Chapter 31: Lightfall

The void twisted.

Baldur barely had time to register the shift before the first blow landed.

Not a strike, not a blast of energy—but a gravitational collapse.

The weight of a dying star slammed into him all at once, an unseen force dragging him downward with enough pressure to make even his enhanced body strain under the force.

The space around Terrax bent and rippled, the Herald standing in midair like an immovable titan, his massive cosmic axe gripped in one hand. His red eyes glowed through the void, watching Baldur with something that wasn't quite amusement.

It was certainty.

Baldur tried to move. His body flickered, golden light crackling across his form as he attempted to shift into photons—but he couldn't.

Terrax's control over gravity was absolute.

"You are fast," the Herald spoke, voice carrying through the empty void. "But speed is nothing when space itself is your enemy."

Baldur gritted his teeth, straining against the pressure.

Then Terrax moved.

It wasn't a blur of motion, wasn't an overwhelming rush of force—he simply stepped forward.

And in that step, everything around Baldur collapsed inward.

It felt like being crushed by an entire world.

He barely had time to react before Terrax swung his axe.

The weapon came down with the force of a collapsing moon, gravity warping around it, amplifying its weight exponentially.

Baldur teleported at the last second.

He reappeared a dozen meters away, golden eyes flickering as he struggled to regain control of his breathing.

That… hadn't been normal.

Even Callaxes, with all his gravitational prowess, hadn't been able to lock Baldur down so completely.

Terrax was different.

He wasn't just controlling gravity.

He was controlling fundamental reality.

The void trembled as Terrax turned to face him, unbothered, unstoppable. His grip on his axe was relaxed, as if the fight had already been decided.

Baldur's golden aura flared, and in an instant, he moved.

He became light, pure photons, streaking forward at a speed beyond mortal comprehension. His fist, glowing like a miniature star, aimed straight for Terrax's chest—a single, precise strike that would have caved in the armor of a Celestial warlord.

Terrax didn't move.

He simply lifted his hand—

And Baldur stopped.

His momentum vanished.

No impact, no resistance.

He had been frozen mid-motion.

His light—his very essence—was being held in place.

Terrax's grip tightened around reality itself.

"Did you think light is beyond gravity?" he murmured. "Even photons bend before it."

Then—

He twisted his hand.

And Baldur collapsed inward.

Pain exploded through his body as the gravitational force turned against him, crushing his form from every direction at once. His golden aura flared wildly, struggling against the weight pressing down on him.

It wasn't enough.

He barely managed to remain conscious as Terrax closed the distance, axe raised.

The next strike landed.

It was a clean, brutal hit—the axe slamming into Baldur's side with such overwhelming force that his entire body convulsed from the impact. The energy around him shattered, golden light flickering violently as he was sent hurtling across the void like a meteor.

His body crashed through an asteroid, splitting it in half. He kept moving, tumbling through the wreckage of the Black Market station, smashing through metal, debris, and the remains of a ruined warship.

By the time he finally stopped—he wasn't floating anymore.

He was falling.

A small, barren moon below was pulling him in.

His mind raced, body screaming in protest as he tried to stabilize his flight, tried to regain control—

Terrax was already above him.

The Herald of Galactus raised his axe for the final strike.

And Baldur knew he wouldn't be able to dodge in time.

The Last Move – Baldur's Escape

For the first time in a long while, he accepted that he was losing.

He needed to get out.

His vision blurred. His body was failing.

But he still had one last move left.

As Terrax brought the axe down, Baldur summoned everything he had left, every remaining fragment of golden energy—

And exploded outward.

A supernova of light, raw and unfiltered, erupted around him, blinding everything in the vicinity for just a fraction of a second.

Just long enough.

The last thing he heard was Terrax's voice, distant but steady.

"Run while you can, Odinson. Your light will fade soon enough."

Then—

Baldur vanished.

A beam of golden light streaked away from the battlefield, burning through space at impossible speeds, leaving nothing behind but echoes of his presence.

His body was broken, failing, barely holding together.

But he had escaped.

Barely.

Falling to the Planet of Scholars

His vision flickered.

His consciousness drifted in and out.

His wounds weren't healing fast enough.

The only thing keeping him awake was the blazing pain in his ribs, the fractures splintering across his body like cracks in glass.

Somewhere ahead, he saw it.

A blue-green planet, distant yet calling to him.

The Celestial Vault.

A sanctuary. A place of knowledge. A world of scholars and historians.

He had meant to seek it out later. Now, it was his only hope.

His speed faltered. The golden light around him flickered unstable.

Then—

Baldur crashed.

————————————————————

Aetolus stood at the edge of the Observatory Spire, his violet eyes gazing across the vast expanse of the sky.

The Celestial Vault was always in motion. The great rings that encircled the planet shifted endlessly, their glow casting intricate patterns of golden light upon the surface below. Beneath them, the scholars moved in silence, their duties never ceasing, their pursuit of knowledge endless.

Aetolus had stood in this place for centuries.

He was not a warrior, not a ruler, not a god. He was a keeper of history, a guardian of forgotten knowledge, a guide to those who sought understanding beyond their own time.

And today, something had changed.

A presence falling from the heavens.

Falling.

Like a dying star.

He turned his gaze upward, the sky rippling with disturbances in the cosmic flow. The air trembled as something breached the planetary veil, descending at impossible speeds.

A golden streak of light, burning through the atmosphere, its radiance dimming with every second.

Something—or someone—was crashing.

Aetolus narrowed his eyes, stepping forward to get a clearer look. His mind, honed by centuries of wisdom, immediately grasped the magnitude of what he was witnessing.

This was not an accident.

This was a man who had barely survived something beyond himself.

And he was about to crash directly into their world.

The ground shook violently when the impact came. A column of dust and shattered rock rose into the air, forming a crater at the edge of the Western Archive.

Aetolus did not hesitate.

He moved toward the site, his robes flowing behind him as other scholars whispered amongst themselves. Some stood at a distance, uncertain, cautious. Others took notes, observing the disturbance with clinical detachment.

But Aetolus?

He descended into the crater himself.

And there, at the center of the ruin, lay a man.

Young, but ancient in presence.

His form was still, but his body pulsed with a golden glow that flickered unsteadily, like a flame struggling against the wind. His armor—or what remained of it—was scorched, fractured. Deep wounds marred his torso, the remnants of battle carved into his flesh.

But what intrigued Aetolus most were his eyes.

Even in unconsciousness, they burned with the faintest ember of power.

Aetolus took a slow breath.

"Asgardian," he murmured.

He had seen their kind before. Warriors, rulers, travelers. They came and went, seeking knowledge but never staying long enough to understand it.

But this one…

This one was different.

There was something else in him.

Not arrogance, not blind power.

A fire. A purpose. A will that had been tested.

Aetolus gestured to the scholars nearby. "Take him inside. He will not last long if left here."

The younger ones hesitated. Not out of fear, but out of uncertainty. Warriors did not often come here unless they had already won their battles. This one had fallen. He had lost.

And yet, he was still breathing.

The scholars lifted him carefully, his body heavy, unnaturally so. Aetolus watched closely as they carried him toward the inner sanctum, his mind already unraveling the implications of what had just occurred.

Hours Later – The Waking Light

Aetolus sat in silence, watching the Asgardian as he stirred.

He had expected the young man to take longer to wake. His injuries had been severe—internal damage, energy depletion, fractures along his ribs and arms. The healing process should have taken weeks.

And yet, he was already moving.

The Asgardian's golden eyes flickered open, hazy at first before sharpening into awareness.

Aetolus spoke first. "You are awake sooner than expected."

The young man turned his head slightly, his expression a mix of pain and calculation. Even weakened, his presence was not small.

"You are resilient," Aetolus continued. "Few survive a fall like the one you endured."

A pause.

Then, a weak but amused chuckle. "Yeah, well… I've got a bad habit of not dying when I should."

Aetolus smiled faintly. "That is a rare talent."

The Asgardian—Baldur Odinson, he had learned from murmured half-sentences in his unconscious state—exhaled slowly, his body still too weak to move. His energy signature was different than that of other Asgardians. Brighter, sharper, more fluid.

And yet, something about him felt incomplete.

"You fell here by chance," Aetolus said at last. "Or by fate. Either way, you are here now."

Baldur didn't answer right away. He was testing his body, assessing his own limits.

Pride, Aetolus thought. Not arrogance, but frustration. He had the look of someone unfamiliar with weakness.

Aetolus stood slowly, walking toward the wall of floating scrolls, their inscriptions glowing faintly with ancient knowledge. He did not need to ask why Baldur had been in such a condition. He had seen warriors before, seen what happened to them when they finally faced something beyond their strength.

But Baldur was not broken.

Not yet.

"Tell me, young prince," Aetolus mused, "what did you encounter that left you in this state?"

Silence.

Then, a quiet exhale.

"A bastard with an axe and a god complex."

Aetolus chuckled softly. "Ah. One of those."

Baldur would have laughed if it didn't hurt.

Aetolus studied him for a moment, then turned back toward the chamber's entrance.

"Rest," he said simply. "Recover. When you are able, we will talk again."

Baldur's jaw tensed, his stubbornness refusing to accept the command. He wanted to move. To leave.

But Aetolus knew the truth before Baldur did.

He wasn't going anywhere.

His body was spent. His reserves were shattered. He had no choice but to stay.

And so, as Baldur's golden eyes dimmed once more, lost to exhaustion, Aetolus watched carefully.

This was no ordinary Asgardian.

And he had no doubt that the universe was far from done with him.