"You know more than I expected. But let me say this again..."
"Believers don't need to understand what they worship. They just need to believe." Victor Von Doom's dark green cloak flapped in the wind sweeping down from Norway's snow-covered mountains. He had insisted on accompanying Solomon, claiming it was to prevent any mishaps that might delay Latveria's liberation. "The stigmata is merely a vessel. Do you think I don't know about Father Molu's liturgical experiments in the Alpine monastery? Do you think I don't know about your experiments with the Spirit of Vengeance?" he said. "I know who you are. The Ancient One kept detailed records and speculations about your birth."
"That's not me, Victor. I'm human, not something others worship."
"I'm not denying that. But you must realize your power exceeds that of humanity. You may be... the final stage of human evolution—perhaps even the ultimate form of life in the universe. The Celestials' most perfect genetic creation. Otherwise, why would the Ancient One go to such lengths to shelter you?" Victor shrugged. "You were the most outstanding mystic in Kamar-Taj's history, and a master of combat. I saw your training with Mordo—ever since you were ten, you've been holding back to avoid wounding his fragile pride. Acting like a god—that's why so many choose to follow you. Their minds are too delicate. They need a spiritual anchor. And now, you've stepped into another god's twilight—you are that twilight."
"This is where we differ. I still cling to my identity as human, not anything else." Solomon stood atop a rock, overlooking the town and fjord below. The pitch-black sea lay still on the pebbled beach. Thousands of years ago, gaunt Vikings had launched longships from this very shore to unleash waves of bloodshed upon Britain. Sunlight reflected off the glacier, casting a cold gleam across Solomon's hair as the chill wind blew through it. He shook his head. "I can't believe you've become this superstitious. Are we here to visit the land of Ragnarök or to dissect my identity?"
But what Victor saw through the slits of his iron mask was not so calm.
He saw a broad-chested man, bare-chested, draped in grey wolf pelts, caked head to toe in foul, clotted blood. He radiated pure violence—so intense it felt physical. At his feet lay piles of mangled creatures. His hair was braided by his ears, his beard split into three greasy strands matted with gore. Howling wind lifted his hair, flakes of dried blood breaking off like dust. He raised his massive axe and roared down at the wooden village below, while thunder split the stacked grey clouds, arcing from a distant glacier across the fjord sky.
In the shadows beneath the gorge, clusters of flames lit up. Black-armored warriors, burning with vengeance, stood in grim silence. Their scarred armor bore witness to recent battle. Behind red lenses burned empty eyes, filled with nothing but flame. Darkness fled from their thunder and fury; fire and axe drove back the formless malice lurking behind the veil, protecting the visible world from the monsters of night.
Then he saw another man—this one clad in golden armor, wearing a laurel crown. He stood atop a cliff, his obsidian-black, slightly curled hair giving off the scent of incense and roses. Any creature that approached him in the sea of souls was incinerated by his radiant light. Behind him stood countless winged, golden-armored warriors. Their light rivaled the sun, but the glow from the man at the center was ten thousand times brighter—like a walking sun, dispelling cold but never harsh to the eyes.
There were more visions still—ones Solomon could not see, nor cared to.
For he now stood precisely at that crossroads. Those figures overlapped with him, as if viewed from a fourth-dimensional plane looking into the third. Time stretched into a single line that quickly collapsed inwards. Celestial light webs formed from shifting stars, replacing the sun. Each time Victor blinked, Solomon's image changed, surrounded by different companions. He appeared when the world demanded blood rituals for survival. He appeared when truth gave way to ignorance. Death and destruction followed him—but also thrones and palaces.
It was both past and future—a tiny slice of a much longer journey.
"You can be anything. It depends on you." Victor blinked one last time. The line had nearly fully collapsed, and Solomon now resembled the vision he had just seen. As the final illusion merged with Solomon, Victor saw him tilt his head—almost as if listening.
"This is the place of beginnings and endings. Ginnungagap lies here. The root of Yggdrasil gnawed by Níðhöggr lies here. If you truly intend to replace the Æsir, all you have to do is step beyond this rock."
Solomon glanced at him, then stepped forward.
Victor smiled.
No one could see his face, but his eyes revealed a trace of pleasure. He followed in Solomon's footsteps up the mountain path beside the town of Edda, ascending the glacier-covered ridge. Kamar-Taj's records claimed that this town once had a path leading to Hela's palace in Niflheim. Though sealed for thousands of years, the myth lived on in local folklore. Every schoolchild in the town knew the story of the root of the World Tree—once believed to lead to Niflheim.
To a trained mystic from Kamar-Taj, this meant something else. This was the main entrance to the Bifröst—not a gnarled root, but a bridge of light.
"The Asgardians were an attempt at human evolution. History has proven they took the wrong path." Solomon stood on the slick glacier, overlooking the village. Before them loomed a glacier-covered cave. Jagged stones had been smoothed over by snow and time. The groaning of ice and stone echoed endlessly—as if a lightning bolt had been trapped inside the mountain, thrashing wildly, ready to explode skyward.
"Ragnarök must come. From here on, humanity must protect itself. But I believe we can learn from Asgard's fall. As their successors, we will do better. In the distant future, when the word 'god' comes to mind, it will be humanity—not Asgard—that people think of." His voice was so cold and logical it bordered on merciless. "Victor Von Doom, this is my ultimate vision: to bury the past and let a sapling grow tall from its grave—tall enough to bear radiant fruit. Along the way, we must prune the poisonous branches and kill the invading pests. As cruel as it sounds, I need you to do this for me. In return, you will see the world you dreamed of—or rather, the world we dreamed of."
"And how do you plan to start?"
"Naturally—by digging a grave." Solomon's expression came alive. "If we're going to have a tomb, the coffin lid must be nailed shut. Resurrection isn't always a good thing, is it? As it happens, I've had a little chat with someone who very much wants Asgard to stay dead."
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