Was the black magpie that met the Revealer the same one as before? Only Loki knew, and he'd never tell. He preferred others to guess.
Whether anyone bothered to guess didn't matter to him, but crafting more riddles was always entertaining.
When the time came, and the Revealer began unveiling Loki's story as commanded, these words finally appeared on paper, seen by some unknown observer.
So, if Loki's so-called observers truly existed, they could see where the second black magpie went.
It flew to Mephisto's Hell, carrying a letter signed, "Your dear old friend, Loki." The letter, more a script than a contract, wove together concepts of time, story, place, and characters.
This wasn't mere literature—it was a world concept, infused with the rules of reality itself.
After delivering the letter to a demon, the second magpie dove into the ground's molten lava like a moth to flame, becoming a fleeting green spark.
When the demon handed the letter to the crimson Hell Lord, Mephisto read its terms, felt the power within, and gave a peculiar smile.
"Oh? Isn't this interesting?"
That's what the Hell Lord said. Loki, claiming to be an old friend, offered the Destroyer Maiden as a deposit and promised something that could make Mephisto the Satan.
Satan—a title coveted by every Hell Lord, a key to mastering all infernal rules and ascending to a higher state.
Mephisto didn't trust Loki. To him, Loki was just an Asgardian pup—no, a Frost Giant whelp. Trust was folly, a death sentence in this world, especially for devils.
But for reasons of his own, Mephisto joined the game without hesitation. His armies were endless, and he had things to verify.
Was the Destroyer Maiden real? What gave Loki the gall to bargain with him? And why was the Supreme Sorcerer's heir heading to the heavens?
Hell was dull. Even the worst screams grew tiresome. A mysterious deal? Mephisto loved deals.
The third magpie sought young Zemo. In Loki's story, old Zemo died early, killed by Red Skull's death spore bomb.
Loki wanted young Zemo to rise sooner.
A young, clever Avenger—clichéd but classic. Easier to control.
With no past story, young Zemo's personality and thoughts were a blank slate, ripe for shaping.
Loki didn't even need to think hard to script his arc, letting Zemo follow a pre-set path.
Not yet, though. The magpie used hypnotic whispers to flood Zemo's mind with ideas and knowledge, subtly manipulating his body. It retrieved the Destiny Stone, sent by future Loki, and had Zemo contact Red Skull's daughter.
That madwoman unleashed the Serpent, as Zemo instructed.
Then Zemo led an army into Asgard. The magpie—or rather, Loki—was the true guide. He'd been Asgard's king in other future tales.
He could conjure secret passages from nothing, paired with Madame Lotus's abilities, ensuring unhindered access.
Only when young Zemo forged the Destiny Stone could Loki send it back to ancient times, where Odin would find it under the World Tree, making it Asgard's heirloom.
One day, those stones would save Thor's life.
When the magpie left Zemo's body, dissolving into green smoke, Zemo found the "heart's voice" that had guided him gone.
Pain stung his face. Sitting under a tree, he clutched his cheek, wondering what had happened. Why couldn't he remember?
The past few days felt like a dream. He'd led an army to Asgard, actions he recalled but didn't feel were his own.
Realizing he was in deep trouble, he scrambled for a fix. Luckily, that strange fountain water he'd drunk sharpened his mind.
The fourth magpie visited Surtur. The flames of Muspelheim singed its feathers, leaving a scorched stench.
It told Surtur that Loki, his old friend, would deliver Thor to him. All the Fire Giant needed was to send cannon fodder to Asgard and Vanaheim, using hostages to force Odin to invite Surtur to Asgard, triggering Ragnarök.
Surtur agreed, confident in his power.
Later, when Loki rescued Thor and his group, Surtur cursed him, enraged at the betrayal.
Not because of illusions, but lies.
Young Loki knew nothing, but the magpie was Old Loki's severed soul, hailing from a future beyond Ragnarök.
Surtur's fury, his loss of composure, drew attention as planned—one of Old Loki's schemes.
The fifth magpie went to Kang the Conqueror, giving that arrogant time-traveler a temporal coordinate, a temptation.
Kang was just a warm-up act. Loki needed to drop a hint, giving the one uncontrollable figure—Deathstroke—a direction to ponder.
Yes, the riddle was always about time.
The sixth magpie's task was simple.
It followed Frigga. Old Loki wanted to see more of his mother, how kind she was to young Loki in his youth.
"Did you see what was written in the book?"
Old Loki raised a hand, flipping invisible pages, showing young Loki the story.
Sadly, young Loki saw only darkness.
The older one's twig-like fingers danced in the air, a silent mockery.
"…"
Old Loki's game had long begun. Now, he didn't need to rewrite the story—he had to join it.
One person's tale couldn't be fully rewritten.
Loki could make Deathstroke's allies act like court jesters, goading him into quips or pranks.
He could stage scenes for Deathstroke, but they always slipped his grasp.
He couldn't rewrite Deathstroke's dark core. The man seemed to self-correct, staying grim.
Loki realized Deathstroke was like him—a being of "story." No matter how many roles Loki scripted, Deathstroke woke up halfway through.
At critical moments, Deathstroke even left this universe, stepping beyond the omniverse, derailing Loki's plans repeatedly.
For the future, Loki had to enter the game himself. He needed an "identity" to face Deathstroke.
He knew Deathstroke's secrets; Deathstroke knew his. An old Loki wouldn't gain trust as easily as a young one.
Loki had scripted foolish roles for his younger self to make Deathstroke think him a fool. At their next meeting, things would shift.
"Young me, answer this: Do you love your brother Thor?"
In the green flames, Old Loki's form flickered like a will-o'-wisp, his sharp voice piercing young Loki's ears.
"Him? Brash, arrogant, foolish—every flaw finds a home in him. But he's my brother." Young Loki raised an eyebrow, staring at his older self.
"Balder," Old Loki said, naming the eldest god.
"Different. Balder's brave, kind, gentle, strong—a fairy-tale prince, perfect in every way."
"So he must die." Old Loki nodded. Balder's death was an escape. Young Loki thought him gone, but Old Loki had other plans for Balder's story.
He knew how his younger self would respond. Stories often only needed a start; the world filled in the rest.
He just wanted to hear young Loki say it.
Old Loki wanted Balder to suffer, to miss a chance. For now, he aimed to lure Deathstroke to Hell's border, closer to the magical realm.
"Must die." Young Loki mirrored his older self's distant smile. "I killed Balder. I told only Thor. He was furious but hid it from Odin to protect me. Said he'd lost one brother and wouldn't lose another."
Loki's face shifted as he spoke. Thor was infuriating, flawed, unfit as prince or king—but a good brother.
"Heh, young me, so naïve. You think Odin doesn't know? He's not omniscient, but he knows most things, including your and Thor's little secret—and that Balder isn't dead. Heir disputes are inevitable in any dynasty. Odin just let Balder step back. Balder never wanted to compete."
Old Loki tucked away the invisible book, crossing his arms, floating lightly.
Young Loki frowned. "Damn."
"Exactly. Damn, but not dead. His role isn't done."
"What are you trying to tell me? We've circled enough." Young Loki closed his eyes. The green flames unsettled him, stirring memories that weren't his.
Old Loki's image shrank. A stone platform rose. He removed his horned helmet, placing it on the stone, black hair spilling over his shoulders.
"Ragnarök can be avoided. Want Mother to live? Thor to live? To oust Odin and take the throne?"
"What do you want me to do, future, evil me?"
"Future, yes. Evil? Because of these flames? They're our favorite color, same as Leah's dress."
"Who's Leah?"
"Our love. Mother's handmaid, Hela's right hand, a Hell Lord, our sister. Guess which?"
"I'd say none. You're just clouding my mind."
"Heh heh heh."
In the cramped underground space, the air quivered. Old Loki seemed delighted, treating it like another joke.