(AN: Oh no, another review ^_^
Wait for me brother, I shall cook the Chappie faster for you... Say thanks to Lord_Hastur for this bonus chappie.
PS: There was a comment that before SSJ, Vegeta already has planet destroying strength so the restriction on the template will further be locked by yours truly. Besides asking permission to unlock, another will be added. His emotions, similar to how saiyans became SSJ through intense emotions. Enjoy!)
Seven Days in Hell
When Elias sent them away.
The Generals—Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Bruce Banner were deposited onto the rooftop of Mercy Hospital, sirens wailing below, the city already lost.
The system's verdict was mercilessly clear:
[Hold the rooftop for seven days.
No extraction. No assistance.
Failure meant erasure of authority.]
Below them stretched a world drowning in infected individuals.
The dead did not stay dead.
From the very first hour, the horde came for them.
The infected swarmed relentlessly—normal infected flooding stairwells while Special Infected turned the rooftop into a rotating nightmare.
Smokers dragged Bruce(not yet Hulk) toward the ledge—until Natasha severed the tongue mid-pull.
Hunters struck from above, forcing Steve into constant motion, shield never leaving his hand.
Boomers turned the rooftop slick with bile, summoning waves that nearly broke their formation.
Tanks climbed the building itself, tearing chunks from concrete as if it were paper.
That's when Bruce let Hulk hold the line for as long as possible.
The Hulk smashed Tanks off the building… and when the day is finally over, leaving Bruce shaking, exhausted, and frustrated.
Why? Because their rest is only brief, when it gets dark the infected calms down without reason.
But when the first light turns on they immediately rushes to that direction or the very first noise they hear.
And the generals? They learned that the hard way when there was tensions about the decision to leave the Tesseract.
Truth be told, it was Steve's idea supported by Natasha and Bruce. Tony for his part took his time to think about it before agreeing.
Now though? He was certainly complaining and venting out his regret ever agreeing to the plan.
It definitely wasn't because he fared worst, no. That was just the icing on the cake.
By Day Three, his arc reactor was failing.
By Day Four, the suit locked him out.
On Day Five, Iron Man died.
Tony Stark survived.
He fought in torn armor plating, repurposed repulsors welded into makeshift traps, shoulder-deep in infected blood, shouting callouts while Steve dragged him out of a Smoker's grip.
Natasha became the knife in the dark—silent, lethal, conserving bullets.
They stopped talking about the days after
Day Two.
They counted sunsets instead.
On the seventh day, the horde broke.
Not because the infected ran out—
—but because the Generals refused to fall.
When Elias returned to the Tower, Mercy Hospital in another universe was quiet.
And every single one of them understood the lesson.
.
.
.
Meanwhile
Back when time froze.
The world held its breath.
Clint Barton moved anyway.
While the others were punished through survival, Clint was given clarity.
The scepter's trace was faint—masked, layered, intentionally obscured Hydra hands.
They were clever.
But Clint was not chasing just the scepter, he was also chasing Hydra itself. Recording every personel's name that came up.
With time frozen around him, Clint moved through SHIELD facilities like a ghost through glass.
Consoles paused mid-keystroke.
Agents stood frozen mid-step.
Every clearance card, every personnel file, every secured hallway told the same story.
Hydra hadn't infiltrated SHIELD.
They were SHIELD.
Names piled up.
Strike Team designations. Logistics officers. Analysts. Directors. Field commanders.
Each file opened, copied, recorded.
Yet, it clearly wasn't everything, the records suggests more outside of SHIELD.
Halfway through he was in disbelief, how many good men does SHIELD have left?
But focusing back to his task, he knew what prioritize first. He doesn't like the vacation time Elias was proposing to another world or was it universe?
Anyway you describe it, he just would very much like to stay on earth where his family was, that was enough for him.
The HYDRA tracks vanished and reappeared—intentionally routed through safehouses, shell teams, and dead drops meant to mislead anyone less patient.
Clint followed anyway.
He took stairwells instead of elevators, why would anyone with a good sense try the elevator when time clearly stopped running.
Marked paths Hydra wanted him to follow—and then ignored them.
Three dead ends.
Two false handoffs.
One empty vault staged to look recently cleared.
Then he saw it.
The STRIKE team, frozen mid-extraction.
They were in a secure underground bay—quinjets waiting, crates half-loaded, weapons armed and ready to shoot at any sign of trouble.
Their body language told the truth even in stillness.
They were leaving.
And they had what he was looking for.
Clint approached the lead STRIKE operative slowly and took the case.
It was heavier than it should've been.
He opened it just to check.
The glow spilled out immediately—cold, invasive, unmistakable.
The scepter.
Not a decoy.
Not a shard.
The real thing.
He brings out a bag he prepared before and put the scepter in.
Clint closed the case, return it to the HYDRA soldier, put a tracker on the case and the quinjet, then ran away and didn't look back.
Clint moved as fast as he could.
Back through corridor wass already mapped.
Through routes only he had meBmorized.
The bag never left his grip as he sprinted across frozen rooftops and silent streets, every step measured, every breath steady.
He reached the room in the Stark Tower where Arthas appeared in front of them.
Elias was still frozen in time while Arthas made himself comfortable sitting on a throne made of ice.
That wasn't there before but at this point in time, after aliens, time freezing, the multiverse, multiple realities and worlds, his head was already spinning.
Why would a throne of ice matter now?
Clint set the scepter inside the bag down carefully, clearly tired mentally.
Then he stepped back, waited for his judgement.
.
.
.
Before Clint arrived
Elias reappeared where he had been frozen when time stopped running.
He summoned his Avatar, Arthas Menethil beside him.
He piloted the Avatar character template and his real self returned to it's frozen form.
Frostmourne appeared in his grasp, its runes glowing with a cold that made the air itself recoil.
The sword sang softly, eagerly, as if pleased to be home in a world that did not yet understand death, but most importantly to it's wielder's hands.
Arthas raised the blade and drove it into the concrete floor.
Ice surged outward in an instant then a small version of the Frozen Throne erupted from the floor itself.
Arthas sat.
Not stiffly.
Not ceremoniously.
He settled into the throne as if it had always been his.
Only then did he read the system prompts he's been receiving.
[Congratulations for getting your right-hand.
You have received the full reward:
Arthas Menethil – Avatar Character Template!]
If this was still the very first time he received reward from the system, he might have complained and maybe Kickstarted some absurd objective with inevitable consequences.
But this time, it was no longer the case.
He was calm. He was analyzing what he must keep in mind not do casually, and what he necessary need to do.
Not for the greater good, not because of heroism, but because it was the right thing to do as human.
The system still have new prompts he needs to read.
[It has been detected that the host's Right-hand has already surpassed his master. And it might attract unwanted attention from hidden beings.]
The first sentence hit harder than any blade somehow. The second sentence brought him dread and concern, luckily the system doesn't seem eager to rid of him.
[Therefore, to hide your diminutive force before the eyes of higher beings, a restriction has been added to Loki's strength. It can only be lifted by your permission or his intense emotions.]
[Nevertheless, he remains planetary level—which the host, with all his power, barely scraped the surface of.]
I'm sorry what? Elias asked.
Silence followed.
A new panel unfolded before him.
[Please take a look at the following Tiers and where you stand currently.
Power Tier Levels
Nuclear Tiers:
Street Level
Urban Level
Town Level
City Level (Host's current standing)
Tectonic Tiers:
Island Level
Country Level
Continental Level
Substellar Tiers:
Moon Level
Planetary Level (Loki's current standing while restricted)
Dwarf Star Level
Stellar Tiers:
Star Level
Solar System Level
Multi-Solar System Level
Cosmic Tiers:
???
Multiversal Tiers:
???
Omniversal Tiers:
??? ]
Elias said nothing.
He doesn't plan to leave Earth anytime soon. He'd rather settle down and die of old age thank you.
But the system has other ideas.
[To fix this shame on the host's pride as a Villain, objectives have been generated.
Level caps of your skills have been upgraded!]
"I don't really mind if Loki is stronger, he's still under me and his misunderstood feelings can finally show."
The system doesn't really listen to him and it has always been like as two new windows snapped into place.
Bright.
Unavoidable.
[OBJECTIVES GENERATED!]
[Don't lag behind your subordinates;
Complete the tasks provided by the system in a month to reach planetary tier of strength!
No time limits for the task!
Refreshes every week!]
[Current limit: 2 objectives
Objective #1:
Find your first Royal Guard!
Reward:
Upgrade of your skills and abilities according to your currently achieved level.]
That seems easy enough, Elias could only think.
Then he saw the 2nd one.
[Objective #2:
Find a location to summon the Frozen Throne!
Rewards:
Subordinates under your sole command:
Kel'Thuzad
Anub'arak
Sindragosa
Death Knights:
Falric
Marwyn
Thassarian
The Four Horsemen (Naxxramas):
Highlord Darion Mograine
Instructor Razuvious
Gothik the Harvester
Baron Rivendare ]
As much as I'd love to have more hands in the shop, it really defeats the purpose if they are undead, alien, deadites or otherwise.
"Can't you give me normal subordinates for once?"
Not an answer.
Footsteps echoed across the room then, Hawkeye stepped into view, bow slung low, eyes locked on the impossible sight before him:
Arthas Menethil sitting on a throne of ice, with a very unsettling sword standing by his side, stabbed on the floor.
Elias closed the system windows and faced Clint.
Arthas did not move though, he simply looked at Clint who seemed to remember the task.
"Right."
Clint dropped the bag and took the scepter out. Presented it to Arthas with both his hands on one knee bended.
"I have completed the task."
End of Chapter
(AN:Sadly, I can't meet the chappie for today, so y'all have to wait for it tomorrow. I've done like a dozen review just to make sure this chapter goes the way I want it to. Just remember that this was a bonus chappie for that dud who left a review!)