In the beginning, many questions had a single answer: Loki.
Who brought the world to the brink of destruction, only to whimsically save it?
Loki.
Who, through a web of contracts with Hell Lords, cheated death and rewrote time?
Loki.
Who started a game—a scheme of deception to better the world and cleanse a cursed fate?
Loki.
Now, the game was nearing its end. And the end of all things often comes not with a bang, but in silence.
A black magpie danced through the sky, heading far from Asgard.
Loki followed closely behind.
He needed answers. The bird's destination was unknown, but he trusted he'd escape unscathed. He needed one answer.
The tiny black figure, like a scrap of cloth, tumbled playfully in the air, relishing the chase.
By a tranquil pond, it suddenly dove into the water.
Loki frowned but quickly recognized the pond as an illusion—everything was fake.
He leaped in after it.
As expected, below was a modest cavern, like a commoner's wine cellar.
The air was stale, the darkness absolute.
The black bird had vanished into the space.
"Mr. Blackbird?"
Loki stood, scanning for the bird's silhouette.
Then, a flicker of light sparked behind him. Emerald flames erupted from the ground, spreading into a ring that encircled him.
As the flames rose, a figure materialized above them, translucent like a ghost or a wisp of smoke.
He wore a green robe, a golden horned helmet, his face etched with faint wrinkles—the marks of time.
Loki's heart trembled. This was his favorite attire, the helmet bearing scratches he'd made himself.
So, who was this?
"Time's up, little Loki."
The figure answered in a sharp, textured voice, slithering up Loki's legs like a serpent.
Not only did he dodge the question, but his mischievous gaze treated Loki like some amusing creature.
"You?" Loki spun, eyes narrowing at the sight.
"I'd love to play a guessing game, but seeing me, you've already got the answer." The figure crossed his arms, floating loosely, a wisp of green smoke.
"You know what I'm thinking?" Loki's brow furrowed.
"Oh, that's a good one. Guess if I know!" The figure's grin widened, wrinkles deepening. "But fair warning: I'm the last person you should trust—because I'm you."
Loki had suspected as much. Who else could it be?
He was Loki, and so was this figure—an older, perhaps future version of himself.
"Enough, old me. What torture have you prepared? This fire's just an illusion—it can't trap Asgard's prince!"
"Asgard's prince? Hahaha, that's the best joke you've ever told me." Old Loki doubled over, wiping mock tears. "Pity. I thought we'd have a fair game, but you remind me how foolish we once were."
Loki's hand rested on his belt, standing tall, glaring coldly at his future self.
"You slink back like a specter just to hear jokes?"
"I could tell you, but whether you believe me is your call." Old Loki raised a hand, stroking his smooth chin. "To hide the truth from the curious, seven black magpies set out. They carried parts of my plan to those who shouldn't know. The last one found you."
The black bird Loki had chased reappeared, landing on Old Loki's shoulder, whispering in his ear.
Its beady eyes shot young Loki a disdainful glance before it sank into Old Loki's chest like a pebble, vanishing.
He'd always been careful, weaving tricks and half-truths to keep the full story obscured.
He was the God of Lies, the Deceiver—old titles. Now, he was the God of Stories.
When he spun a tale, he ensured no one—not multiversal Observers, not even higher beings—could see past the bizarre saga of Deathstroke running amok.
In unseen corners, the universe shifted. What others did, no one knew.
The events weren't directly linked; he'd forced them together. Those caught in the story didn't question its logic.
They were too enthralled.
But Loki knew Deathstroke too well. Many could fool him briefly; none could forever.
The Nine Realms, the entire story, teetered on collapse. Deathstroke likely sensed his presence already—might even burst through the cave entrance, greatsword raised, any second.
Who could say?
The story shifted because of one character, as Old Loki had foreseen. Deathstroke was never bound by the narrative, immune to its sway.
But for now, whether story or scam, this was Deathstroke's first encounter at this moment. He'd be fooled for a while—long enough.
Old Loki would use his greatest weapon: deception.
Where the other six magpies went, and why Loki twisted the story itself, lay in a small flashback in his script.
The first magpie went to the Revealer, above the story.
A gaunt, elderly light elf, he didn't exist until Loki crafted him in the future and sent him to the multiverse's dawn to tell Loki's tale.
This blind elf, like the Observers, had little power. His sole ability was to become an "enigma" in Eternity, cloaking the true story with Loki's.
When the magpie reached his castle of scrolls and tomes, time itself was still a vague concept.
His ghostly white eyes spotted the bird on a question-mark-shaped windowsill—Loki's prank. No pupils, yet gifted with sight.
A blind man seeing all—wasn't that hilarious?
The skeletal elf unfurled a scroll, eyeing the bony bird.
"You bring Loki's message. Who are you?" he asked in bird-tongue.
The magpie bristled. It wasn't a messenger, just as crows aren't scavengers.
Scavengers—vultures, storks, hyenas, wolverines, jackals—thrive on carrion.
Crows are omnivores: grains, insects, fruits, other birds' eggs. Many assume they're scavengers, but they're predators.
Still, the magpie answered in bird-tongue.
"Watch Loki. Await the next Nine Realms War. He's crafted a device to destroy the multiverse, but for now, he believes it's safe. Write a contract with Mephisto using this intel. Sign it, 'Your dear old friend, Loki.'"
"What's in it for me?" the Revealer asked, expressionless.
"You love stories. Keep this one. It's Loki's, and for a long time, only you'll know it."
The magpie flew off, vanishing into a white-lit future.
When the deal was struck, a book never written appeared in the Revealer's hands. He clawed open its pages, scanning the contents.
Surprisingly, the protagonist wasn't Loki, Thor, or anyone the Revealer knew.
It was a mortal named Deathstroke.
Loki didn't fully understand this man but made the story a playground of mischief and fun.
He only needed to know himself. In the tale, all saw Deathstroke as Loki in disguise.
The Revealer suspected Loki aimed to replace this man, deceiving the world through storytelling. But the story had no end—just hundreds of pages capped with Loki's prankish doodles, hiding everything.
It was merely a beginning, set in 1925—two million years after the Revealer's time.
He considered exploiting the story for gain but gave up. Anything he could think of, Loki had already anticipated. The God of Stories was prepared.
Sighing, he gazed out at the eternally white void. No one knew what his lightless eyes saw.
His bony fingers closed the book. Ink surfaced on the cover—not a title, but a sprawling message:
"Mystic Journey: A 30-act comedy, or a 31-act tragedy? Or perhaps a 32-act serial, hehe."
Classic Loki—impossible to pin down. Even he didn't know how his story ended.
Unwilling? Or unable?
The Revealer tucked the book into his ribcage and began reciting a contract in a broadcaster's voice, addressing a certain Hell Lord.
The black bird would return someday, however reluctantly, as a messenger.
After what felt like seconds or millions of years, just as he finished the final infernal syllable, a tiny black shadow flitted through the window, same as before.
"I bring news."
The magpie spoke in bird-tongue.
"You bring Loki's message. Who are you?" the Revealer replied in kind.
The magpie bristled. It wasn't a messenger, just as crows aren't scavengers.