In the depths of the jungle, a cruel scene of life and death was unfolding.
"Thor, put me down. Leave me. Otherwise, neither of us will make it out alive!"
Covered in mud and blood, Che Guevara struggled to push away the man supporting him.
His condition was dire—besides his battered state, a deep wound bled heavily at his waist. He had taken the hit earlier during the firefight with the surrounding U.S. forces.
"No! If we leave, we leave together!"
Thor refused. He held Che up firmly, dragging him forward step by step.
But even with Thor's great strength, he was still only a man now. In the suffocating heat and tangled vines of the tropical rainforest, carrying another slowed him down too much.
Soon, the rustle of movement spread through the trees. Both Thor and Che instantly knew—the Americans were closing in.
For two men who had faced countless battles, this was the first time they truly felt despair.
They had fought U.S. soldiers before. It wasn't arrogance—their past encounters had shown them that most American troops were pampered, hardly worthy opponents. Even the special agents weren't much stronger.
But this time was different. These soldiers that hunted them were fearless, merciless—like machines more than men.
And indeed, in a sense, they were.
A moment later, six heavily armed soldiers stepped out of the shadows of the jungle, surrounding the pair. Their eyes were cold, their movements mechanical.
They were the Reanimated Soldiers.
If not for the U.S. command's order to capture Che Guevara and Thor alive, these soulless warriors would already have opened fire.
"Now it's over. Even if we wanted to run, there's no chance," Che let out a bitter laugh as he stared at the rifles pointed their way.
"No. I'll get you out of here, comrade," Thor growled, positioning himself protectively in front of Che, gripping an AK fitted with a bayonet.
But in his heart, he longed desperately for the hammer that was no longer in his hand.
Over the past year, he had tried to bury his old self. With Che and the others treating him as one of their own, he had even managed to forget—for a time—that he was once the mighty Thor.
Yet now, facing this mortal trap, he remembered who he truly was. He remembered the battles across the Nine Realms. If only his godhood remained—what were a few human soldiers to him?
But reality was merciless. Watching the Reanimated Soldiers close in step by step, all he could feel was the crushing weight of helplessness.
If only… Mjolnir were here…
What he did not know was that, far away at the crater where the hammer had fallen, Mjolnir was no longer lying still in the earth. It was gone.
"You are surrounded! Drop your weapons and surrender!"
The U.S. commander's voice boomed through the jungle.
"In your dreams! If you want me, come and take me yourself!" Thor roared back, defiant.
Though he knew these strange soldiers were beyond him, surrender was not in his vocabulary. He raised his bayonet, ready for a final stand. His rifle had long run out of bullets. (TL/N: A bayonet is a knife, sword, or spike-shaped weapon designed to be attached to the end of a rifle or other long firearm, turning it into a spear for close-quarters combat.)
Beside him, Che still had a single round left in his pistol—but that one was not for the enemy. It was meant for himself.
"Stubborn fools… Squad A, capture them alive if possible!"
The commander gave the order coldly.
The six Reanimated Soldiers lowered their guns, drawing combat knives instead, advancing with steady, unshaken steps.
Thor immediately understood what they intended. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the bayonet, and surged forward first.
He had fought these strange enemies before.
He knew all too well—they were no ordinary men.
Thor had long understood what kind of enemies these were. These soldiers were monsters in human form—fearless, unyielding, and almost immune to pain. Even if half their body or skull was blown apart, they would still drag themselves forward to fight.
But that didn't mean they couldn't die.
The truth was, though the Americans used vibranium in their creation, the amount was tiny—limited to neural conduction systems. It offered no real protection.
Thor himself had already killed one of them before.
But the price had been devastating—the squad of comrades fighting alongside him was wiped out, and Che had suffered his wound in that same desperate clash.
It was then Thor discovered the secret.
Inside the soldier's ruined skull, half-mashed like a rotten melon, he found a charred microchip—a tiny computer.
From this, he and Che realized the truth: these things had a weakness.
Destroy the core, and they would collapse.
And so Thor's only hope in each fight was the same—land a killing strike on that one fragile spot.
His bayonet thrusts always sought the eye socket, the quickest way into the brain.
But this time, his gamble failed.
The Reanimated Soldiers knew their weakness better than anyone. Their combat programming was designed to prevent such strikes.
Thor's blade lunged forward, but one soldier caught it with his arm, stopping the thrust cold. No matter how Thor strained, the weapon went no further.
The others closed in at once.
A storm of iron hands seized him, overwhelming his mortal strength.
Nearby, Che tried to rise and fight, but the blood loss had drained him. He staggered, swayed—then a casual shove from a passing soldier sent him collapsing into the mud, unable to rise again.
And so, in moments, both were subdued, shackled, and dragged away.
The U.S. operation had succeeded. But this was foreign soil—South America, not the States. Their presence here was illegal, and time pressed heavily on them. Before word spread, they needed to spirit the captives back across the sea.
Inside the mirror dimension, the mage observing all this finally turned to the man beside him.
"Sir, are we just going to stand by and watch?" he asked.
Josh smirked faintly. "Not yet. Let the hammer fly a little longer."
The mage blinked, puzzled. But he dared not question further.
It didn't take long to understand.
Barely two minutes later, the clear skies above the rainforest blackened.
Thunder cracked, lightning raged—the heavens themselves roared with fury.
Then a blazing bolt struck down from the clouds, slamming directly into the armored vehicle carrying Thor.
When the smoke cleared, a figure stood tall amidst the wreckage—armor gleaming, storm-forged hammer in hand.
Thor, the God of Thunder, had returned.
The American soldiers and Reanimated brutes froze in shock.
Then, scrambling, they opened fire and charged, desperate to crush the fugitive before he broke free.
But the tide had turned.
With a single swing of Mjolnir, Thor unleashed a storm of lightning that hurled one Reanimated Soldier through the air like a ragdoll, lifeless before it hit the ground.
The battlefield had shifted.
The helpless fugitive was gone.
The God of Thunder, Thor was here.