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Hela caressed his neck with her Necrosword. "Kneel down and acknowledge me as your queen."
What would be the best revenge against Death in her imprisonment?
Steal her current favorite toy and make him serve a different mistress. It would make her last few years in Hel less tedious and wound Death at the same time. And if Death truly cared for this man—if the cosmic entity was even capable of such weakness—then watching him bend the knee to someone else would be exquisite torment.
'I don't believe Death feels nothing for him.'
The traitor's scent was all over the man before her. The strangely alluring scent that had drawn her to Death in the first place.
The scent of death and power.
Another evidence was the mask on his face—it came from Death to help conceal his features. Death cherished him on some level, however small. Only he didn't know he was just another fool who would be stabbed in the back at the most convenient time for Death's amusement.
She traced the blade along his hard jawline and stroked his cheek. "Serve me while I'm imprisoned. When I leave—which I will soon—I will allow you the honor of being my Executioner."
Someone capable of shattering her Necroswords possessed the strength worthy of that title. Once she had played the Executioner for Odin, and now, she wanted Death's current apostle to fill that void for her.
It seemed like a destiny call for Death's Apostles to be Asgard's Executioners.
He grabbed the Necrosword by the tip and crushed it, opening his fist to slowly let the black dust drift slowly through his fingers like sand. "I don't know what gave you the idea I'll kneel for you."
Hela smirked. "A powerful will is what I would expect from her apostle. It will make bending you… all the more rewarding."
If he refused to bend, she would simply break him instead.
"Here's my counter-offer," he said with an infuriatingly calm voice. "I'll get you out of here by killing that old bastard. Then you'll rule Asgard for me. A sixty-forty partnership."
"You will kill… Odin?"
When he nodded without hesitation, Hela burst into laughter. She laughed until tears came out of her eyes. This was the greatest joke someone had told her. Without relying on Death's powers, she barely rivalled Odin when he was in his prime. No matter how much he had weakened with age, Odin should still not be something a youngling could casually kill.
He let out a sigh. "This should change your mind."
Hela's grin vanished. She was the Goddess of Death. She had slaughtered armies and massacred valkyries until only one of them survived. Her instincts were honed to a near-supernatural level. And right now, every bit of her combat instincts screamed at her to MOVE.
She prepared herself for an attack from any angle.
The howling wind signaled that the attack would come from the front. She saw a clenched fist coming right toward her face and tilted her head.
Or so she tried.
The fist hit her right on her cheek.
CRACK.
Multiple bones in her face cracked on impact, and she flew like a launched spear. She ripped a hole through the mountain before she hit the ground. Even then, she ungracefully and undignifiedly rolled.
She dug her fingers into the ground and stopped herself at last.
The twisted and shattered bones reform in an instant as her flesh reformed.
It didn't make her feel any better.
'How?'
She hadn't seen him twitch, much less move. The thousand-year imprisonment had made her slow and dulled her senses. Still, the attack shouldn't have taken her off-guard to this extent, when she had fully anticipated it.
How could someone move at a speed that she, the feared Goddess of Death, couldn't react to?
Hela got back to her feet and clenched a Necrosword in her hand. "It won't happen again."
"Are you sure?"
Her eyes widened. Most would've panicked at suddenly hearing the enemy's voice from behind. Hela had too much experience to be caught off-guard again.
She pivoted, swinging her right arm. A Necrosword formed in the middle of the motion, held in a reversed grip. Yet, this surprise attack failed to draw a single drop of blood.
He stopped the blade between his fingers. The strength of Odin's firstborn couldn't overpower the strength in two of his fingers.
Hela snarled and drove her left-hand Necrosword into his chest. He yanked her right wrist and held her arm above her head to spin her around. And suddenly she was pressed back-first against him.
He slid his arm around her neck, gently holding it against her skin. "How does your hair still smell like flowers? Is that an Asgardian thing, or do you have a secret garden hidden somewhere in this wasteland?"
Hela's fury spiked. She gripped his wrist and engaged muscles that could crush mountains. With every bit of her power, she tried to throw him off. Yet, she couldn't make him budge an inch. He felt immovable, which meant the power disparity between wasn't small; it was like that of an adult and a child.
"Just say if you don't like this. I don't like forcing women."
He released her with a gentle push, like she was something fragile. That kindness was another insult.
She hurled a Necrosword at his chest as she turned around. Then two more for good measure.
His hand blurred. In the next moment, she saw him standing there with all three Necroswords in his left hand.
His burning eyes glowed brighter behind the hollow sockets. "Just quit fighting. You're got more potential as a dancer."
Hela's body trembled with how much fury was contained within.
He seemed to ignore her red face and continued in a bard's voice, "I can introduce you to a club in Midgard. I'm sure my friend will pay a premium for a goth goddess."
Hela crushed her Necroswords to dust and glared at him, her chest heaving up and down. "I take it back."
"Oh?"
"I'm going to kill you."
She'd had enough of his arrogance. Not even Death had disrespected her like this.
He laughed. "You're welcome to try."
Hela manifested hundreds of Necroswords and sent them screaming at him from every conceivable angle. He moved through them as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He closed his eyes and snatched a Necrosword to deflect every single one, adding salt to her injury.
Not a single blade managed to scratch him.
Hela roared and closed the distance, manifesting twin blades in her hands for close combat. Sweeping cuts that once chopped off Valkyrie's legs were casually caught under his foot. A thrust that once cut into a Frost Beast's heart was caught between his fingers.
Anything she tried just seemed useless in front of this man.
Worse—he turned her violence into choreography.
He caught her wrist and spun her around into a graceful arc that made her look like she was performing for him.
Hela dug her heels in the ground and lunged. He sidestepped, hooked her elbow, and dipped her as if the two of them were dancing in a palace hall.
"Stiff and telegraphed," he said, using elbow to push the Necrosword aimed at his chest. "Flow, Hela. Go with the flow. It'll make you less predictable."
Hela put her hands on the ground and flipped to get away from him. "You're trying to humiliate me."
"I'm not, though," he said innocently. "You've got raw talent, but your techniques are… mediocre."
"Mediocre?"
She screamed in frustration and flung a dozen blades at him. He caught them and threw them back. She was forced to move her feet in strange patterns. When he was finished, she found herself in the center of a perfect circle made entirely by her Necroswords.
Her eyes blazed green. She raised both hands and manifested a gigantic greatsword. "This is mediocre?"
She snorted when he nodded thoughtfully. And then brought the sword down on him. It consumed far more energy than a dozen Necroswords, but she couldn't hold back in the face of such humiliation.
The greatsword, that weighed more than dragons, crashed down on him.
He put his hand up. Dust moved with the wind generated by the sword, but it never moved past his hand. It was stopped dead by one hand. "Hela, you're washed."
"WASHED?"
"Well, you've been stuck here for a long time. That's bound to dull your edges. No shame in it."
Hela abandoned her strategy entirely and attacked with pure rage. A whirlwind of blades struck faster than thought.
Yet he responded to every attack without much effort.
"Your footwork is sloppy," he commented and tapped her ankle with his boot to correct her stance. "You're putting too much weight on your front foot. Distribute it evenly."
He guided her hands to demonstrate her previous attack, but better in every way.
Hela felt her face flush with humiliation. "How did a mortal like you live to become this proficient?"
Death was a stickler for cosmic rules. She would do anything but increase someone's lifespan, even if that person was her precious. Which meant either he was deceiving her by speaking a Midgardian language or he was truly as young as his physique depicted.
He released her wrists and stepped back. "Why would I need to live long? I learned all of this in one day."
"That's impossible—"
"He is correct." Death's voice echoed across Hel, confirming his absurd claim. "My humble companion only needed one day to surpass you, my dear."
"Why would I trust you?"
"Is there a reason for me to lie?" Death chuckled. "You will never be able to defeat him."
Hela gritted her teeth, unable to deny Death. The skills he just demonstrated had dismantled her centuries of experience. And the most humiliating part was—she hadn't lost because of something Death had given him. She struggled against his skill and understanding of combat.
She lost to the mortal, not Death's Apostle. His combat skills made him untouchable.
But she was the Goddess of Death. She wouldn't fall here.
Time meant nothing and stamina even less.
Hela's lips curled into a grin. "Fight me seriously."
He shook his head. "You're just not worth killing."
That sentence set her mind.
She rushed at him and attacked. Just like last time, he guided her through improved versions of her strikes. When she attacked with brute force, he redirected her and showed her better motion and flow.
'That's how it should've been.'
And when she overcommitted, he punished the opening by making her spin and dance, then forced a step to correct her stance like an instructor correcting a student.
Her skills were "mediocre" to him, but they matched the best of the best in Asgard. Now those "mediocre" skills sharpened and improved thanks to his intentional or unintentional teaching. It was humiliating but also a valuable learning experience.
Somewhere during the first hour, anger changed to focus. He taught and brought her understanding to newer heights. In the second hour, she felt the rust of a thousand years falling off, bringing back the "Executioner" that even Odin feared. In the fourth hour, she found her body implementing the new knowledge. During the tenth hour, frustration had transformed into fascination.
By the twentieth hour, she realized how much she had been... enjoying herself. She fought in blood and sweat. She cursed at every dance he made her do. She smiled at every new lesson. She smirked at how her cells rejuvenated and danced every time they clashed.
They created a memorable performance only witnessed by two—Death and Heimdall, or so she believed.
The battle made her more passionate than the times she had led Odin's troops to slaughter.
What started as an attempt to kill Death's Apostle turned into a spar—a dance. Or perhaps a lesson delivered by someone who understood violence as art.
The last four hours of the day were a mix of serious battle and training.
Twenty four-hours passed just like that.
***
Dante yawned openly as he parried another Necrosword and flicked it into a boulder like he was discarding trash. "Still not convinced?"
He seemed exhausted. Now would be the perfect moment to push him hard and end his life.
Instead, Hela let her weapons dissolve into smoke.
"More than convinced."
She stepped closer and gently placed a hand on his masked face. The brightness in her eyes wasn't present even when she was Odin's Executioner.
"Forget Death and join me," she said in her softest and most feminine voice possible. "We will bring the cosmos to heel. Just the two us."
If she had to share power with anyone, it would be someone like him. Someone ridiculously strong and skilled. Someone who could teach her and match her. Someone who gave her the obsession to improve by constant challenge.
The only poison in the cup was Death.
It was always Death.
"No."
Hela's face fell. "You… don't desire power?"
The rejection somehow dug deeper than Death's betrayal.
He shook his head. "I won't leave Death for anything. She is my most important person."
"Companion…" Death's love-struck whisper made Hela recoil in disgust.
Hela clenched her fists. "What is your demand?"
"An agreement between you and me. No Death involved," he whispered and cupped her face, his fingers brushed her cheek gently. "If you don't agree, I'll kill Odin."
Hela didn't laugh this time. An aging Odin could barely survive if the man before her wanted Odin dead. Not even Asgard's army could stop him.
"Then I'll use my own lifeforce to extend your stay," he threatened with the voice of a lover. "Unlike Odin, I can't die. You'll be stuck here for eternity. For eternity."
Hela's wide eyes trembled. The revenge and desire to conquer had fueled her to endure a thousand years. However, she knew she wouldn't be able to survive another thousand years here. She didn't want to either.
And that would happen if Asgard never fell and the person tying their lifeforce to this prison never died.
Hela would forever be stuck here in this dead realm.
He patted her face and stepped back. "I'll return to Midgard. Give me a proper answer next time."
With such an ominous warning, he vanished.
Hela's hand—still raised where it had been touching his face—hovered in empty air.
'How did he leave?'
Odin's lifeforce had locked down this realm like a prison. No portals could be opened. Only the Bifrost could transport anyone in or out. So how had he left without it?
Then another realization dawned on her.
'He could've taken me with him.'
She had been one single request—one agreement—away from freedom.
Hela looked at her empty hand, and then at the sky. A scream of pure frustration echoed in Hel, only heard by Heimdall.
***
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