"We've arrived, Lord Lothar."
Svartalfheim, coordinates 213.646. Above the darkened sky, warships blotted out the sun, casting immense shadows over the land. The people living below looked up, their eyes filled with bewilderment.
Why were foreign ships hovering above their hidden refuge?
Had they lost the war?
The tribespeople exchanged uneasy glances. In each other's eyes, they saw the same expression—undeniable shock.
This was one of the most concealed places in all of Svartalfheim. Unless Malekith's forces had completely collapsed, no outsider should've been able to find them.
"A hidden enclave?" Lothar murmured.
The tribal layout matched Ora's description perfectly—many elders, many women, and few young warriors.
And yet, was this truly where the king of the Dark Elves, Malekith, had chosen to dwell?
Lothar frowned. He leapt from the warship's hatch, landing effortlessly at the entrance of the settlement. Behind him descended Hela, her black sword cushioning her fall. Her obsidian hair danced in the wind, instantly putting the entire tribe on high alert.
"Daughter of Odin!!"
Her name alone struck a chord. Even though these people had long been cut off from the rest of the realms, Hela's reputation from the War of the Nine Realms still echoed here. She was not unknown.
"Malekith! Come out." Lothar's voice rang out as he folded his arms, scanning the surroundings. Every syllable radiated power and presence, making the villagers exchange uncertain looks.
Malekith?
That extremist?
If he dared show his face here, they'd gladly show him what it meant to be flayed alive.
"Malekith does not reside here," a voice answered sternly. "This is the resting place of our true Dark Elf king. I advise you—no, I warn you—leave now."
"Or face the consequences."
Five middle-aged warriors, the only such figures in the village, exchanged glances. The one at the front raised a long spear, issuing a direct threat.
"What did you say?" Lothar tilted his head and called out, "The Other."
"Yes, Prince Lothar!" From the ship above, The Other, holding his staff, responded eagerly. With a wave of his hand, he kicked a tightly bound Ora off the edge of the platform.
"Off you go!"
Thud!
"Ugh… Cough, cough…"
A cloud of dust erupted as Ora crashed down hard, wincing in pain. The Other casually hoisted her up and dragged her before Lothar.
"Quit pretending. I kicked you in the gut, so why are you holding your butt?"
"You—!"
"Ora?!"
Ora's fury flared, but before she could speak, a powerful arm wrapped around her throat—an all-too-familiar presence she instantly recognized.
"Ora!"
One of the middle-aged warriors recognized her immediately. His expression turned vicious. Black mist surged around him, and in the blink of an eye, black-and-silver armor cloaked his body.
Zing!
A pulse of energy shot from Lothar's fingertips, piercing straight through the man's chest. The intricately forged armor shattered across the ground.
"That's your defense?" Lothar sneered.
With no effort at all, he tightened his grip, admiring the panic on Ora's face as she struggled in his grasp.
"Pitiful."
A cold gleam lit up Lothar's eye. "Hanging your hopes on a pack of weaklings… is laughable."
"That's enough, young man."
A gentle energy pulsed from within the village. At its touch, Lothar's hand reflexively loosened, and Ora collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.
"If you leave now, I'll pretend this never happened," said the voice.
An ancient figure stepped forward, leaning on a cane, his voice hoarse and weathered. Though aged, his presence commanded attention—and put Lothar instantly on guard.
He could feel it—a tremendous, latent threat.
"My King?!"
"Why have you come out?!"
The four remaining warriors froze, panic overtaking their anger as they rushed to shield the elder.
"King? That's Malekith?" Lothar glanced at the figure, then instinctively compared him to the illusion of Malekith he had seen at the Asgardian outpost. There was no resemblance whatsoever.
"Don't look at me," Hela said coolly, equally perplexed. "I'm Asgardian, not from Svartalfheim."
"You must be the little girl Odin used to keep by his side…" the elder murmured as he looked at her. "How time flies… Cough, cough…"
"Who are you?" Lothar asked.
"That man is the true King of the Dark Elves," Ora said, rising slowly to her feet, purple eyes blazing with fury. "Malekith… that traitor… seized the throne after his resurrection. A usurper."
Her words caught Lothar's attention. His eyebrows arched slightly.
"Now that's interesting…"
"A royal coup, is it?"
"Young man," the elder said gently, "if Ora brought you here, it must be because she believes you possess the strength to defeat Malekith. But listen to me—leave while you still can."
"Malekith of Svartalfheim is on the brink of true resurrection. Soon, the Nine Realms will be swallowed in darkness. His playground. No one—not Asgard, not even Odin—can stop him."
The elder's warning came between fits of coughing. His face flushed unnaturally red, and blood spurted from his mouth, sending everyone around him into a frenzy.
"No, my King!" Ora shouted. "This man… he crushed Velruz, the God of Death and War, as if he were nothing! I saw it with my own eyes!"
"He can defeat Malekith—I'm certain!"
She knelt before the elder, her back to Lothar, and offered her conviction with unwavering respect.
"God of Death and War?" the elder repeated, chuckling as he shook his head.
"That beast's true name is Dark Battle Deathdramon. It's not a god, just a relic—one of the bioweapons our ancestors bred in the ancient age."
"A mass-producible living weapon, nothing more."
This elder—second in age only to Malekith himself—had long pursued peace for his people. He had secretly raised twelve elite warriors to uphold the Dark Elves' royal line. As a child, he once raised a Deathdramon himself, but the creature starved to death shortly after hatching due to poor care.
"Young man," the elder looked at Lothar, his voice kind yet firm. "You don't belong in this world. Don't throw your life away for nothing. Leave."
Then, turning toward him, cane in hand, he met Lothar's eyes.
"What's your name?" Lothar asked, eyes narrowing.
"…Zion," the elder rasped, coughing up blood once more.
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