"Prince Lothar, how long are we… supposed to stay here?"
After stepping out of the fitting hall under the guidance of one of Frigga's handmaidens, The Other tugged uncomfortably at his new armor—almost identical in style to his previous one—and addressed the figure walking ahead of him.
Clad in flowing white robes, golden hair fluttering in the breeze—
"We leave soon."
Lothar had never worn a mage's robe before. He ran his fingers along the silky fabric, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
"Woz, can you analyze the material?"
"Woz is currently analyzing…"
"Analysis failed. Apologies, Lord Lothar—Woz cannot identify the fabric of your robe."
The digital projection of Woz reappeared over Lothar's right eye, flickering as it scoured databases and failed to bypass the robe's arcane defenses. The energy protecting it wasn't cataloged in Woz's database.
"An unknown energy signature?"
Lothar arched a brow, then quickly dismissed the thought that had suddenly risen in his mind.
"If it were that easy to analyze, then my mother wouldn't be called the foremost sorceress of the Aesir."
Outside the fitting hall, Hela had been waiting after finishing her conversation with Frigga. The moment she saw Lothar emerge in pristine white robes, her initial astonishment quickly gave way to a dismissive sneer.
She had finally found one area where she could surpass Lothar—magic.
Though her own magical accomplishments weren't anything to brag about, the superiority she felt was undeniable—at least in this one domain. Frigga herself had stated:
"Entirely incompatible with magic—his body is incapable of forming a magical circuit."
That had been her mother's blunt assessment after examining Lothar.
"That's your mother's achievement. Why are you proud of it?"
Lothar genuinely couldn't understand Hela's logic. Frigga's brilliance had nothing to do with Hela's own ability.
"…Come on. Father's waiting for you in the throne hall."
Hela opened her mouth, as if wanting to say more, but ultimately settled on leading the way.
Though she didn't want to admit it, whether in combat or sorcery, Lothar now stood on a level that made it difficult for her to compete.
"No need. Just take me to the warship port." Lothar rejected her offer flatly.
He had no time to linger in Asgard. The coordinates given to him before Asgard's fall still hadn't been confirmed.
"Warship port? Asgard has no need for such things."
Arms crossed, Hela raised an eyebrow, her words drawing Lothar's cold gaze.
"Come with me. Father has something to tell you—about your return home."
Though clearly outmatched now, Hela's tone remained firm.
She glanced at Lothar's sunlit golden hair before turning, stepping out into the Asgardian streets.
The capital bustled with life. With constant victories at the front lines, every citizen bore a radiant smile.
Children ran through the streets, shouting and laughing, or hovered by snack stands, torn between indulgence and saving a week's allowance. Their carefree, vibrant joy was something Lothar had never witnessed in the Black Quadrant.
"Big brother! Wanna buy a flower?!"
"It's super fragrant and really pretty!"
Perhaps it was Lothar's striking appearance—white robes and golden hair flowing like a celestial prince—that emboldened the little flower seller. She grinned wide, holding out her bouquet.
"You could give it to this beautiful big sister here!"
"Right, big sister?"
"I don't need flowers from this guy."
Hela chuckled as she knelt, tousling the girl's hair, handing over the coin and accepting the bouquet.
"There. Mission complete. Go play with your little friends now."
"Thank you, big sister!" The girl beamed with excitement, bowed to both Hela and the cold-eyed Lothar, and skipped off with her payment clutched tightly in hand.
"She didn't recognize you?"
"Probably not."
Hela inhaled the scent of Asgard's blooms, her tone softening unexpectedly.
She had always fought to protect this realm, striving for a future where Asgardians could live in peace and prosperity.
"But she will, one day."
Holding the golden bouquet, Hela's eyes sparkled with ambition.
She was still young. There was plenty of time to join her father Odin in realizing their great vision. She wanted to be a name etched into Asgard's history books.
One day, all of Asgard would remember her—Hela.
"You seem more… normal than before."
Lothar glanced her way but didn't linger. He continued onward.
To reach the palace Odin used for diplomatic meetings, he'd need to cross the nearby square.
Hela's confident expression wavered…
"My father once told me—if I will it, destiny will bend to me!"
The booming voice from the plaza halted Lothar's steps. He turned, frowning as he looked toward the source.
A massive stage had been erected. A silver-armored man stood atop it, expressionless, pointing skyward.
Beside him, a woman with makeup eerily similar to Hela's rolled her eyes theatrically.
Opposite them stood a man in a bright blue bodysuit, face frozen in horror.
"Laufey never imagined that after all his years of dominance, he'd be defeated today—by two mere youths. The Frost Giants' sacred relic, the Casket of Ancient Winters, was taken. Facing Odin's daughter Hela and the mysterious stranger she rescued in Jotunheim, the Frost King found himself in dire straits…"
At the stage's edge sat a narrator, legs crossed, reading aloud from a booklet titled "Hela's Jotunheim Expedition."
His voice carried the gravitas of a seasoned storyteller:
"And just like that, before Laufey could react, his palace guards sprang out, weapons trained on the man who always said, 'My father once told me…'"
"Surrounded by these ragtag soldiers, the man named Lothar scoffed disdainfully and delivered the now-iconic line…"
On cue, the actor crossed his arms and sneered:
"I bet your guns aren't even loaded."
The audience erupted in laughter and applause.
No matter how many times it was staged, the Lamasia Theatre's rendition of the tale always captivated the Asgardian public.
Watching Laufey get humiliated—even fictionally—was cathartic. Besides, according to Bard, the theatre's director, the script had been personally verified by one of the story's original participants—Odin's daughter.
Lothar, however, stood in silence, watching the man portraying him—spouting line after line of "My father once told me"—his eyes narrowing, a flicker of killing intent flashing within.
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