Every contestant was now required to wear a combat support monitor, a bizarre new regulation spontaneously invented by the Grandmaster, much to the confusion of every fighter.
The confusion only deepened when the official announcement was released.
"To ensure the safety of every participant to the greatest extent possible."
Seriously?
Was this a joke?
Everyone on Sakaar knew the rule of the arena: life or death on the ring was left to fate. Riches and glory belonged to the survivors. And now the very same Grandmaster who invented the gladiatorial games was suddenly concerned about the safety of his fighters?
Even the densest of warriors could smell something fishy.
Many raised their doubts, but the organizers refused to address them.
"Final interpretation of the Championship rules rests solely with the Arena."
Tired of the complaints, one of the staff members bluntly pointed at the official rulebook, shutting down all dissent.
Don't want to fight? Fine. Get out.
Faced with the faint hope of one day returning home, the exiled powerhouses stranded on Sakaar looked at each other and, begrudgingly, accepted the decision. They clipped the so-called "combat support monitor" to their ear shells.
But from the start of the qualifiers, the device didn't seem to serve any practical purpose.
People still died. Limbs were still lost.
Preliminaries. Group stages.
After two brutal rounds, only sixteen contenders advanced. Aside from Lothar, the only one granted a direct pass into the eliminations, the remaining fifteen had all clawed their way through blood and bone.
"So… what's the point of this thing, really?"
In the VIP box, Lothar stood by the window overlooking the arena, absentmindedly toying with his combat monitor. His brow furrowed in confusion.
Woz had already run a full scan on the device, it really was just a monitor. Nothing more.
"Who knows? Maybe the Grandmaster's grown a conscience and doesn't want to see any more contestants die," Hela said with a sly smirk, legs crossed, swinging her foot in a way that made Lothar's frown deepen.
He had a hunch that Hela was hiding something. But he didn't ask.
Just like he hadn't questioned how this luxurious box came to be theirs, Hela had just brought them here out of the blue.
Still… the view was spectacular.
"For example... this."
"Barcelona wins!"
Just as Hela spoke, the arena declared a victor.
The first round of the top-16 elimination matches was over. Barcelona, a contestant from Sakaar's Western wastes, had won by default after his opponent, Dronio, mysteriously collapsed. Seizing the opportunity, Barcelona crushed Dronio with a single kick, shattering his bones.
In the rematch, he made sure Dronio never stood up again.
But Lothar noticed something else—just before Dronio lost consciousness in the second round, his ear-mounted monitor suddenly released a jolt of electricity, paralyzing him completely.
Lothar arched an eyebrow. A subtle grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
Hela, meanwhile, looked down at the bearded, bellowing Barcelona with a trace of pity.
"Even the referee's on his payroll?"
"Was he fast-tracked to champion?"
The Other, cheeks puffed full of food, mumbled in concern.
Beside him, Jennifer was chatting quietly with Zora. Both were Tuskari, and after warming up to each other, they found common ground, especially now that the matches reeked of corruption.
"I don't know the full story," Zora said, glancing at Lothar, "but I did hear a rumor… That the winner of this tournament has already been decided."
"I don't know if it's him, though."
Due to her prior connection with Lothar, Zora had been assigned by the Grandmaster to stick close to him and Hela.
"Mr. Lothar, please prepare for your match," came the synthetic voice over the intercom, snapping him from his thoughts.
"It begins. The long journey," Hela yawned, bored to tears by a tournament where she already knew the outcome.
She still wasn't sure why she had agreed to stay and watch. She must've been out of her mind.
She could've been back in Asgard by now.
"Long?" Lothar murmured.
As his opponent stepped out from the contestant tunnel, Lothar shattered the VIP box's window with a single punch.
Shards of glass rained down as he plummeted into the arena, his stern face broadcast across every screen in the coliseum.
"Hey, aren't you the guy who got a free—"
Before the opponent, wielding a meteor hammer, could even finish his sentence, a beam of light pierced through his chest.
The speed of Lothar's victory left the crowd in stunned silence.
Even the judges, fully aware of the fixed outcome, didn't react in time.
Wait a minute…
With strength like that, why would anyone need to rig the match?
"Victory. The winner is—"
"Hold it."
Just as the referee was about to announce the results, Lothar cut him off.
"One by one is a waste of time."
"You all come at me together."
Standing in the center of the ring with arms crossed, Lothar looked up and calmly issued a challenge to every remaining contestant.
"Uh, Mr. Lothar…" the referee stammered. Things were quickly spinning out of control.
Especially when the crowd, already rowdy, erupted in chaotic cheers that threatened to bring down the roof.
This was supposed to be a rigged tournament. Now the supposed "champion" was tearing the script to shreds?
"You can't decide?" Lothar said, smirking with a quiet menace that made the referee's blood run cold.
"Let him fight."
The Grandmaster's voice rang in the referee's earpiece.
Without hesitation, the referee opened all fifteen contestant tunnels at once.
The coliseum exploded with thunderous roars!
Fifteen furious warriors, each feeling insulted, leapt onto the ring.
"Oh? So it begins."
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted from Lothar, sweeping through the arena like a storm. His golden hair danced in the air as a towering pillar of energy ignited around him, drowning out even the deafening crowd.
In the VIP room, the Grandmaster sat alone, resting his chin on his hand.
He finally understood.
He understood why Thanos and Odin were so protective of their offspring.
If he had a son like this, he'd be paranoid too.
Which raised a new question…
Should he upgrade Lothar's prize to a rib bone instead?
Last time, the prize was just a severed finger. But a rib… simmered into soup… with stronger divine essence...
The Grandmaster hesitated. He didn't want to part with it. But then he thought of the Collector; missing, presumed dead... and clenched his jaw, retrieving a rib bone from his vault.
...
Elsewhere in the cosmos—
The Void.
The Collector, face bruised and limping, finally made it back to his sanctum…
Sobbing uncontrollably.
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