Hela's POV
After wrapping up the internal squabble with the two-and-a-half voices in my head (one of them being my ego, which deserves its own zip code), I turned my attention back to the bald sorceress across from me.
"Unfortunately, no one freed me," I said with a smile that was only about 30% smug. "I did it myself. And if you're as wise as your reputation suggests, you should be able to figure out how."
It wasn't exactly complicated, unless you were some mortal peasant still trying to figure out how microwaves work.
Possessing someone's body isn't something new to beings like me. As a dimension lord, Hela could've brute-forced her way in through brute possession or something akin to Dreamwalking. But that's messy. Loud. Inelegant.
The Ancient One gave a slow nod, no visible surprise on her face. "Yes. I saw your Astral Body earlier—before Jean gave up the reins."
Ah. So she was watching. Creepy.
She sipped her tea, probably brewed with some Himalayan herbs and a splash of existential dread. Not as good as expected, to be honest. "While most can achieve basic projection with guided meditation, your case is... different. But the Hela I know? Hard to imagine her meditating."
Ouch. Fair, but ouch. The thought of old Hela sitting cross-legged? Yeah, no. More likely to stab the candle and declare war on aromatherapy—unless it was Hela the goddess of life, which is just another breed.
Still, I'm the only one allowed to insult me. Everyone else gets one free pass and then we start amputating limbs. "You're underestimating me, Sorcerer Supreme. It's just astral projection. I'm an Aspect of Death—I have absolute control over my soul. If I couldn't do this, what would even be the point of my existence?"
She didn't flinch. Not even a twitch at my well-crafted nonsense.
Some people are born immune to sarcasm. Others meditate until they achieve total immunity. The Ancient One was clearly in the second category.
The worst part? I couldn't hear her thoughts. Not unless I forced it, and that would've screamed 'desperate' louder than a vampire in a tanning salon.
Then she spoke—calmly, clearly, and unexpectedly with some doubt.
"I gazed so long into the branches of what could be, I may have missed the root growing in plain sight."
...Was that an apology? Did I just pull off Bullshit-no-Jutsu on the Ancient One? Maybe I should start selling spiritual advice. First session's free, second session costs your soul.
"Ahem," I coughed, dramatically. "This wasn't just a tea invite, was it?"
My expectation is a whole 'You're an outsider, you're dangerous, you disrupt the sacred timeline' cliché. But instead, she gave me... this. Tea. Candor. A weird vibe like we were both pretending this wasn't a cosmic HR meeting.
See, here's the thing. I sometimes refer to the original Hela as someone else. Like she's a different entity. But truth be told, I feel like she's me. Or I'm her. Or we're both something else entirely, although I don't know how to explain it due to the existence of my past life. I'm probably not at the level where I could explain all this nonsense.
The Ancient One took another sip, as if reading my thoughts—but not really. Just matching my dramatic energy. "No, this meeting was simply to understand you better. To see if you're involved with what's happening. And... to see who you are."
Touching. Almost sweet. If she had been a sexy gothic librarian instead, I might've started flirting.
Unfortunately, the Ancient One is about as flirt-proof as a brick wall wrapped in enlightenment. There is no rizz here. Only vibes and bald wisdom.
People like her are the worst to deal with. The type that wears their emotions like a blank canvas—utterly unreadable.
You could confess your deepest secrets or tell a joke about a necromancer's dating life, and she'd blink at you the same way: as if mentally filing you under 'mildly disappointing.'
"Since you want to know me better," I said, giving her my most charming grin—one I usually save for seduction, manipulation, or both, "then I think it's time we got personal. In fact, why don't you get to know me in my real body? The realest me."
Her expression didn't change. Stone-faced, like I'd just offered her a grocery coupon instead of something sensual and dangerous.
If anything, she gave me a look that screamed, 'Good try, young girl'—which was ironic considering I was older than her by at least seven reincarnations and a nervous breakdown.
Right. That wasn't going to work.
Time to try a different angle.
"I'm serious now," I said, dropping the sass. "My actual body is covered in Runes—ancient stuff, branded by the All-Father himself. I could really use your help breaking them. They're not just decorative. They hum with judgment."
To be fair, Runes might scream Asgard-exclusive club, but that's a lie. Wanda used Wards in WandaVision, Strange throws around runes like magical confetti, and the Ancient One? She practically wrote the syllabus on mystical linguistics.
If there's anyone who could peel off Odin's magical duct tape before he notices—and do it without triggering a realm-wide diplomatic incident—it's her.
But no. She shook her head slowly, calmly, like a professor informing you that you failed a test you didn't even know you took.
"I have an accord with Odin," she said, voice as soft and firm as a guillotine. "He shall not interfere with Earthly matters without cause. In turn, I do not involve myself in Asgardian affairs—unless they directly threaten this realm."
Ah. Interdimensional neutrality. Cosmic politics. Magical red tape. Classic.
It explained everything. Sort of. Or maybe not at all.
I mean, let's be honest—during Thor: The Dark World, Odin didn't lift a finger even when Dark Elves were redecorating London with antimatter.
The Ancient One didn't intervene in Ragnarok either, even though Asgard was collapsing like a drunk's poker game. So clearly, everyone's pact of non-involvement is more about convenience than cosmic law.
Still. Who was I to complain? Just another pawn stuck in a body not my own.
And no—I didn't press the issue. Didn't try to charm her, guilt her, or unleash my now-trademark Bullshit-no-Jutsu. Mostly because I knew it wouldn't work. Even if Naruto himself—one of the founders of that sacred jutsu—showed up in person and begged on both knees, the Ancient One wouldn't flinch.
Well… maybe Hiruzen Sarutobi could. I mean, the man convinced a literal son to assassinate his own mother and father. Talk about silver-tongued devils. Sometimes I wonder who among the three of us—me, Naruto, or Hiruzen—is truly the best at manipulation.
But I digress.
"That's fair," I finally said with a shrug. "In that case, do you have any books on Rune theory? Preferably the comprehensive kind. Oh, and throw in a few texts in dead languages no one's managed to decipher. I've got time to kill and I'm dangerously close to becoming a cryptographer out of spite."
In fact, I don't doubt I will because of that reward I have stocked in the system. It's just that I'm in Jean's body, and that reward is more about bloodline—so if I receive it, it may stay in Jean's body when I return to mine.
After all, just because I'm not a poker-faced menace like her doesn't mean my thoughts are an open book. Quite the opposite, really—I come off as the kind of gal who genuinely doesn't have a plan.
Must be one of those strange Asgardian perks. When your culture considers Odin—a man who solved family disputes with exile and lightning bolts—as the wisest among us, you know you're cooked.
But this time, she gave me exactly the response I was fishing for.
"Kamar-Taj never refuses a willing learner," she said, calm and authoritative, with just a hint of that mystical HR manager tone. "But the books you're interested in… they're dangerous. Prohibited. And frankly, for someone at your level, that doesn't make sense."
Ah. There it is.
She continued, "Besides, some of these books are in an older language—one that only a handful of people alive can even comprehend."
Now that stinks of power. Real, ancient, probably-comes-with-a-curse-if-you-mispronounce-a-vowel kind of power.
Sounds like something tied to the Elder Gods—those prehistoric, god-tier magic junkies who showed up when the Earth was still cooling.
Chthon, Gaea, Set… names that scream, 'Mess around and find out.' These beings didn't just dabble in magic—they were the original creators of it, birthed by the Demiurge itself, a cosmic fever dream that said, 'What if Earth had lore?'
Chthon in particular? The guy practically invented dark magic, wrote the damn Darkhold like it was his weekend journal, and kicked off an entire genre of chaos.
Every cursed object, hexed artifact, or demon-possessed ventriloquist dummy can probably trace its spiritual roots back to him.
And Gaea—who, in at least one delightfully incestuous universe, is the literal mother of Thor after knocking boots with Odin—well, she's a whole buffet of divine contradictions. Earth goddess, Elder God, fertility icon, part-time baby factory. Multitasking icon, really.
So yeah, theoretically, all magic—runes, wards, the kind that makes you explode into crows—can trace its heritage back to these ancient powerhouses.
But of course, being Marvel characters, they get nerfed whenever someone with a cape and screen time needs a win.
"It's okay," I told her, feigning the kind of patience I haven't truly felt since coming into this world. "I've got all the time in the world, being technically immortal and currently unemployed."
She nodded slowly, as if acknowledging not just my words, but the existential dread laced beneath them.
"If it keeps you occupied and buys Earth a bit of peace, I suppose that's a fair trade."
Oh, so she can joke. That confirms it—her earlier comment must've been sarcasm. Dry, understated, painfully British sarcasm (AN: Nothing against Brit readers, I think you'll understand my joke).
Though her accent's faker than a stage magician's mustache. Still, I respect the effort. Not everyone can pull off the 'tea and nuclear spells' vibe.
She rose from her chair with the elegant stiffness of someone who's held power long enough to get bored of it, and left the room without another word.
I considered entertaining myself with a little light mischief in her absence—rearranging furniture into summoning circles, maybe—but decided against it. I'm over 5,000 years old and I have some dignity to maintain.
For now, like a certain death god with killer glass once said: everything is going according to plan.
I've got the Space Stone. I've got a backdoor to freedom. The only thing missing is the actual freedom—something America swears it stands for, unless you're inconvenient, powerful, or don't look good in red, white, and blue.
Now, if I return to Hel, it'll take more than a weekend getaway to return. Even with the Space Stone, opening consistent portals between realms takes focus—and I've got kingdom-building on the itinerary. Which, as it turns out, is more paperwork than you'd think.
First comes recruiting. Mutants, humans, and other beautifully broken souls with nowhere to go but up—or sideways, depending on how chaotic we get.
I'll need to personally supervise them for a while. If left unsupervised, they'd probably burn down Hel, elect a lizard as mayor, and start worshipping a toaster. Not that I'd mind the chaos—it is sort of my thing—but structure helps. At least at the beginning.
Then comes expansion. I need a few 'nodes'—interdimensional access points scattered across the universe like cosmic bus stops.
One of them has to be on Earth, naturally. Preferably in a place no one questions strange lights, loud music, or corpses in the back alley.
I'm thinking a bar. Something grimy but cozy. A place where the living and the dead can mingle over cocktails and poorly made nachos. I'll call it Dead End Bar. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
After all, if I'm going to build a kingdom of misfits, monsters, and magical rejects, I might as well give them a place to get drunk while they plan world domination.
And me? I'll be right at the center of it—queen of the damned, architect of my own freedom, and troll people by being bartender to the multiverse from time to time.
All according to the (nonexistent) plan.
The Ancient One returned with a stack of books so old they probably predated her baldness. If dust could carry malice, these tomes were plotting something. They radiated the kind of ominous aura that made one wonder if they needed an exorcist—or a tetanus shot.
Still, credit where it's due. Game recognize game. And right now? I was being handed the cheat codes by the boss herself.
My eyes caught on one particular volume—black as a void and humming with energy that screamed, 'Don't open me unless you're into tentacles and trauma.' It looked suspiciously like the Heavenly Book from Martial Peak, except this one probably wouldn't help me ascend realms so much as condemn me to one.
But hey, power's power. Even if it comes with a little casual damnation.
"Thanks," I said, though what I meant was, I'll try not to burn a hole through reality with these. She gave a subtle nod—somewhere between approval and please get the hell off my lawn.
To keep them safe, I summoned another spatial application of the Space Stone. Think less Doctor Strange, more Jinchūriki—but instead of demons, I was stuffing forbidden knowledge into a void-pouch inside Jean's belly. Stylish, efficient, horrifying. Just the way I like it.
As the final book vanished into storage, I met her eyes again. Her expression hadn't changed, but I could swear I heard her soul whisper: Can you please just... fuck off of Earth? Maybe my imagination?
"I'll be leaving in a week like I promised," I said, answering a question she never asked. "Taking anyone who wants out. That also includes Jean and Wanda. After that, I'll be off-Earth for a while. Try not to go AFK before then, alright? I really don't want to deal with your successor. He's got that smug 'I read Nietzsche once' energy."
That got her. For the first time since our meeting, her face shifted—not anger, not fear, but surprise. That look alone was worth the trip. Nothing like telling someone who manipulates time that you already read the spoilers.
And because villains should never overstay their exit, I vanished. No puff of smoke, no cape flourish. Just gone. Let the silence explain the rest.
Cool exits are important. Style matters. And besides… if you don't leave a little unnerved silence behind, did you even villain properly?
END OF THE PROLOGUE
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