After parting ways with Maclean and the others, Rowe calmly arrived at the small lake nestled deep within the forest and activated the space tetrahedron, returning to Asgard.
With a slight flare of his divine flame power, his body temperature surged to several hundred degrees in an instant. The water clinging to his form evaporated into vapor and dispersed into the air.
Just as he was about to head home, Rowe suddenly paused, a thought sparking in his mind. His eyes turned back toward the tetrahedron portal.
He recalled that ever since discovering this hidden dimensional gateway, he had visited the Moon, Svartalfheim, and Vanaheim. Muspelheim was the only realm he had yet to explore.
Previously, he avoided entering it due to its portal exit being submerged in molten magma. Back then, he didn't possess the ability to survive such extreme heat. But now, things were different—he had mastered the power of flame.
Contemplating the risks, Rowe extended his hand toward the side of the tetrahedron that connected to the Muspelheim node, the searing heat from the portal already radiating with ominous intensity.
The magma's temperature likely exceeded 2,000 degrees Celsius—lethal for ordinary Asgardians. However, for Rowe, now infused with divine flame energy, it posed no threat at all.
Without further hesitation, he gently patted Shilute's head. "Stay here. Don't move."
"Om." Shilute responded with a low hum and sat down obediently.
Rowe entered the tetrahedron. A bright flash engulfed his vision, and in the next moment, he was surrounded by glowing red molten magma.
He had arrived inside a cavern submerged beneath the lava. Though narrow and winding, it wasn't very long. Rowe swam through it with practiced ease, eventually emerging into an expansive ocean of magma.
Swimming in magma was a bizarre experience—one he had never imagined enduring. Despite the unpleasant stickiness of the molten rock, he continued to swim, indulging his curiosity before ascending to the surface.
As he rose, the magma's temperature dropped gradually to a more standard level, comparable to naturally occurring lava.
Rowe broke through the surface.
Above, the fire-yellow sky loomed large. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning. As far as the eye could see, rivers of lava flowed endlessly, surrounded by charred black rocks.
There was no doubt—this was Muspelheim, the burning domain ruled by the fire giant Surtur. Among the Nine Realms, no other land could compare to this hellish landscape.
Climbing out from the magma, Rowe tread upon scorched terrain and looked around cautiously.
As far as current Asgardian diplomacy was concerned, Muspelheim wasn't overtly hostile to Asgard—at least not yet.
Curiously, Muspelheim remained aloof from most inter-realm conflicts. While the Aesir, Vanir, Frost Giants, and trolls were constantly at war, Surtur stayed neutral, turning a blind eye to their chaos.
Of course, that neutrality wouldn't last forever. Rowe understood why Surtur would one day be driven to rage and vengeance. Odin's betrayal—stealing the Eternal Flame after attacking him unprovoked—would ignite a fury no fire giant could forgive.
Still, neutrality didn't make Muspelheim a safe haven. Quite the opposite.
Surtur himself, though absent from internal Nine Realms politics, was infamous across the cosmos. His name echoed with dread and destruction—his deeds carved into the memories of countless civilizations.
He was the embodiment of an interstellar demon.
Muspelheim reflected its ruler. The realm seethed with crime, chaos, and ruthless violence—a cosmic Gotham City, lawless and brutal.
After several hours of walking through the desolate terrain, a shout pierced the air.
"Stop!"
Rowe turned calmly and saw a group of small red humanoid creatures emerging from behind a basalt outcropping. They glared at him with obvious hostility.
Fire Demons.
These creatures were Muspelheim's native race—low-level flame beings, intelligent but primitive, akin to Warnerheim's Skrinthians, though perhaps more cunning.
One of the Fire Demons squinted at him. "You… Asgardian?"
"No. I'm from Northrend," Rowe replied casually, slipping into a practiced façade.
Though technically neutral, Rowe instinctively disguised his identity. His memories from a past life reminded him that Muspelheim wouldn't welcome an Asgardian warmly—especially after what Odin had done.
The Fire Demons exchanged confused glances. Clearly, they'd never heard of Northrend.
Rowe stepped forward, switching to the common interstellar dialect. "A flame world near Muspelheim. About 108,000 light-years from here. I came to witness the land of Surtur with my own eyes."
He paused for dramatic effect. "Unfortunately, my spacecraft crashed. Could you direct me to the nearest settlement?"
The demons looked him over, then grinned slyly. "Of course," one said. "As long as you pay in gold."
Rowe produced several chunks of golden ore from his satchel. "Will this suffice—?"
But before he could finish, the distance between them narrowed, and something triggered.
The Holy Light pointer sprang from his waist-bound holy codex and hovered between the two nearest Fire Demons—the same ones now eyeing the gold with undisguised greed.
Murderers. Arsonists. The codex did not lie. Muspelheim's "simple folk" were nothing if not deadly.
The Fire Demons didn't sense the danger. Their eyes sparkled with avarice.
"That's all?" one scoffed. "You trying to cheat us? That gold is barely enough for a lava drink! You better bring out ten times that much or—"
Their words were cut short.
In a flash, Rowe surged forward, grabbing the two corrupted demons by the neck—one in each hand. Before they could scream, divine white flames burst from his fingers, engulfing them.
They shrieked once before their voices were lost in a blaze of purifying fire. The Holy Light pointer dimmed. The judgment was complete.
Burned to death.
The remaining demons watched in horror.
They were flame-born. Fire was their essence. Yet these two had perished—roasted alive by a purer flame.
Terror swept through the group. They dropped their weapons and fell to the ground, groveling.
"Mercy, mighty Northrend god! Please spare us—we were deceived!"
Rowe glanced down at the codex. No new reactions.
He spoke coldly, "Those two earned their fate. I'll ask only once—where is the nearest town or village?"
"In the north!" one Fire Demon answered quickly, trembling.
"How far?"
"Just beyond that mountain," he stammered, pointing to a jagged black ridge. "Over it lies a village of the Muspel people."