In the magnificent golden palace of Asgard,
Odin sat upon his throne, his one good eye fixed sharply on Thor. Deep lines furrowed his aged face, and his gaze brimmed with disappointment.
"I told you this matter should end here," Odin's voice thundered, calm yet carrying the weight of divine wrath. "Why did you go to Jotunheim? Do you wish to bring war upon Asgard once again—for the sake of your pride?"
"Father, I had to uncover how they infiltrated Asgard!" Thor retorted, his tone firm, unwilling to yield. "If we ignore this, Asgard will always be in danger!"
"In danger?" The All-Father let out a weary sigh, his grip tightening on Gungnir, the Spear of Eternity. His disappointment was almost palpable.
"Asgard's power is absolute. Even if you've caused another disaster, what has the Frost Troll King truly done?"
Thor opened his mouth, then fell silent.
He had indeed been the one to trespass first. Laufey had not only apologized but even offered tribute—one thousand Frost Troll slaves every five years.
And that was only because of Gilgamesh's terrifying intimidation.
That was Asgard's true power.
With such a divine realm above them, would the Frost Trolls ever dare to invade?
The answer was clear—never.
Seeing Thor's silence, Odin's patience finally wore thin. His voice, though restrained, carried unshakable judgment.
"I thought you were ready, but I was wrong. Like Gilgamesh, you still lack what it takes to be king."
"But Asgard needs a king!" Odin's words rang through the hall.
"Therefore, I have decided—to begin the Trial of the King!"
"The Trial of the King?"
In the radiant Palace of Light, Gilgamesh frowned slightly as he listened to Aiolia's report. "The plot has changed? What does that even mean?"
Aiolia bowed respectfully. "The Trial of the King will involve all three princes. It will take place in Midgard—Earth. Each prince will descend to the mortal realm, and whoever earns the people's support and defeats the other two will be crowned King of the Gods. The outcome will be decided by the gods of Asgard themselves."
Gilgamesh's lips curved into a grin.
"Interesting… truly interesting. To think my stubborn father would come up with something so entertaining—how unexpected."
Aiolia continued, "To ensure fairness, the God-King decreed that the princes will depart in order from youngest to eldest—Loki first, then Thor, and finally you, my lord."
Gemini Saga, who had been silent all this while, frowned. "Wouldn't that give them more time to grow stronger?"
Gilgamesh, however, only crossed his arms and smiled with disdain.
"Even if jackals gather in packs, can they hope to rival a lion? My father's arrangement suits me perfectly. If it were merely a simple contest of strength, it would be far too boring."
Hearing those words, Saga fell silent. Indeed, his worries were unfounded. The power Gilgamesh possessed was unmatched across the Nine Realms—even Odin himself might not be able to suppress him.
Midgard would be nothing more than a playground to him; he would sweep aside all who stood in his way.
As the saying goes, some rejoice, while others despair.
Unlike his confident brother, Loki, the God of Mischief, was filled with turmoil.
Ever since learning the truth about his Frost Giant heritage, doubt had plagued his heart. Had his father's years of cold neglect been because he was not Odin's true son?
Yet this time, Odin's decree gave him a glimmer of hope.
Not only had he not been excluded from the Trial, but he had even been allowed to descend first—granted a precious head start.
Perhaps… perhaps Odin still saw value in him.
If he could prove his worth—if he could triumph over his brothers—then maybe he would finally earn the respect of the gods.
This faint hope rekindled the fire in his chest, pushing aside his resentment and grief. He swore silently:
This time… I will win.
As for Thor, the second prince—his attitude couldn't have been more different.
The moment he learned he could finally compete with Gilgamesh, his excitement was uncontainable. That very night, he threw a grand feast in Valhalla, drinking and boasting until dawn.
He got so drunk he almost missed Loki's descent to Earth.
The next day—
Under the watchful eyes of the gods, the Asgardian God of Mischief descended. Clad in golden armor and a flowing green robe, his golden antlered helm gleamed beneath the divine light. He looked every bit like a majestic—if mischievous—deer bathed in radiance as he became the first to be sent down to Earth via the Rainbow Bridge.
His destination: a harbor in New York City.
It was one of Kingpin's main drug trafficking routes.
Night had fallen, the darkness thick and heavy.
Bullseye, one of Kingpin's most trusted enforcers, stood on the docks overseeing a shipment. Forklifts rumbled in the distance, loading crates onto waiting trucks. He yawned lazily, bored out of his mind. Daredevil had been meddling again, sabotaging several of Kingpin's recent deals and causing massive losses to the criminal empire's clients.
Though Kingpin never lacked money, the challenge to his authority—the insolence—was intolerable.
Bullseye, however, was no ordinary man. He possessed a supernatural throwing ability: he could kill with anything. A playing card could slit a throat. A tooth, spat with force, could pierce a skull. A paper airplane, launched from a distant rooftop, could strike like a bullet. Even a toothpick thrown from ninety-one meters away could kill.
And so, Kingpin had sent him personally—to capture Daredevil and send a brutal message to the rest of New York's underworld.
Unfortunately, instead of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, he met a god.
The sky darkened suddenly. Clouds rolled in, swirling into a massive vortex that swallowed the stars. Lightning crackled, thunder roared, and the funnel-shaped storm pointed directly at the harbor.
The gangsters froze, staring up in disbelief. Even Bullseye's usual calm faltered; his gaze hardened as he instinctively reached for his knives.
Then—
A blinding rainbow beam erupted from the heavens, tearing through the storm and flooding the port with radiant light. A massive pillar of energy struck a shipping container, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
When the light faded, a lone figure stood amidst the smoke—clad in golden armor and a green robe, a golden antlered helm crowning his head.
Bullseye narrowed his eyes. His hand drifted to his waist, drawing two throwing knives with practiced ease.
The scene had been far too dramatic for comfort. No one survives being beamed down from the sky—unless they weren't human.
The other gangsters raised their weapons nervously—rifles, pistols, even a shoulder-mounted cannon. Their hands trembled, their eyes darting.
Then came the voice.
"Kneel!"
It wasn't a shout—it was a divine command, a roar that shook their souls.
In an instant, golden illusions appeared all around them—dozens of identical Lokis standing upon the surrounding containers, each gazing down with the same cold, imperious stare.
Loki, son of Odin, god of mischief and deceit, wore his arrogance like a crown. His presence radiated superiority.
Unlike Gilgamesh's outward pride, Loki's arrogance was a venom that flowed deep beneath his smile. Now, before these mortals, he didn't even bother with introductions.
He simply ordered them to kneel.
Bullseye's pupils shrank. An illusionist…?
Before he could act, his men panicked. Fear overtook reason.
"Open fire!!"
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
The night erupted with gunfire. Bullets shredded the mirages one after another—but none struck the real Loki.
He hadn't even moved.