Thor closed his eyes, resignation washing over him like a cold wave.
Is this finally my end?
The thought was strangely peaceful. After everything—after losing his power, regaining it, fighting with everything he had, and still being completely overwhelmed—perhaps this was simply his fate. Perhaps this was the price for his arrogance, his pride, his countless mistakes.
Looking at Thor's resigned expression, a disappointed look flashed across Borgir's ancient face.
"I thought I would have a great fight after twenty millennia of imprisonment," the frost giant said, genuine disappointment coloring his voice. "But alas, I was expecting too much. You're still just a child playing at being a warrior."
He raised his ice axe high over his head, the weapon gleaming with deadly intent. The blade was enormous, carved from ancient ice that never melted, covered in frost giant runes that pulsed with cold power.
"But don't worry too much, Odinson," Borgir continued, almost gently. "Soon the whole of Asgard will join you in Valhalla. This is my promise—I will not let you wait long in the halls of the dead. Your father, your friends, your people... all of them will follow you shortly."
He began the downward swing, intending to end it quickly. The axe descended, cutting through the air with a whistling sound.
Shooose—
But before the blade could complete its deadly arc, before Thor could accept his death and pass into the afterlife, a sound pierced the air.
Crack... crack... crack...
The sound of ice breaking. Fracturing. Shattering from within.
Shooose... Shooose... Shooose...
Several identical sounds, one after another in rapid succession, like arrows piercing targets.
Thor slowly opened his eyes, confused by the delay in his execution. What he saw made him question whether he was already dead and hallucinating.
It was an astonishing scene.
The mighty Borgir—whose frozen skin had remained unbroken even after Thor's strongest lightning attacks struck him countless times, whose body had shrugged off divine power as if it were nothing—now had several black rods embedded in his torso. From where each rod pierced his flesh, cracks were spreading across his blue skin like fractured glass, spiderwebbing outward in all directions.
Borgir himself seemed unable to believe what was happening. His reaction was almost comically slow, as if his mind simply couldn't process the impossible reality. His head turned downward very, very slowly, his eyes taking several long seconds to focus on the foreign objects protruding from his chest.
His delayed reaction made sense, though. He really did not expect that something like this could happen—not here, not on Midgard of all places. This was supposed to be the realm of weaklings, of mortals who posed no threat to beings of his caliber.
He had already destroyed the Rainbow Bridge, severing Asgard's primary method of travel. So even if Odin wanted to come here personally, it would take considerable time—hours, maybe days—to arrange alternative transportation across the realms.
Who else on Midgard could possibly pose a threat to him?
With a grunt of effort and annoyance, Borgir directly pulled all the black rods that were embedded in his body, yanking them out one by one with wet, sucking sounds. Blood—if you could call the strange, cold fluid that flowed through frost giant veins blood—dripped from the wounds.
But the moment the rods were removed, all of the cracks in his body instantly repaired themselves. The fractured ice-skin sealed up as if it had never been broken, healing completely within seconds.
Frost giant regeneration was truly formidable.
Borgir turned around to see the culprit, his eyes scanning the battlefield with predatory focus.
And the moment he looked, a flash of recognition passed across his face.
That face...
It was the same person who had been sucked into the dimensional prison first when Borgir had initially emerged. He had briefly seen this man's face before.
"Who are you?" Borgir asked, his voice carrying both curiosity and wariness. "And why did you attack me?" He gestured at the black rods now lying on the ground. "It seems we don't have any conflict of sorts. I don't even know you."
"What do you mean we don't have any conflict?" Elric asked, his voice filled with exaggerated astonishment, as if Borgir had just said something incredibly stupid. "Because of you, I was stuck in that dimension for what felt like hours! I have to reward you properly for that inconvenience."
Borgir blinked, processing this accusation. "That has nothing to do with me," he replied with genuine confusion. "You just rushed over carelessly and fell through the dimensional rift on your own. Why are you blaming me for your own clumsiness?"
A look of embarrassment flashed across Elric's face—brief, but unmistakable.
But it was replaced almost immediately by anger, his expression hardening into something cold and dangerous.
Even if falling into that dimension was actually a very good thing in the end, Elric thought privately, how can you say something so embarrassing out loud? I'm supposed to be the future ruler of Earth if not the universe. If someone hears about this incident—about me clumsily falling into a dimensional trap like some amateur—I'll die of embarrassment!
So without a doubt, this frost giant couldn't be allowed to stay alive. That was the main reason for the intervention.
The real, primary reason.
Otherwise, Elric really didn't care much about what happened to Loki and Thor. Their family drama with ancient frost giants was their problem, not his. If that embarrassing incident hadn't happened—if Borgir hadn't witnessed Elric's clumsy fall—he might have just grabbed Eira and left the area entirely.
Why should he care about the conflict between this frost giant and Asgard? It might even be better for him if both sides just fought each other to mutual destruction, weakening two potential threats simultaneously.
But now? Now it was personal.
Borgir wasn't really that good of a talker, not the type to start lengthy conversations with a person who had just attacked him. Twenty thousand years of imprisonment hadn't exactly improved his social skills.
But the attack itself wasn't the most important factor in determining his response. What was important—what was critical—was that the attack had been strong enough to actually injure him, even if only temporarily.
Those black rods had penetrated his defenses, had cracked his impenetrable skin. That meant this person possessed real power, the kind that could pose an actual threat.
Borgir really didn't want to start a conflict with someone like that, not when he was already committed to dealing with Asgard. Fighting on two fronts was tactically unsound, especially when one of those fronts was an unknown variable.
But looking at Elric's expression—it seemed clear that this person was not particularly sane or reasonable. There would be no diplomatic solution here.
And besides...
An excited smile slowly crept across Borgir's face, stretching from ear to ear.
It's not like he hate that idea.
After all, what was the point of breaking free from twenty thousand years of imprisonment if not to fight? What was the purpose of all that patient waiting, all that rage carefully cultivated over millennia, if not to finally unleash it upon worthy opponents?
Thor had been disappointing—too young, too inexperienced, too easily broken. But this new challenger? This mysterious figure who could actually injure him?
Now this might be interesting.
"Very well," Borgir said, dropping into a combat stance. His muscles tensed, frost spreading from his feet across the ground in a widening circle. "If you want to die alongside the Asgardians, I'm happy to oblige. It's been too long since I had a proper fight."
He cracked his knuckles, and each joint made a sound like ice breaking.
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