Chapter 26: The Asgardian Warlord

Chapter 26: The Asgardian Warlord

The silence after a battle was always the most deafening part.

The Leviathan-class warship drifted in the void, its once-mighty engines reduced to glowing wreckage, its defenses shattered, and its crew paralyzed by what had just happened. The Black Market station below still smoldered from the battle, fires raging in the lower sectors where stray shots had ruptured power cores and destabilized artificial gravity.

And at the center of it all, Baldur stood, golden light flickering around his fingertips, the last echoes of his power still radiating through the ruined bridge.

The ship was his now.

Not by conquest. Not by diplomacy.

By overwhelming, undeniable force.

The officers, warlords, and mercenaries who had once ruled this sector were either unconscious, broken, or staring at him in stunned silence. Baldur let them process it. He had seen this reaction before, back when people realized the rules they had lived by—strength, power, dominance—had just been rewritten in front of their eyes.

The captain, still slumped against the console where Baldur had left him, finally spoke.

"…What now?"

Baldur rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. The way a lion moved after a kill.

"Now?" he echoed, voice calm. "Now you tell me everything. Who controls this sector? Who's watching from the shadows? And more importantly…"

He leaned down slightly, eyes glowing with faint amusement.

"Who do you think is about to come after me?"

The captain hesitated. Then, finally, he laughed.

It was a dry, humorless sound.

"You think you've won?" he rasped. "You think taking one ship means you control the Black Market?" He tilted his head, cybernetic eyes whirring as they refocused. "You're strong. Stronger than anyone I've ever seen. But you're not the first warlord to think they could carve out a piece of the underworld for themselves."

Baldur smiled slightly. "And how many of them could turn into light?"

The captain's expression twitched.

"That's what I thought," Baldur said, standing straight again. He reached out, lightly tapping the ruined console beside him. The machine flickered with golden energy, and for a brief moment, all systems came back online.

Screens buzzed with static, failing servos sparked, and power readings jumped back into the green.

Everyone in the room froze.

"You don't understand," Baldur continued, his voice carrying through the room like the light itself. "I didn't just take a ship. I didn't just break your fleet. I didn't just win a battle."

He turned toward the viewport, looking down at the wreckage of the marketplace below, at the hundreds of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and criminals who had once thrived in lawless freedom.

"I rewrote the rules of this place."

Behind him, someone exhaled sharply. They understood.

This wasn't just a victory.

This was an announcement.

Baldur wasn't here to play by their rules.

He had become the rule.

A ripple of realization spread through the officers. Some of them still gritted their teeth in defiance, unwilling to accept what had happened. But others—the smarter ones—were already considering what this meant. Who he was. What he had just proven.

The strongest ruled here.

And there was no one stronger.

The captain exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"You don't get it, Asgardian," he muttered. "You think the Black Market's just warlords and mercenaries?" He let out a dry chuckle. "It's bigger than that. You've stepped into something you can't control."

Baldur glanced at him, unimpressed.

"Then I'll burn it down and rebuild it myself," he said simply.

The captain went silent.

And for the first time since Baldur had boarded this ship, he looked genuinely uncertain.

A faint beep interrupted the moment.

The room stiffened. It came from one of the remaining intact consoles, a distress signal notification flashing across the screen. Not outgoing—incoming.

Someone was already responding to what had just happened.

Baldur turned toward the screen, golden energy crackling around his fingers. He reached out, tapping the controls lightly. The static on the monitor warped, the photons within the transmission bending to his will. He focused, sifting through the interference until a face appeared.

A Kree warlord.

Not just any warlord.

One of the Black Market's major powers.

The man's blue skin was marred with deep scars, his armor lined with ceremonial gold trim. He sat in a throne-like command chair, surrounded by subordinates who stared at the screen with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.

"Ah," the Kree finally said, voice smooth. "So you're the one who just upended an entire sector in a single night."

Baldur tilted his head slightly.

"Depends," he said. "You here to congratulate me or threaten me?"

The warlord laughed softly, his voice betraying no immediate hostility. "Neither. I'm here to tell you what happens next."

Baldur waited, watching.

"You think you're the first to claim power here?" the Kree continued. "No. You're just the latest name in a long, bloody history of would-be conquerors. But unlike the others…" He gestured toward Baldur's glowing form. "You might actually survive long enough to matter."

Baldur smirked. "That's a lot of words to say you don't know what to do about me."

The warlord chuckled. "Perhaps. But I do know one thing." His gaze sharpened. "You won't be ignored. By morning, every major power in this sector will know your name. Some will see you as an opportunity. Others will see you as a threat." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And some will come to kill you just to prove they can."

Baldur's smirk widened.

"Let them try."

The Kree's smile never faded. "We shall see."

The transmission cut. The screen flickered out, leaving the bridge in silence once more.

Baldur exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His body still hummed with energy, the aftereffects of combat still tingling in his fingertips.

The Black Market was his now.

He had made a name for himself tonight.

Now, he had to decide what to do with it.