"Savior? Just another weakling waiting to be rescued."
Floating midair, Lothar sneered at the words, his tone dripping with scorn. His gaze—aloof, arrogant—betrayed not a hint of empathy.
"What, you think saving them makes you a hero? That it gives you the right to talk down from your pedestal?" Hela, standing beside him, stared coldly, eyes sharp as obsidian.
"They may be weak," she continued, "but that doesn't mean they didn't resist. Their blood, spilled across the battlefield, is the only proof you'll ever need."
She motioned toward the corpses of the rebel villagers strewn across the scorched land. "Look at them. Ask yourself—if one day you lost the power you so arrogantly flaunt… would you have had the courage to fight like they did?"
"I'd bet not. Your arrogance and disdain are etched into your bones. If you ever fall, if you ever lose what you have now, I wager it'll be your own tongue that kills you—your enemies will sever your hand and take your head before you even realize it."
Turning away from the hovering Titan-born, Hela descended to stand among the surviving villagers—those who should have been under the protection of Asgard's camp. Her back turned to Lothar, she left him alone in the sky, the wind carrying her parting words:
"But of course—you're the exalted son of a Titan. What could you possibly know about what it means to protect something… when you've never had anything worth protecting?"
You're just a weapon—built for slaughter and nothing else.
She didn't say that last line aloud. She knew Lothar well enough to understand that voicing it would ignite a war she wasn't ready for—not now, not while Midgard's situation remained so precarious.
And yet, among the ashes of battle, Hela, once the Princess of Asgard and now its unwavering shield, received the gratitude of over a hundred survivors. One by one, they knelt before her in reverence and awe.
And they knelt to Lothar, too—still hovering above them in silence, his face unreadable.
Protect…?
Lothar closed his eyes. The flood of memories pulled him violently into the past—to a time when he was utterly powerless.
Inside a life pod, he had once pounded helplessly against the shield, screaming, crying. Outside the pod, his mother wept as she bid him farewell.
He hated that version of himself. The infant who couldn't do anything but cry.
In his eyes, weakness was the original sin.
Just like the person he was back then… and just like these survivors now.
When he opened his eyes again, the shadows of the Black Quadrant returned to steady his thoughts. Turning his head, he met the worried gaze of The Other, who clutched a glowing azure scepter and called out:
"Prince Lothar?"
"What is it?" he responded calmly.
"Nothing… just—" The Other shook his head rapidly, eyes wide. "There was an extreme power fluctuation in your energy signature just now, but it seems to have stabilized."
"Also, per Woz's projections, the cosmic energy transmitted to your body from Astra—that mysterious force—is expected to dissipate entirely in about forty minutes."
"When that happens, your current amplified form will fade."
Ever vigilant, Woz's voice came through the comms, crisp and dutiful.
"Forty minutes, huh? Got it."
Descending at last, Lothar's white cloak fluttered in the wind, the frost still clinging to his silver battle boots. He hadn't even brushed it off when the village's surviving leader approached—bowed deeply—and offered thanks.
"Send this location to Ebony Maw. Tell him to land nearby."
While the translation panel lit up with wave after wave of grateful messages, Lothar barely reacted. But behind him, The Other was starting to panic—his eyes wide with dread.
For someone who prided himself on being Lothar's most loyal servant, it was a terrifying realization:
He had competition.
He'd served beside Lothar long enough to know that no one—not even Ebony Maw, that bootlicker of Thanos—could flatter like this guy.
Words like "Savior," "Golden Radiance," and "Divine Legend" flooded the air. Each new epithet swelled The Other's internal vocabulary. He was already thinking about updating his next praise speech.
But this wasn't even the most outrageous part.
No, that came next:
"We wish to erect a statue in your honor—so that our descendants may know of your divine might…"
That, The Other thought, was professional-level praise.
For the first time in his life, The Other—once confident in his rank akin to Ebony Maw's to Thanos—felt fear.
What if Lothar liked this guy? What if he kept him around?
No. He had to learn.
Determined, staff in hand, The Other went to befriend the survivor leader. But he ran into an unexpected problem:
They didn't speak the same language.
Neither understood the other, and soon, both resorted to grand, awkward gestures. Their communication devolved into pantomime.
"When will your people arrive?"
Watching the chaotic charades from the side, Hela walked up to Lothar, now lounging sideways atop a tree stump, arms crossed.
"Soon."
He didn't look at her—his gaze remained fixed on the distant sky.
Silence fell.
The fervent pantomiming of The Other and the survivors felt like it existed in an entirely different world from the frigid stillness between Lothar and Hela.
One burned hot.
The other froze cold.
Thirty minutes passed. Lothar's "soon" had yet to arrive.
Instead, a swarm of Nine Realms coalition forces massed at the village gates. The survivors began to panic.
Even the usually aloof Elves had joined the fray.
"Father was right… the Nine Realms need reform."
Perched on a tree branch above, Hela's icy gaze swept across the enemy lines.
Every realm with military strength—aside from the Dwarves—had turned against Asgard. Or more precisely, against Odin.
Even Vanaheim, Frigga's homeland. Even the Elves, once devoted only to peace.
"Daughter of Odin! Son of Thanos! You are surrounded!"
The voice boomed across the battlefield, shaking the sky.
Lothar, still reclining, scratched his ear lazily and smirked.
"So they've arrived. But who's surrounded who… is still up for debate."
Rising slowly, Lothar levitated above the treetops. Below, the villagers looked up with bated breath.
His right hand rose high—
SNAP.
The crisp sound echoed across the skies.
In an instant, an armada of warships emerged behind Lothar, their dark cannons locking onto the coalition's vanguard. Energy began to pulse, charging for annihilation.
"????!!!!"
"Impossible! When did this happen?!"
The leaders of the coalition turned pale.
"You've never known peace, have you, Lothar?"
From the fleet above, a familiar figure floated down.
It was Ebony Maw, one of the Black Order—The Other's idol.
He landed beside Lothar with a resigned sigh.
"They tried to kill me."
Lothar's voice was cold, mocking. "Of course I'm going to kill them back."
But for reasons he couldn't explain, his eyes drifted to Hela, who now stood alone across from him.
Of all the foes Lothar had faced, only two had ever defied his rules.
Laufey, King of the Frost Giants.
And Hela, Daughter of Odin.
They were the only exceptions.
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