Odin's autobiography might have been written with a healthy dose of self-aggrandizement, but Marcus had to admit the content was fascinating. The All-Father had lived for millennia, traveled across the Nine Realms and beyond, witnessing civilizations rise and fall, encountering beings that most would consider mythological.
Every page contained detailed accounts of Odin's adventures during his younger, more reckless days—before the weight of kingship had tempered his warrior's spirit into calculated wisdom. Back then, he'd been even more headstrong than Thor, eager to prove himself against any challenger the cosmos could offer.
It was precisely that youthful arrogance that had led to some of the most interesting entries in the memoir.
"This Flora Colossus race is intriguing," Marcus murmured, studying a particular passage that had caught his attention.
The entry described Odin's encounter with a member of what appeared to be a sentient tree-like species. But unlike the peaceful, harmonious image one might expect from plant-based beings, these Flora Colossi were described as ruthless conquerors with an appetite for violence that matched their imposing size.
According to Odin's account, the Flora Colossus he'd fought stood nearly twenty feet tall, its bark-like skin scarred from countless battles, its branch-like limbs capable of regenerating from even severe damage. The creature had spoken in a series of guttural growls that somehow conveyed meaning, though Odin noted that their vocabulary seemed frustratingly limited.
The battle itself had been epic in scope. Odin's golden lightning—the same power that would later make him legendary across the Nine Realms—had crashed against the Flora Colossus's natural armor again and again. Each blast would tear chunks from the creature's woody exterior, only to watch in amazement as new growth rapidly sealed the wounds.
"Their regenerative capabilities were extraordinary," Odin had written. "No matter how much damage I inflicted, the beast would simply regrow whatever I destroyed. It was like fighting the very concept of life itself."
The conflict had raged for hours, turning the battlefield into a crater-scarred wasteland. In the end, Odin's superior speed and tactical thinking had won the day, but barely. The Flora Colossus had finally fallen when the All-Father managed to channel his lightning directly into the creature's core, overloading its ability to heal faster than it could be damaged.
What followed was even more interesting to Marcus. Rather than simply killing his defeated opponent, Odin had chosen mercy—a decision that nearly cost him everything. The Flora Colossus, apparently viewing mercy as weakness, had immediately called for reinforcements from its homeworld.
"I learned that day that the Flora Colossi were not merely violent individuals," Odin's writing continued, "but an entire civilization built on the principle of might makes right. They had enslaved dozens of worlds, turning entire populations into research subjects for their botanical experiments. Only Asgard's growing reputation in the cosmos saved me from sharing that fate."
Marcus could easily picture the scene. A young, cocky Odin suddenly finding himself facing not just one tree-creature, but an entire fleet of them. The tension of that moment, the realization that his individual prowess might not be enough against an entire species of regenerating giants.
Fortunately, diplomacy had prevailed. Asgard, even in its earlier days, commanded enough respect that the Flora Colossi had been willing to negotiate rather than risk a full-scale war. A tense peace had been established, with both sides agreeing to avoid each other's territories.
As Marcus read, an image formed in his mind—not of the violent, conquering Flora Colossi described in Odin's memoir, but of a very different tree-creature entirely. Groot, the gentle giant he knew from his knowledge of future events. The last of his kind, completely opposite in temperament to his tyrannical ancestors.
"The Flora Colossi have been extinct for centuries now," Odin said, noticing Marcus's interest in that particular section. There was a hint of satisfaction in the All-Father's voice, though whether it stemmed from justice or simple pragmatism was unclear.
"Completely extinct?" Marcus asked, though he already knew the answer. "That seems unlikely for such a powerful species. Most civilizations that survive long enough to become conquerors usually have contingency plans."
Odin shrugged, a gesture that seemed oddly casual coming from the ruler of Asgard. "Arrogance was their downfall. They believed their regenerative abilities made them invincible, that their empire would last forever. They never considered that someone might find a way to permanently end their healing factor."
Marcus nodded, continuing to flip through the autobiography. He knew that at least one Flora Colossus had survived—Groot himself, though whether through luck, different genetics, or some other factor remained unclear. The gentle guardian he remembered bore no resemblance to the violent conquerors described in these pages.
After several more minutes of reading, Marcus came across another entry that made him pause. This one described a race of golden-skinned humanoids whose perfection seemed almost artificial.
"The Sovereign," he read aloud, studying the detailed illustrations Odin had included.
These beings looked remarkably human at first glance, but every aspect of their physiology had been refined to an impossible degree. Their skin held a metallic golden sheen that seemed to glow with inner light. Their features were mathematically perfect, as if sculpted by an artist obsessed with geometric precision. Even their movements, according to Odin's descriptions, carried an inhuman fluidity that spoke of engineered enhancement.
"Ah, the Sovereign," Odin said with obvious distaste. "One of the most insufferable races I've ever encountered, and that's saying something. They possess near-perfect genetics, which would be impressive if they weren't so insufferably arrogant about it."
Marcus could hear the frustration in Odin's voice, even after all these centuries. "That bad, huh?"
"Imagine beings who consider themselves flawless in every way, who view all other life forms as genetic mistakes that somehow managed to achieve consciousness. They're powerful, yes, and their technology is remarkable, but their attitude makes them almost impossible to work with."
Odin moved to stand beside Marcus, pointing to a particular passage in the autobiography. "I tried to establish diplomatic relations with them once. The meeting lasted exactly seventeen minutes before their representative informed me that Asgardians were 'genetically inferior' and that any alliance would be 'beneath their standards.'"
Despite the insulting nature of the encounter, Marcus could hear a note of amusement in Odin's retelling. "I take it you didn't part on friendly terms?"
"Let's just say that particular Sovereign learned that genetic superiority doesn't always translate to combat effectiveness," Odin replied with a slight grin. "Though I will give them credit for one thing—they value their people above all else. A Sovereign would sacrifice entire worlds before allowing harm to come to even one of their own kind."
Marcus nodded thoughtfully. That fierce loyalty, combined with their technological prowess and genetic perfection, made the Sovereign a formidable force in the galaxy. Their arrogance might be grating, but it stemmed from genuine capability rather than mere delusion.
What really interested Marcus, though, was what he knew about the Sovereign's ultimate creation—their pursuit of absolute genetic perfection had led them to develop something extraordinary. Someone extraordinary.
Adam Warlock. The golden man with power that rivaled cosmic forces, created to be the perfect synthesis of all the Sovereign's genetic achievements. Marcus wondered if that project had begun yet, or if Adam was still just a concept in some Sovereign scientist's mind.
"Actually," Odin continued, walking over to one of the treasure vault's display cases, "I managed to acquire something related to their genetic experiments."
He gestured toward what looked like a golden cocoon, roughly human-sized and suspended in a crystalline containment field. The surface gleamed with the same metallic sheen Marcus had seen in the illustrations of Sovereign skin, and faint energy readings were visible on the monitoring equipment surrounding it.
"This was supposed to be their next breakthrough—a new type of Sovereign with enhanced capabilities beyond even their normal standards. I... acquired it during a disagreement over territorial boundaries."
Marcus studied the cocoon carefully. From the outside, it looked promising—the craftsmanship was clearly Sovereign, and the energy signatures suggested something powerful gestating within. But his enhanced senses told a different story.
"It's empty," he said after a moment. "Well, not empty exactly, but whatever's inside didn't survive the development process."
Odin looked surprised. "You can tell that just by looking?"
"The life signs are all wrong. There's biological matter in there, but it's been dead for a long time. Probably a failed experiment that the Sovereign abandoned when their genetic modifications didn't take properly."
Marcus had seen similar situations before. The Sovereign's pursuit of perfection meant they had extremely low tolerance for failure. Any genetic experiment that didn't meet their exacting standards would be discarded, regardless of how much time and resources had been invested.
It was a waste, but typical of their mindset. To the Sovereign, an imperfect creation was worse than no creation at all.
Marcus continued browsing through the autobiography, absorbing centuries of accumulated knowledge and experience. He read about crystalline beings who communicated through harmonic resonance, energy creatures that fed on stellar radiation, mechanical civilizations that had transcended biological existence entirely.
Each entry was a window into the vast complexity of the universe, a reminder of just how much existed beyond Earth's small corner of reality. Yet despite the wealth of information, Marcus wasn't finding what he was really looking for.
"Do you have any information about dimensional demons?" he finally asked.
Odin paused, considering the question carefully. "Dimensional demons? I'll admit, my experience with such beings is limited. Most of them prefer to remain in their own realms rather than venture into our reality. However," he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "I do know of some entities that operate on an even higher level."
Marcus looked up from the autobiography, intrigued. If Odin—one of the most powerful beings in the known universe—was talking about "higher levels," that suggested something truly extraordinary.
"You seem skeptical," Odin observed, noting Marcus's expression. "I don't blame you. Most beings assume that what they can perceive represents the limits of power in the universe. I once thought the same way."
The All-Father moved to another section of the vault, where even more ancient texts were stored. These looked far older than the autobiography, their pages yellowed with age and bound in materials Marcus couldn't immediately identify.
"Have you ever heard of the Celestials?" Odin asked.
The name sent a chill down Marcus's spine. He knew about the Celestials, though not from any pleasant memories. Cosmic beings of unimaginable power and scale, each one larger than most planets. They were gardeners of a sort, but their garden was the entire universe, and their crop was sentient life itself.
"I've heard rumors," Marcus replied carefully.
"Then you know they're not just powerful—they're beyond power as most beings understand it. Each Celestial is born from the core of a living world, gestating for millennia while feeding on the evolutionary development of entire civilizations. When they finally emerge, they consume all the life that nurtured their growth."
Odin's voice carried a weight that suggested personal knowledge rather than mere hearsay. "I've seen the aftermath of their 'harvests.' Entire solar systems reduced to cosmic dust. Billions of years of evolution wiped out in moments to birth a single Celestial."
Marcus nodded grimly. He knew the process all too well. The Celestials planted seeds in promising worlds, then allowed civilizations to develop naturally. The complexity of life, the depth of evolutionary progress, the richness of culture and consciousness—all of it served as nutrients for the growing Celestial embryo.
When the time was right, the Celestial would emerge, absorbing every living thing on the planet in the process. It was cosmic-scale farming, with entire species as the crop.
"Of course," Odin continued, "even the Celestials aren't the ultimate powers in the universe. There are beings who created the very fabric of reality itself, who established the dimensions and the fundamental forces that govern existence."
Now Odin had Marcus's full attention. The All-Father was talking about the abstract entities—beings so powerful that they existed as living concepts rather than physical forms.
"I've only heard whispers and rumors," Odin admitted. "Stories passed down from the oldest cosmic beings, fragments of knowledge gleaned from encounters with forces beyond my comprehension. Whether they're true or not..." He shrugged. "I've learned to keep an open mind about such things. The universe has a way of exceeding our expectations."
Marcus closed the autobiography and carefully returned it to its place on the shelf. He understood exactly what Odin was referring to, and the All-Father's caution was well-founded.
The five cosmic abstracts—Death, Eternity, Infinity, Oblivion, and the Living Tribunal. Beings who didn't just possess power but literally were power, embodying fundamental aspects of reality itself. They had created the dimensional barriers, established the rules that governed magic and science, shaped the very concepts of existence and non-existence.
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