his elongated arms hung well below his knees.

He looked less like a mortal who had borrowed demonic power and more like a creature that had clawed its way out of the Twisting Nether.

Hela’s tone was dismissive, but her expression suggested that she wasn’t underestimating him entirely. She had already acknowledged that imitations could sometimes surpass their originals.

"Let’s see if you can make this interesting."

With a casual flick of her hand, Hela sent the entire arsenal hurtling toward him.

The weapons descended like a torrential downpour of steel.

"RAAH!"

Green fel flames erupted across Evenson’s body.

He drove off the ground, spread his wings, and launched himself into the air.

Demonic Slash!

From a distance, he resembled a spinning top, whirling rapidly through the air as weapons collided with him from every direction.

But Hela could see what was really happening.

Evenson wasn’t merely spinning.

He was darting through the air at incredible speed, changing direction constantly as his arms lashed out to deflect incoming weapons. His enormous wings swept through the air, knocking aside blades that slipped past his hands.

Whenever a weapon approached a vulnerable angle, spectral scythes appeared around him, slicing the threat apart before it could land a hit.

The resulting whirlwind was both an offensive assault and a defensive fortress.

"Not bad," Hela admitted. "A technique that works for both attack and defense. But let’s see how long you can keep it up."

She smiled and flicked her hand again.

The rain of weapons grew even denser.

As the barrage intensified, Evenson’s defenses began to falter. Some blades slipped past his arms and wings, striking directly at his body.

Fortunately, the fel flames burning across his skin melted them before they could penetrate.

Even so, the situation was becoming untenable.

He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Metamorphosis had a limited duration, and maintaining Demonic Slash against an assault of this intensity consumed an enormous amount of energy. If the battle continued, he would eventually be forced out of his transformed state.

And when that happened, he’d be left with nothing but a very large number of sharp objects and an extremely unpleasant death.

He had to make a decision.

Now.

Evenson abruptly stopped spinning.

All the fel flames surrounding his body detached at once, surging outward in a violent vortex that swept away a large portion of the incoming weapons.

The brief opening was all he needed.

He threw his head back and opened his mouth.

Something emerged from his throat.

A staff, its entire length a brilliant emerald green.

Evenson grabbed it and yanked it free.

At the staff’s tip, a pair of batlike wings unfolded.

A wave of annihilating power rippled outward.

Every weapon caught in its path disintegrated into ash.

This was the Scepter of Sargeras.

Evenson descended slowly to the ground, leaning heavily on the staff.

His eyes rolled upward as he struggled to recover his composure.

Good grief! Why does everything have to come out of my mouth when I’m transformed?

He’d nearly choked to death retrieving his own weapon.

There had to be a better way to store a staff.

Across the chamber, Hela’s playful expression had vanished. She stared at the weapon in his hands, her face growing solemn.

"That weapon..."

She could sense its power.

It was even more formidable than Gungnir, Odin’s legendary spear.

Evenson forced down the lingering discomfort in his throat and pointed the Scepter of Sargeras at her.

"Well, Hela? How about we settle this in one move?"

He tilted his head.

"Or are you afraid?"

Inwardly, he was anything but confident.

The Scepter of Sargeras was an artifact far beyond his ability to control completely. It possessed no sentient spirit whispering temptations into his mind, but its capacity for destruction was indiscriminate.

It didn’t distinguish between friend and foe.

Right now, only the power of Metamorphosis allowed Evenson to wield it, and even that was a temporary solution.

The instant his transformation ended, the scepter’s destructive power would turn against him.

He needed to finish this before that happened.

"Very well."

The ground beneath Hela began to rise.

At first, it looked as though the earth itself were lifting her into the air. But as the shape emerged from the surrounding terrain, Evenson realized that what he’d mistaken for a mound of earth was actually an enormous blade.

Perhaps it was the legendary mountain-cleaving sword.

Hela stood atop the colossal weapon as it carried her upward.

"I admit it," she said. "Among all the weapons I’ve created, none can match the power of that staff."

She lifted one hand.

The world seemed to tremble.

Across the landscape, countless peaks began disgorging their hidden weapons. Blades erupted from the mountains and soared into the sky, converging above Hela until the heavens were almost completely obscured.

The gathering mass of steel was beyond comprehension.

"Since this is somewhat unfair," Hela declared, her voice carrying across the chamber, "I’ll give you a proper response. Every weapon I’ve stored here will be my answer to your challenge!"

The weapons no longer attacked from every direction.

Instead, they converged into a single, enormous formation.

Countless blades fused into the shape of a colossal serpent forged from steel. Its body stretched across the sky, and its pointed head surged forward, its mass of sharpened weapons gleaming like fangs.

The metallic serpent lunged toward Evenson.

"That’s more like it!"

Evenson thrust the Scepter of Sargeras forward.

He poured every remaining reserve of magical power into the artifact.

He didn’t cast a spell. He didn’t activate any of the scepter’s other abilities.

He simply unleashed as much of its raw destructive force as he could manage.

A torrent of solidified green energy surged from the staff, twisting forward like a violent cyclone.

It collided head-on with the colossal serpent of steel.

For an instant, the world fell silent.

It was as though the very concept of sound had been erased.

Evenson couldn’t tell how much time passed.

A minute.

An hour.

Perhaps even a day.

Then the dust began to settle.

The demonic transformation had ended. The Scepter of Sargeras had been put away, and Evenson was sprawled on the ground, utterly exhausted.

He had no strength left to stand, much less maintain an intimidating posture.

Hela approached him at a leisurely pace.

Her fearsome horned helmet had vanished, leaving only her long black hair cascading around her shoulders.

She planted her hands on her hips and looked down at him.

"Very well. You’ve earned a privilege."

Evenson raised his eyes toward her.

"From now on, I’ll permit you to bow when you come before me."

He stared at her for a moment.

After everything he’d just endured, that was the reward?

Still, considering the alternative, perhaps he could live with it.

For now.