The ground around them turned to molten lava, grass and trees falling into the pool and turning to ash instantly. The air was thick with the stench of char.
Small animals scurried from their burrows, fleeing in all directions. Rats and snakes, once predator and prey, now ran side by side for survival.
Not all were lucky enough to escape.
Su Ming watched a raccoon-like creature climb a tree to flee, but the roots were swallowed by lava, and the tree toppled.
It fell into the fiery pit, letting out a scream before its gray-white fur erupted into a fireball. A moment later, it reeked of scorched flesh, and then it was nothing but a smear of black ash.
Su Ming: "Temperature's around 3,000 degrees Celsius. Carbon-based life vaporizes instantly."
"This is Surtur's power. The planet's likely been altered from within. My magic can't counter a hell-lord," Monarch explained. Many who wielded fire magic borrowed from Surtur, the fire giant whose power far outstripped most mages.
"Fall back and set up a magic circle to counter the heat and flames," Su Ming directed, gesturing for them to retreat while he floated forward.
He wasn't worried about Heimdall spotting his abilities. The Presence was an all-seeing god, after all.
Monarch took a deep breath, said nothing, and rode a kilometer out before dismounting to etch a magic circle into the ground.
"Don't call on the ice demon Exelon. Use Vishanti's power to channel cosmic cold and vacuum here," Su Ming added.
He couldn't cast a spell himself, but he knew the theory.
Exelon's black magic came at too steep a cost. Su Ming didn't want Monarch trapped in a frozen hell for millennia, tormented into madness by a demon.
White magic was the safer bet.
"The lava's too vast. I can't pay that price," Monarch replied.
The circle was quickly drawn, complex runes and sigils painted in blood on the grass. But as Monarch pressed his hand to it, ready to chant, his face twisted in dismay.
Su Ming thought for a split second. Vanaheim was vital—nine realms didn't need two worlds of flame.
If Vanaheim fell, his deal with Gulveig would collapse, and the promised benefits would vanish.
"Transfer the cost to me. I'll pay with lifespan."
He made the call instantly.
"Lifespan? You could die outright," Monarch warned, sweat beading on his brow.
"See if Vishanti takes the deal. I've got lifespan to spare," Su Ming said confidently, landing beside the mage. He removed a glove and sliced his arm.
Blood flowed, merging with the circle, which began to glow faintly white.
"You sure?"
"No chatter. Do it."
Monarch exhaled, watching the red tide of lava grow in his vision. He grabbed Su Ming's hand, pressed it to the circle, and began chanting rapidly.
The incantation was long and incomprehensible, not a single syllable familiar.
"Vishanti's accepted the cost. It's starting!"
As the words left his mouth, Su Ming felt something intangible drain from his body, dissipating into the air.
The circle grew brighter, its white light nearly blinding, expanding rapidly toward the flames.
Su Ming activated the X-metal in his body, halting the aging of his appearance and restoring his lifespan. Monarch, though, wasn't unscathed—his temples began to gray.
"The lava's stopped spreading," Gin called, flying higher on the Pegasus for a better view. "It's icing over."
Su Ming couldn't respond. His mind was clear, but it felt like a straw had been jammed into his gut, siphoning his soul. He couldn't even open his mouth.
Monarch was in the same boat. As the caster, even with the cost transferred, he wasn't immune to the magic's toll.
Ten minutes later, Gin brought good news: the lava pool's expansion had halted. The magic had won.
The molten rock had cooled into a black stone basin, visible from the sky.
Monarch pulled his arm free and collapsed, panting.
"You lost 500 years of lifespan and don't look a day older. I see why the Ancient One chose you."
"I can't cast a lick of magic unless Vishanti gets a telegram machine," Su Ming said, breathing heavily, still adjusting to the cost. "How're you holding up?"
"Lost five years. No big deal. I've lived centuries—five years is a long weekend," Monarch said with a forced smile, closing his eyes to catch his breath.
Su Ming patted his shoulder, stood, and touched his stomach to confirm no literal straw was there. He glanced at the lava pool.
Smoke and fog swirled where heat clashed with cold. Vishanti's power had outmatched Surtur's, forcing the fire demon to retreat—for now, Vanaheim was safe.
"When the company's new hair dye hits the market, I'll send you some," Gin said, landing beside them.
"No need. It's fine," Monarch said, tidying his graying temples and stroking his beard. "Just a few white strands. Makes me look more authoritative, no?"
Su Ming tried a drop of X-metal from the Nightblade to restore Monarch's lifespan, but it didn't work on Marvel characters.
X-metal had limits, and Su Ming couldn't fix this. Maybe he'd track down the "Fruit of Youth" later.
Asgardian gods owed their longevity to it. The goddess Idunn, mother of the gods, had a basket of infinite fruit that extended life.
Not indefinitely, but a few millennia were enough for humans—unless you were Odin, burned out, or the Ancient One, drowned in debt.
Su Ming offered a hand, pulling Monarch onto the horse. "For authority, you should shave it all off."
Monarch pictured the Ancient One's bald head and shrugged. "No bad jokes. Let's hunt Hydra. Why's Surtur meddling here? Think we'll run into Cyttorak next?"
"Besides Earth, the nine realms are a mess. I've stabilized the underworld and Vanaheim for now, but we need to move faster."
The Pegasus soared over the frozen lava pool. Su Ming answered Monarch, but the thick fog hid his expression.
As Deathstroke recounted events, Monarch's mind swirled, unsure how to interject.
Mephisto was only temporarily stalled, his hell-lord ally still unknown.
Laufey might go all-in, declaring war on Asgard again.
Asgard's Golden Palace housed not just soldiers but homeless light elves, who looked like oversized goblins.
The Serpent lurked somewhere, unseen.
"Deal with Zemo first?" Monarch asked after mulling it over, deferring to Deathstroke's proven planning.
"Zemo first," Su Ming confirmed. "His power grab's aimed at Earth. Biggest threat."
As he spoke, Stranglehold secretly wrote on Monarch's leg.
Su Ming shared his priorities.
Earth was first—must be protected. Then the Golden Palace, for its treasures and key figures. Vanaheim came next, tied to future plans.
Anything else could burn to cosmic dust for all he cared.
With these three priorities, enemies were clear. Whoever threatened them was a target.
The one with the highest threat and most tracks got hit first.
Su Ming sensed a hidden mastermind lurking but kept that to himself for now.
They hadn't flown far when countless red magic circles bloomed on the ground below, followed by a torrent of fireballs raining upward.
"Ambush! Fire demons—over ten thousand!"
The Pegasus dove, dodging a barrage of fireballs, but more rose from the ground.
Su Ming assessed instantly. Surtur, unwilling to quit, was spreading flames the old-fashioned way.
Lacking teleportation, he'd likely struck a deal to send an army to Vanaheim.
The Pegasus was nimble, battle-hardened, weaving through dense fireball barrages with ease.
But as demons poured from the circles, the fireballs grew thicker, stalling their advance as the horse dodged vertically.
"This won't do. I'll handle the demons below to clear a path. Head to Vanaheim's capital and regroup."
Without waiting for Gin or Monarch, Su Ming leapt from the horse.
His cloak propelled him toward the ground at high speed, the demon horde filling his vision. As he closed in, he could see their heads.
Red-skinned, upright walkers with burning iron cages for heads, their flames serving as brains and life. One hand held a fireball, the other a flaming weapon.
Monsters straight out of hell.
"Godslayer, extend!"
The Godslayer, now Gungnir, stretched from two meters to over twenty. Su Ming drew the Nightblade in his other hand.
He plunged into the enemy swarm.
The heat was too intense for Stranglehold to help, so Su Ming relied on his cloak's speed.
His goal wasn't to kill many but to break through, buying time for Gin and the others to escape.
His single eye scanned, mapping the environment—every enemy's movement, intent, position, and terrain crystal clear.
A plan formed instantly, his weapons moving even faster.
The spear cleared a path ahead, while the greatsword defended close-range, parrying and countering attacks from behind, stepping forward at every opening.
Gold and black light flashed as limbs flew. Deathstroke's steps stayed steady, unstoppable. Demon screams and the sizzle of blood on flames battered his ears, but his expression didn't flicker.
Forward, always forward, cutting through fire and blades, he carved a path through the dense horde.