Before him stood a solitary black peak. If not for its wrong color and the constant flow of lava, it might have resembled the Frozen Throne.
Su Ming transformed his weapon, shaking off the blood and flesh clinging to it. His cloak carried him upward, soaring straight toward the cliff.
Since Mephisto had already extended a warm welcome, there was no need for further courtesy.
As expected, at the peak beside a lava pool adorned with rubble and deadwood, he met the Lord of Hell.
The infamous archdemon looked like a flayed bloodman, his gaunt frame perched on an obsidian throne. One leg rested on the seat, the other dangled loosely, swaying back and forth.
His skin was crimson, with straight horns sprouting from his head. His yellow eyes locked onto the intruder instantly, his face expressionless, his tone flat:
"Welcome. It's rare for Deathstroke to reach my plane. Few dare to descend into Hell directly."
Su Ming landed slowly, stopping at the opposite side of the lava pool. The heat distorted their gazes, making everything seem unreal.
"Looks like most of the people I've killed end up here," Su Ming said.
"Hm, Germans, villains, murderers, fools, and the like," Mephisto replied. "But you should know I don't need to read their souls. Word of you spreads through the magical realms. By the way, most think your armor's pretty impressive."
Mephisto leaned back, settling into a more comfortable position, resting an elbow on the armrest and yawning.
"I'm here to ask you a few questions," Su Ming said. "Asgard's souls don't belong to you. There's no benefit in meddling in their wars, so why get involved?"
Hell's heat and stench were unfit for humans, and Su Ming had no interest in small talk.
At the question, Mephisto made an odd expression, like he was nursing a toothache, rubbing his chin as his sharp teeth ground together.
"So it was you," he said. "That horse-headed freak was your doing."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Su Ming replied calmly, removing his helmet. Mephisto had no proof.
"Damn it, do you know how many instruments he ruined? How many souls he scattered?"
"What are you talking about?"
Mephisto studied Deathstroke's puzzled expression, as if he genuinely knew nothing. His eyes narrowed.
"Fine, whatever. I can handle a cybernetic freak," Mephisto said. "What do you want to ask? How about we make a deal?"
Su Ming pulled out a cigarette case, taking one for himself and tossing another to the demon lord. "You think I'm dumb enough to bargain with a Hell Lord?"
Mephisto scratched at his pointed ears, thick with black fur, feigning a thoughtful itch. "Tch, that's tricky then. How about staying here for a few decades to think it over?"
His power could trap beings in Hell's dimension, inescapable. But with no food or water in the conventional sense, survival was impossible, so he rarely bothered.
As a Hell Lord, a demon king, Mephisto thrived on deals and contracts.
Killing was just a side amusement. With billions of souls in Hell, targeting one was pointless. Mephisto preferred grand schemes, reaping millions of souls at once.
But for Deathstroke, the heir to the Sorcerer Supreme, he'd make an exception.
"No thanks," Su Ming said. "Eating sulfur and drinking lava isn't my style. I just came to see if any Hell Lord was foolish enough to strike a deal with the Serpent to destroy the Nine Realms."
"Heh, well said," Mephisto nodded, now crouching fully on his throne. "Guess if it's me."
"I never thought it was you," Su Ming replied. "You see Earth as your farm, harvesting souls endlessly. If Earth were destroyed, you'd get a one-time haul—billions, maybe—but then it's gone forever. That's a loss, no matter how you look at it."
Su Ming exhaled a smoke ring, crouching on the ground to match Mephisto's posture, like two villagers chatting at a doorstep.
Clap, clap, clap.
Mephisto applauded, his red face breaking into a grin. "If I couldn't read souls, I'd think you were another Hell Lord in disguise. Let's make a deal."
"No deal."
"Don't rush, young man. Hear my terms. Contracts can be revised," Mephisto said, conjuring a long scroll covered in dense text and patterns.
"Not listening."
"My terms won't harm Earth. Just find me a lost artifact, and I'll tell you what you want to know."
Su Ming stared, expressionless.
Mephisto tucked away the scroll, lit his cigarette with a puff, and flicked ash with practiced ease. "I'm guessing you're after the San Venganza contract? Sorry, I decline," Su Ming said with a cold laugh. No matter how harmless a Hell Lord's terms seemed, the moment they offered a deal, traps were already set.
From the scroll's paper and patterns to the signature at the bottom, from rights and obligations to the process of fulfillment—every step was a pitfall, some even beyond Su Ming's knowledge. Demons thrived on outsmarting the unwary.
"You think Hell's a place you can just waltz in and out of?" Mephisto said. "I won't kill you. Take your time to think."
He sighed, hopping off his throne, signaling his minions to surround Deathstroke. He had time and could return to his 'music.'
Su Ming glanced at the army rising from the lava pool, unsurprised. He'd known Hell Lords flipped faster than pages in a book.
Others might not escape Hell, but Su Ming knew no one could stop him if he wanted to leave.
"I've got the intel I came for. Farewell."
"Hm?" Mephisto frowned. Deathstroke was a warrior, and even with a Cloak of Levitation, escaping this dimension should be impossible. Hell was a singular plane, its very concept incarnate, with no edges to flee.
Yet Su Ming donned his helmet, removed an armguard, sliced his arm with a dagger, and vanished.
Mephisto's expression flickered, then settled into a smile, as if he'd seen something amusing. "Ancient One, always one step ahead," he muttered.
Loki straightened, clutching his lower back. Finally, he'd finished cleaning the sheep dung from Thor's pen. The enclosure was lavish, as expected, but Thor was too lazy to ever clean it. Dung piled high, a veritable mountain.
"Done, Loki, my brother?" Thor called. "Come drink and rest!"
Thor had 'helped' by sitting on a hay bale, cheering Loki on and pointing out trinkets in the dung for him to retrieve. Goats, being goats, ate anything—sometimes jewelry or baubles.
Loki ignored Thor's call to drink.
He conjured water to wash his hands and face, then leaned out a palace window for fresh air. The stench of sheep clung to everything, and he had no patience for Thor.
"What's wrong?" Thor asked, waving his flagon.
Loki's black hair, wet from washing, stuck to his face. The cool breeze soothed him. "No appetite. Put the ale down. You can go."
"Not drinking with me?" Thor asked, puzzled, chewing a straw.
As kids, they'd bet over straws—whether you could drink from a flagon without pouring or using magic. Thor had doubted it, so they wagered. Loki used a hollow straw to siphon Thor's ale, then gloated, demanding Thor be his steed. Thor complied but, enraged by Loki's taunts, flipped and pummeled him. They didn't speak for days.
Now, Thor smiled at the memory.
Loki sighed, eyeing Thor's foolish grin, and headed for the door. "I just want to be alone. Don't follow."
"Hey!" Thor reached out, grabbing air. Another illusion. Loki was already outside. Thor chased, and Loki bolted, their game of pursuit reignited.
Once they were gone, the real Loki appeared by the windowsill, his face dark and brooding. He flicked his hair irritably, glaring at his fine clothes, now smeared with wool and dung.
Why was The Presence so unfair?
Giggle.
"Who's there?" Loki snapped.
A faint, feminine laugh echoed, as if from the sheep pen's dark corner. He glanced at Thor's two goats, oblivious as they munched feed.
The goats, noticing his stare, smirked, their tails flicking as more dung dropped. They shuffled, signaling him to clean it.
Loki raised an eyebrow. From his cloak, he drew a small vial, cloaked it with illusion, and sent its contents—a poison meant for Thor, one that'd block bowels for a month—into the goats' feed trough. Let their bellies burst.
Giggle.
The laugh came again, clearer, encouraging his sabotage. It drifted from outside the window, where he'd just been looking.
He peered out. Nothing. Only a magpie perched on a distant branch, its black eyes fixed on Asgard's prince.
The bird spoke, its voice carrying across dozens of meters, each word laced with mockery and jest, landing perfectly in Loki's ears.
"Got a joke for me today? Pick up from last night's interrupted one?"
That's what it said.