For a spectacle of this magnitude, only one location was sufficient: the plaza before the United Nations Headquarters.
The Security Council, representing over two hundred nations, was "invited" to witness the final judgment of the Jotun King. There were, predictably, voices of dissent—Gambia being the most vocal—but a swift visit from the Dark Angels and a series of "kinetic consultations" ensured that every head of state was present, seated in the front row like chastened schoolchildren.
The image of the Astartes had become synonymous with the supernatural in the eyes of the global elite. It mattered not if a leader hid in a lead-lined bunker or a deep-sea facility; the metal-clad giants would simply tear through the bulkhead and drag them out like frightened livestock.
As the world watched via global satellite link, the flags of the old nations were lowered. In their place rose the banners of the Imperium: the double-headed Aquila, the iron skull of the Mechanicus, and the crimson sigils of the Black Watch.
The sky darkened as a massive shadow drifted over Manhattan. The Blade-class frigate, a gothic masterpiece of Void-warfare developed by Weyland, made its terrestrial debut. Its hull was a cathedral of ceramite and steel, bristling with macro-cannon batteries and a prow-mounted Lance Strike array that dwarfed the surrounding skyscrapers. To the billions watching, it was not merely a ship; it was a floating testament to human dominance.
With the rhythmic, heavy thud of magnetic boots, the Dark Angels escorted Laufey from the frigate's landing ramp.
The King of the Frost Giants, who had once used the planet's own broadcast networks to stream the slaughter of millions, was now a hollowed-out husk. Stripped of his limbs and his dignity, his eyes were glassy voids, staring at the pavement he had hoped to conquer.
The crowd gathered at the perimeter erupted. Thousands of people, many holding white flowers in memory of those lost in the invasion, roared with a fury that shook the very foundations of the plaza.
"Kill him!" "Blood for blood!"
A herald of the Black Watch stepped forward, his voice amplified by his vox-grille to a deafening volume. He began the reading of the scrolls: a thousand counts of xenos aggression, the murder of innocents, and the ultimate sin—worshipping false idols and heretical powers.
According to the ancient Lex Imperialis, Laufey was secured to a specialized execution pyre and coated in a thick, viscous layer of white phosphorus.
FWOOSH.
The phosphorus ignited, a brilliant, searing white flame that instantly began to melt Laufey's frost-hardened flesh. The King, who had spent his immortality in the absolute zero of Jotunheim, let out a scream of such high-pitched agony that it cracked the nearby windows.
Death would not be swift. The Dark Angels were masters of biological preservation; they knew exactly how to maintain a creature's life-signs while it endured the unendurable.
According to Imperial custom, a high-ranking xenos criminal was sentenced to three days of the "Cleansing Flame." The fire was forbidden to extinguish, and the condemned was forbidden to die until they had fully repented to the God-Emperor within the inferno.
The humans in the crowd didn't turn away. They cheered with a fanatical, terrifying joy. This was the strength they had craved while they were being hunted in the streets.
Watching from the sidelines, Nick Fury felt a cold realization settle in his chest. He looked at the faces of the world leaders—men and women who had spent their lives debating borders and treaties—now trembling under the shadow of a starship.
They won't follow the UN anymore, Fury thought. They won't follow the U.S. They will follow the man who gave them the blood of their enemies.
At this moment, the name Merlin Emrys had transcended the concept of nationality. He was the voice of a species.
Asgard, The Eternal City
While the fires burned in New York, the Bifrost carried a different party to the Realm Eternal. Asgard was a continent suspended in the void, a place of cascading celestial rivers and golden spires that defied the laws of physics.
"The architecture is... impressive," Emrys remarked as he strolled along the Bifrost Bridge, his eyes tracing the impossible geometry of the palace. "Tell me, Allfather, what power sustains a world built upon the vacuum of space?"
"The source is the Yggdrasil, the World Tree," Odin replied, walking beside Emrys with a diplomatic smile. He moved with the grace of an old lion, careful to maintain the mask of an ally. "If the scenery pleases you, you are welcome here. Perhaps you could continue your... tutelage of Thor. He remains tragically naive."
"I would be honored," Emrys replied, his smile equally sharp.
Behind them, Thor and Loki walked in silence, followed by a limping, bandaged Heimdall.
Thor scratched his head, leaning toward Loki. "Brother... how can they chat like this? An hour ago, Father was ready to strike him down, and now they look like two merchants discussing the price of grain."
Odin's grip on Gungnir tightened, his knuckles whitening. He was seriously considering if the Odinsleep had been too short, or if he should simply have exiled Thor to a quieter planet.
"There are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests," Loki whispered, his voice dripping with condescension. "Father knows he cannot kill a man who has no fear of death and a fleet at his back. To kill Emrys is to invite a war that Asgard might lose. To make him a friend is to survive. Try to keep up, you oaf."
THWACK.
Thor cuffed Loki over the head. "I knew that. I was testing you, little brother."
Odin sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of ages. "My sons will likely be a continued burden on your patience, Merlin."
"It is no trouble at all," Emrys laughed, though his eyes were already scanning the golden halls for anything of value.
Emrys stopped near the palace gates, rubbing his hands together with the practiced greed of a man who held a Warrant of Trade. "But since we are here, and since the 'tutelage' of your heirs has been so... intensive... perhaps we should discuss the matter of reparations and trade agreements?"
He was, after all, a Rogue Trader. The massacre of an alien race was merely the opening act; the real work was the closing of the deal.