Chapter 22: Frost Giants

The massive enchanted sword shattered under the sheer force of power, and for the first time, a flicker of disbelief flashed through Hela's eyes. From the moment she had stepped onto the battlefield, no one had ever survived her combination of magical strikes. Yet now, Lothar had done just that.

Her long, jet-black hair billowed wildly in the raging wind, but her composure was far less graceful than her appearance suggested.

The three high-tier forbidden spells had nearly drained her completely.

Since her rise to prominence, she had seldom relied on magic. More often than not, her overwhelming physical strength was enough to dominate her enemies.

Hela, with her ability to conjure an endless arsenal of weapons at will, was a living catastrophe in large-scale warfare. Because of this, her training as she grew older had focused more on awakening her divine heritage and tapping into the inherent godly power of the Aesir. She had never delved too deeply into the magic her mother had once taught her.

"You've lost, Hela Odinsdottir."

Descending from the sky, Lothar landed before Hela, his fist still emanating the residual force of the blow that had turned the tide. Behind him, fragments of golden light scattered across the battlefield.

They were the remnants of her shattered enchanted greatsword.

His silver chestplate, still pristine and untarnished, gleamed mesmerizingly in the evening sun. Without hesitation, Lothar extended his right hand and clasped his fingers tightly around Hela's throat.

"Rejoice! The mighty heir of the Titans, son of Thanos, the young Prince Lothar, has defeated the daughter of Odin, Hela of Asgard! This is a battle that shall be immortalized in history!"

The sycophantic voice of The Other rang out at the perfect moment, breaking the tense silence between Lothar and Hela.

The Other, still clutching his staff as he struggled to his feet, continued to heap praises upon his master, only to feel two pairs of icy gazes pierce through him. He faltered, momentarily lost for words.

Had he said something wrong?

His mind raced. Perhaps it was time to expand his vocabulary. Repeating "rejoice" over and over did seem rather lacking in sophistication.

"Do you always live in such an endless stream of flattery?" Hela asked, her voice devoid of fear despite Lothar's grip tightening around her throat. Instead, she seemed intrigued by The Other's relentless adulation.

Though ostentatious, such unwavering praise had its own peculiar charm once one got used to it.

"You don't seem to understand your situation." Lothar ignored The Other, whose staff was still raised in an exaggerated posture of reverence, and instead returned his cold, unyielding gaze to Hela. His fingers tightened, and a flicker of pain crossed her face.

"Lothar. That is your name, isn't it?" Her breath grew labored under the pressure.

"Now I am certain—Thanos never taught you how to deal with an Asgardian sorcerer."

Her expression of pain abruptly vanished, replaced by an unsettling smile. Lothar frowned, but before he could decipher her meaning, his instincts screamed at him to move.

A flurry of enchanted weapons whistled past him, missing by mere inches. The Hela before him had already transformed into a lifeless, punctured effigy.

The blades had skewered the decoy's limbs, pinning its deflated remains to the bloodstained battlefield.

"Asgardian substitute magic is far from the cheap trickery of lesser sorcery."

"It is… flawless."

Hela reappeared to Lothar's left, her face pale from exertion, but her pride remained undiminished.

Her melee combat had been suppressed, but she was still a long-range caster.

Mastery over both magic and martial prowess—such was the privilege of true power.

Now free, Hela stood tall once more. The Other, who had just finished his excessive praises, abandoned his plan to approach Lothar. Instead, he silently blended into what remained of the Chitauri forces, choosing to observe from a safe distance.

"Trivial tricks."

Lothar spared a brief glance at the ruined decoy, a trace of disdain flickering in his gaze.

Against absolute power, such theatrics were nothing but paper tigers.

"How many more of these spells can your body endure?" He saw through her condition immediately.

"Enough to last until you collapse." Hela smirked, undeterred despite her weakened state. She was convinced Lothar was in far worse shape.

His arms bore the wounds of enchanted arrows, his internal organs had been crushed by the Crystal Wall, and he had just thrown a direct punch against the Holy Sword of Judgment. She refused to believe he remained unscathed.

"I admire your confidence. The enemies I've faced before—they all crawled at my feet when they reached this point, begging for mercy." Lothar's gaze darkened as he strode toward her.

At seven years old, he had survived a blade to the gut. Compared to that, this was nothing.

As long as he was alive, he wasn't concerned. Worst case, he'd return to his warship and soak in the Fountain of Life—problems solved.

"Is that so? That's quite the coincidence. I've slain many like you on the battlefield—arrogant fools who thought victory was theirs."

With a flick of her wrist, dozens of weapons materialized around her, their tips all aimed at Lothar.

Her wounds were of little consequence. A mere two days in Asgard's divine realm would restore her, perhaps even strengthen her further.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

The Other, ever the opportunist, firmly aligned himself with Lothar once more. His azure staff pulsed faintly as he prepared to manipulate a squad of Chitauri warriors for a sneak attack.

Then suddenly… he felt cold.

No… that wasn't right. How could this battlefield—a place of scorched earth—be so—

Before he could finish his thought, ice enveloped him. Along with the Chitauri around him, The Other was instantly frozen, transformed into a lifeless statue in the sunset's glow.

The descending sun cast a kaleidoscope of light across the countless ice crystals.

"Hela Odinsdottir, daughter of Odin. If I kill you, I imagine Laufey will be quite pleased."

Silhouetted against the blood-red sky, an army of towering, blue-skinned figures emerged from the horizon.

The Frost Giants had arrived.

They had responded to their outpost's distress call, albeit too late. Their forces had already been decimated. But in the aftermath, they had found something far more valuable—a wounded, isolated daughter of Odin.

As for the tailed monkey beside her?

They neither recognized nor cared about him.

They would simply kill them both and be done with it.

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