Chapter 74: Gold Cloth?

(May complain about Hela being too strong but I hate mc being nerfed and yeah, I received many complain about Viper and Hela speaking like the same person but like, their personalities is just almost the same.)

For the first time in her fabulously unpredictable, slightly terrifying existence, Viper's plan didn't just not faceplant into a dumpster fire… it WORKED. Like, actually worked.

She could remember every plan she had done before—even summoning Satan or something—but instead dropped a Nordic Goddess of Hel, so at this moment, she felt like she had reached the peak.

Barely two hours. Two hours! That's less time than it takes some women to decide which clothes to wear!

And what did the serpentine superstar achieve? Only the complete and utter subjugation of half the French government!

They weren't just somebody, but ministers, mistresses (the scandal!), personal trainers who knew way too much about their clients' core strength.

All of this was thanks to her little minions, who had been busy little bees.

They'd compiled a digital dossier of shame so spectacularly humiliating, it would make Fury blush and spontaneously combust out of sheer second-hand embarrassment.

Karaoke confessions belted out off-key about state secrets (involving accordions, naturally).

Toe-sucking scandals caught on hidden cam—just... imagine the tabloids.

And the pièce de résistance: a truly shocking number of high-profile figures admitting, on camera, under duress, that they... microwaved their tea. The horror!

This wasn't just career-ending dirt; this was career-obliterating, marriage-imploding, dignity-vaporizing nuclear waste. The French elite weren't just compromised; they were one poorly timed group text away from collapsing like a soufflé in a hurricane.

But that wasn't all. It's far from enough, after all. Madame Viper didn't spend days scheming in her bespoke snake-print leather catsuit just to be… Queen of France.

She wasn't even French, which was a minor oversight in her world-domination starter pack, admittedly. Made the whole running for Présidente thing a teensy bit… problematique.

But after all, her sights were set much higher than being Madame la Présidente.

Her real masterstroke was about unifying Europe. All of it. The baguettes, the bratwurst, the questionable British cuisine – all under one glorious, Viper-flag.

She'd rule from the shadows and the spotlight simultaneously. Why choose, when she looked fabulous in both low light and paparazzi flashes?

And that was just Phase One! After Europe? Africa, baby! Then Asia! The Americas! Even Antarctica—because penguin spies are low-key the best spies. Impeccable tuxedos, built-in cold resistance, total commitment.

And then… planetary unification! Earth, snug and subservient, under her designer high-heeled boot. Because controlling one timezone is so last season. Why not control them all?

Of course, lurking in the deepest, darkest recesses of Viper's heart lay Hela, the goddess who didn't just defeat world leaders—she annihilated them like they were overdue library books.

She could apparently vibe-check millions and instantly spot a double agent. The same goddess who managed to beat gods who, after calculations, were moving at almost the speed of light—easily—without bleeding.

And well, Viper felt a teensy, tiny, microscopic pang of… something… watching Jean next to Hela.

If it weren't for that meddling Jean, she could be the one plotting galactic conquest over glasses of vintage Bordeaux with the Goddess of Death!

Painting their nails dark green, debating the merits of conquering Andromeda versus just terraforming Mars for a vacation home. It sounded like the ultimate power brunch! Instead, she was stuck managing poodle-related blackmail.

But confronting Hela directly? Yeah… no. Hela was still a tad too… final. Like, end-of-all-existence final.

Not exactly the vibe Viper was going for just yet. First, she needed to prove herself. Not as some disposable hench-villain or Saturday-morning cartoon antagonist.

But as an equal, a partner, a worthy… friend? Absolutely not thinking about Hela's terrifyingly domineering… sisterly aura.

Finally, blessedly, her minions who were monitoring the operation were out, leaving Viper gloriously alone in her five-star room.

She stretched like a particularly satisfied cat who'd just conquered the world's largest scratching post.

With a dramatic flourish worthy of an Oscar, she tossed her priceless snakeskin coat onto a nearby chair—like a diva shedding her mortal disguise—and face-planted onto her ridiculously comfortable, five-star-rated, cloud-like bed. "Ahhh… bliss."

Sleep. She tried. She really, truly did. She counted sheep (they were wearing tiny snake costumes). She recited French poetry (it was mostly curses).

But alas! Viper's brain wasn't wired for off after the enhancement. It was more like a caffeinated goldfish with severe ADHD, zooming around a psychedelic fishbowl of pure, chaotic potential.

One minute, she was drifting towards the sweet embrace of unconsciousness… the next…

"OOH!"

Her eyes flew open like twin searchlights powered by pure, unadulterated inspiration.

It was like she'd suddenly remembered where she'd hidden the keys to the nuclear arsenal… or maybe just invented a new, even more embarrassing form of karaoke humiliation.

Another idea. Not just any idea. A chaotic, fabulous, world-shattering idea. Because sleep is for the weak. And Viper wasn't weak. She had an entire planet to conquer. Naptime could wait.

---

[Day Four Hundred and Four – Pisces Gold Cloth.]

In the stark, endless white void known as the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, Hela wasn't exactly chilling, eyes closed, meditating before the ping! of the system notification.

She was already doing her experiment—holding it.

A swirling, malevolent orb of pure darkness. Just having it in her grasp made the pristine white space around her recoil.

A hundred-meter radius of pure, inky blackness bloomed, swallowing the light like a cosmic black hole had dropped in for tea.

The air grew thick, heavy, charged with the primal chill of the grave. It wasn't just dark; it felt wrong, like reality itself was holding its breath.

This thing was her latest project. Call it a Domain Expansion if you're a fan of a certain sorcery-heavy manga world.

Hela wasn't copying homework. She was aiming for something unique. Something that would make her dear old Mother—the abstract concept of Death itself—choke on her metaphorical scythe.

The goal was simple, elegant, and utterly insane. She wanted to project this little pocket of absolute control into reality.

Just for one measly minute. Sixty seconds. But within that minute, inside her domain? She would command Death.

Not the limited influence she wielded now, flicking souls around like annoying gnats—but total, uncontested mastery.

The kind where Death itself—Mom, if you will—would be locked out, silenced, utterly irrelevant. Her word, within that space, would be the only law that mattered for life's final breath.

Easier said than freaking done. Six months of intense, mind-bending focus had gotten her… this ominous volleyball of doom that couldn't even hold its shape for two seconds without threatening to unravel catastrophically.

And the backlash wasn't a simple slap on the wrist. It was more like the combined, furious recoil of Death and probably every other cosmic force in the universe—Time, Fate, Gravity, maybe even that grumpy dude Entropy—all potentially lining up to smite her into subatomic particles.

Definitely risky, but that didn't even begin to cover it. It was cosmic Russian Roulette with the safety off.

With a weary sigh that echoed strangely in the suffocating darkness, Hela dispersed the unstable energy. The oppressive blackness receded like a tide, leaving the stark white chamber feeling almost blindingly bright.

Time to check that system ping. Her eyes scanned the notification… and was hooked. No—hooked might be the understatement of the century.

[Pisces Gold Cloth.]

Some memories in her head that she had buried couldn't help themselves and surfaced. It was of a tiny human child sprawled on a worn carpet.

Power Rangers blaring on a boxy TV. Frantic searches through toy boxes for her zodiac cloth. Strained attempts to scream her way blonde and spiky, willing herself Super Saiyan.

The pure, unadulterated belief of childhood. Who'd have thunk it? Here she was, dead (technically), counterpart to Satan, chilling in Hel… and actually holding a Gold Cloth. Talk about childhood dreams coming true in the weirdest possible way.

"Or is this the paradise they kept yammering about?" she muttered, turning the ornate box over in her hands.

The craftsmanship was divine—literally. But then she snorted, a dry, humorless sound.

"Yeah, right. Paradise doesn't usually involve becoming Satan's counterpart and having Hel as your mailing address."

Intrigue warred with practicality. She vaguely recalled fan debates from her pre-goddess internet lurking days. Saint Seiya power levels were… bonkers.

Even the lowliest Bronze Saint, pre-awakening, was supposedly hypersonic, and the Gold Saints? God Cloths? The arguments would get wild—placing them somewhere between planet-busters and being able to throw down with Dragon Ball characters. Maybe win. Especially those God Cloths, supposedly empowered by a drop of divine blood.

"A drop of divine blood…"

Hela stared at the ornate box, then at her own pale, impossibly resilient hand. Her skin could shrug off supernovas.

Making herself bleed required conscious effort—a deliberate lowering of her body's natural, universe-defying defenses. It was less a puncture, more a controlled, localized reality failure.

Shrugging. What was the worst that could happen? Annoy a cosmic cloth? She focused.

With immense concentration, a single, impossibly dark, shimmering drop of her divine blood welled on her fingertip. It fell onto the box with a faint hiss, like water on hot stone, vanishing into the intricate patterns.

She popped the lid. Inside, gleaming with impossible light even in the white chamber, lay the Pisces Gold Cloth.

Or rather, its dormant form—a constellation of impossibly crafted golden pieces. It was breathtaking, intricate, radiating power… but also strangely… inert.

Hela tilted her head, examining it critically. It was beautiful, undoubtedly—but stronger than her?

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips.

"Doubtful. How strong could the gods of that world possibly be? Compared to… well… me?"

She traced a finger along a golden fish-scale pauldron.

"This would be… interesting. To go to that world and fight them… maybe become more powerful. Then come back and throw hands with Sentry. Isn't he the one with the powers of one million exploding suns? What a coincidence… I'd let him watch me burn my cosmos before taking a punch."

(END OF THE THE CHAPTER)

The irony huh, I was listening to a song "What Took You so long"