A crude imitation. Vulgar theatrics.
The Asgardian onstage, deliberately mimicking him, ignited a fury within Lothar like never before.
And when that impostor—"Lothar"—gave a gracious bow to the cheering crowd below, a wintry frost glazed over Lothar's face.
Using his identity to entertain Asgardians?
"What do you think you're doing?!"
Hela, standing right beside him, immediately sensed something was wrong. Without regard for the gulf in their strength, she placed a firm hand on Lothar's shoulder.
They were, after all, in the most crowded square in Asgard—a place where any reckless move on Lothar's part could have explosive consequences.
"Let go."
The sheer killing intent in Lothar's voice sent a chill down Hela's spine.
"Absolutely not!"
She rejected his demand without hesitation. Was this a joke? She was the Princess of Asgard—there was no way she'd allow Lothar to attack her people right in front of her.
"You can try. See if you're actually capable of stopping me."
A cold smirk curled across Lothar's frost-kissed lips as a surge of energy crackled to life in his hand.
He was going to make this pitiful impersonator—this fool who dared mock him—pay.
"You lunatic!"
"It's just a performance! They're just theater staff! They're all following the script I gave them!"
"What, you don't have theaters in the Black Quadrant?!"
In a moment of desperation, Hela wrapped her arms around Lothar's waist, hoping that invoking her Odin-born lineage would be enough to restrain him. Leaning close, she hissed into his ear:
"We don't."
"...." Hela was speechless. She wanted to curse out loud.
"They meant no harm—"
"I don't care what their intentions were. All I see is a cheap, laughable parody of me."
"And that… is reason enough."
Lothar mercilessly cut off Hela's explanation. His icy demeanor caused her eyes to flash with sudden chill.
Meanwhile, the "Lothar" onstage was still wagging his fake tail and taking an exaggerated final bow—his obsequious performance only fanned the flames of Lothar's wrath.
Others across the Nine Realms might fear Asgard's might or Odin's power.
But Lothar was not like the others.
"Meta Domain!"
A sharp cry burst from beside Lothar. A beam of strange energy shot from Hela's outstretched arms and streaked toward the sky!
Whoosh!
BOOM!
The detonation rippled through the heavens like fireworks, bathing Asgard's skyline in fiery light. Lothar squinted upward, eyes narrowed, as the fragmented energy cascaded back down—forming a golden pyramid of force that sealed him and Hela inside.
Barren. Silent. Dim.
This was the transformed world inside the pyramid—a separate dimension created as the energy fully enclosed them.
Gone was Asgard's sunny brilliance. In its place blew a relentless, frigid wind across a stark, alien landscape.
This was Meta Domain, a battlefield realm crafted by Hela, empowered by Asgard itself—a dimension she could only manifest while standing on Asgardian soil.
To create such a space, Hela needed to draw upon Asgard's core power.
"You really need to fix that arrogant streak of yours."
As Lothar crossed his arms and surveyed the surroundings with calm disdain, Hela appeared before him once more.
"One day, that pride will be your downfall."
"Oh? And you're the model of humility?" Lothar scoffed. The force beneath his feet surged, pebbles trembling in its wake.
A Goddess of Death who made others kneel—or perish—for the smallest offense was lecturing him about humility?
Ridiculous.
"If that pathetic copycat had come from Jotunheim, would you still be defending him so fiercely?"
"No. You wouldn't. You'd do the exact same thing—strike down anyone who dared mock you."
A cold laugh escaped Lothar's lips, his words like daggers piercing Hela's heart.
"Your so-called humility is nothing more than blind love for Asgard. So spare me the nauseating act."
"But the ground beneath your feet…" Hela's tone sharpened. "Is Asgard."
She spread her arms. Behind her, a multitude of gleaming, frost-edged blades shimmered into being and shot toward Lothar—who remained unmoving, arms still crossed at his chest.
"Now I'm starting to regret rescuing you from Planet U40."
Hovering in midair, Hela scowled as the storm of weapons collided with the shockwave radiating from Lothar's form—each blade forcefully repelled into the rubble below.
"First of all," Lothar's voice echoed from behind her, "you were the one who approached me with a deal."
"Second, my father always said: a vile imitation has no right to exist."
"Third, I could've escaped Planet U40 all by myself."
His whip-fast leg arced toward Hela's chest, the crackling wind of its passage hissing past her ear. Only her reflexes saved her from being blasted into the debris field.
Just like she had stopped Lothar earlier to protect the Asgardians, Lothar had accepted Hela's bargain not out of necessity, but to exchange a useless Casket of Eternal Winter for The Other—a trade of no true cost to him.
"I don't know what kind of ideas Thanos drilled into your head," Hela said, flexing her fingers as energy pulsed through them, eyes gleaming with challenge, "but I'm guessing you never got along with the Black Order."
With a burst of motion, she launched herself toward the descending Lothar.
With that kind of personality? Anyone forced to team up with him was doomed.
Who could endure him?
No one could.
…Elsewhere…
"Then it's settled."
Inside the grand hall of the Palace of Odin, the All-Father stood with hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he addressed the shadowy figure seated on the distant throne.
"Of course."
Thanos, rising from his throne, spoke with weight and finality.
"But the arrangement will take effect in five days."
In his mind, Thanos recalled the data transmitted by the AI Woz—a report detailing how Lothar had absorbed a fragment of the Mind Stone's energy.
His face betrayed no emotion.
"Very well. As agreed, I will transport Lothar to Planet C53 on your star map. Your agents can retrieve him there. Five days from now, I'll reactivate the Bifrost from C53."
And so, Odin and Thanos—two rulers standing atop of their own domain—struck a cordial, peaceful deal.
Both sides… entirely satisfied.
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