Unfortunately, Darren never did find Asgard's royal treasury.
He'd wandered through half the shining realm, only to realize he still needed to reach a specific location to activate the map anchor point. The system was picky — it only allowed teleport anchors in "notable" areas recognized as key landmarks.
Back on Earth, he'd set up one inside Nick Fury's office at S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. So far, it was still his only working teleport point. Midtown High and Stark Tower were eligible too, but he hadn't had a chance to unlock them yet.
For now, only Fury's grumpy office could take him home.
After a while, and still no sign of Thor, Darren was approached by a few Asgardian guards. They informed him, with almost comical solemnity, that accommodations had been prepared for him.
He followed them—then stopped dead when he saw his "room."
It was a palace.
Not a guesthouse, not a villa. A palace.
And not just a temporary stay either. The guards explained that this was Asgard's gift to him — a permanent residence, given in gratitude.
Darren's first thought: No wonder these people act like gods. They live like billionaires who've never seen a price tag.
Asgard wasn't just rich — it was insanely, irresponsibly rich.
...
The next morning, Thor descended from the sky in a clap of thunder, landing at Darren's doorstep, Mjolnir spinning lazily in his hand.
"All done?" Darren asked, sipping his drink.
Thor nodded gravely. "Father has awakened. He knows everything. Loki has been sentenced to one hundred years in the dungeons."
Darren raised an eyebrow. "A full century, huh? That's… quite a stretch."
To mortals, a hundred years meant a lifetime. But to the long-lived Asgardians, it was more like an extended timeout. A stern slap on the wrist — but still, better than execution.
Thor sighed, shoulders heavy. "He wasn't always like this. I don't know what made him change so much."
Darren patted him on the shoulder. "Probably just a rebellious phase. Every kid needs discipline. Try a good shock therapy — literally."
Thor blinked. "Electricity? You think that would work?"
"Of course. Look at you. One good zap from me back then and you've been clear-headed ever since."
Thor's mouth twitched. "…That's debatable."
He hesitated, then asked, "And if one shock doesn't work?"
Darren smiled. "Then you keep shocking until it does."
Thor paused thoughtfully, as if seriously considering the plan. "I see. Yes… that makes sense."
Darren gave him a look. "Please tell me that was a joke."
But Thor's expression was dead serious.
Before Darren could stop him, Thor's eyes lit up again. "Right! I almost forgot why I came! Tonight, the Royal Palace is hosting a grand feast. You must join us, my friend!"
"Sure," Darren said without hesitation. "Sounds fun."
Besides, the Royal Palace was exactly where his system's map wanted him to go. A feast was just a nice bonus.
"Oh, one more thing," Thor said, scratching his head. "Yesterday — did you happen to see the Casket of Ancient Winters or Gungnir?"
Darren blinked innocently. "No idea. Maybe Loki swiped them before his arrest?"
Thor opened his mouth to reply, then froze. His gaze shifted past Darren — to a corner of the room.
There, gleaming under a shaft of morning light, sat two very familiar artifacts.
"The Casket! And… Gungnir!" Thor's voice cracked.
Darren followed his gaze, stared for two seconds, then slapped his thigh in mock fury. "That damn Loki! Even in prison, he's still framing me! The trickster god indeed!"
Thor just stood there, expression unreadable. No, my friend, he thought. You are the trickster now.
In the end, Thor reclaimed both relics. Darren couldn't keep them anyway — system rules forbade storing certain divine artifacts. Their power was locked behind bloodline conditions: only a Frost Giant or the rightful heir to Asgard's throne could wield them.
The Destroyer had been a different story. Once defeated, it became recognized as a legitimate "loot drop." Artifacts like Gungnir, though? No such luck.
...
That evening, Darren made his way to the Royal Palace — the heart of Asgard itself.
If the rest of the realm had been impressive, this place was downright obscene.
The palace was a mountain of gold. Columns carved from solid aurum stretched toward a vaulted ceiling that shimmered like the inside of a treasure chest. The very floors reflected the chandeliers above like liquid sunlight. Even the guards' armor gleamed brighter than Darren's entire bank account.
If opulence were a religion, the Royal Palace was its cathedral.
And in that moment, Darren finally understood why Asgardians were so proud — they literally couldn't see poverty through all the shine.
He was considering the moral implications of robbing just one hallway when three very familiar figures appeared ahead — the Warriors Three.
Darren sighed. These guys again.
They were inseparable, like a trio of buff magnets glued together by divine stupidity.
"Darren!" Fandral greeted, grinning ear to ear. "Come! We were just heading to the feast!"
The trio surrounded him in good spirits, dragging him along through the endless halls.
It took nearly half an hour — winding turns, grand staircases, and enough corridors to make a Minotaur homesick — before they reached the banquet hall.
Without a map (or these three bumbling guides), Darren would've been lost in that gilded maze for eternity.
He muttered, "How does Thor not get lost in here?"
"He used to," Fandral said thoughtfully.
Darren raised an eyebrow. "In the palace?"
Volstagg nodded gravely. "No. In his own bedroom."
Darren stared. "…I have no words."
...
At last, they arrived.
The grand golden doors swung open, revealing a hall so lavish it could've fed ten realms for a decade. Long tables groaned under the weight of food and drink, laughter echoing beneath crystal chandeliers.
Asgardians loved their liquor. Everyone — warriors, nobles, even the palace maids — held a bottle or a goblet.
The moment the Warriors Three entered, they made a beeline for the nearest casks.
"Skál!" Volstagg bellowed, downing his first cup in one gulp.
"Good drink!" cried Fandral, before shattering his cup on the floor with a grin. Hogun followed suit.
The sharp crack of breaking glass rang through the hall — apparently, in Asgard, smashing cups was tradition once you drank your fill.
Darren eyed the shards littering the golden tiles. Someone selling cups here must be richer than Odin himself.
"Darren!" Volstagg called, patting his stomach. "Come, drink with us!"
Darren smiled faintly. "I don't drink."
The hall went silent for a beat. Then the big man roared with laughter. "A warrior who doesn't drink? Impossible! You insult Asgard's honor!"
"Tell you what," Darren said, squinting. "I do have one bottle I'm willing to share. If you three can finish it, I'll drink with you."
"Only one bottle?" Fandral scoffed. "Make it a hundred!"
"I drink mead like water!" Hogun added, puffing his chest.
"Ha! I'll finish it myself!" Volstagg declared proudly.
Ten minutes later —
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The mighty Warriors Three lay slumped over the table, snoring like thunder gods with full bellies.
Darren smirked, pocketing his gleaming Infinity Flask — a bottomless bottle that refilled itself after every pour, the liquor inside changing each time.
One sip could be dwarven ale. The next, celestial brandy. And together? A chemical nightmare even gods couldn't handle.
Good thing Asgardians had divine constitutions. If they'd been mortal, those three would've been in an emergency room faster than you could say "alcohol poisoning."
Darren leaned back, surveying the glittering hall — the laughter, the golden walls, the mountain of food.
Asgard truly was wealth incarnate. Every breath here smelled of luxury and arrogance.
And for the first time, he thought — maybe this place suited him just fine.