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-Asgard-
(General P.O.V)
The Arena of Valhalgard thundered with noise. Thousands filled the sky-tiered seats—Aesir, Vanir, and emissaries of realms beyond. Dwarves cheered beside light elves. Trolls grunted with mead-soaked fists raised high. Magic danced across banners. Crystalline horns blared.
It was no ordinary celebration.
Today marked the Second Birth Millennium of Crown Prince Baldur, son of Odin and Freyja—2000 years of light, grace, and peace. A symbolic rebirth of Asgard's future.
And at the heart of the spectacle, soaring above the arena on a shimmering eight-legged pegasus, sat the announcer, cloaked in emerald, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Loki, Agent of Asgard. God of Chaos, Trickery and apparently...Announcers.
He flew low across the sands, golden mic in hand, voice booming across the coliseum.
"Citizens of the Nine Realms! Give thunderous applause for the victors of our opening bout!"
Below him, the Warriors Three—Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun—stood over the cracked skull of a defeated Rock Troll, weapons raised.
"The personal guard of our radiant prince! The pride of the Golden Legion!"
The crowd exploded. Fandral winked to the ladies. Volstagg roared. Hogun merely nodded.
Up on the royal dais, All-Mother Freyja clapped politely, adorned in silver and emeralds, her expression unreadable.
Beside her, Baldur beamed, standing to cheer for his comrades. "Glorious! I wish I'd been in there too."
Lady Sif, clad in dark gold and iron, stood behind him, her hand on her sword hilt, ever vigilant.
Freyja turned to her son. "You are no longer a child chasing glory, Baldur. With your father in the Odin Sleep, you must conduct yourself as a ruler. Leave the fighting to warriors. Isn't that right, Lady Sif?"
Sif hesitated.
"It's not my place to say, my queen… but I remember when Thor fought in these very sands. He was crown prince once, too."
Baldur grinned, clearly pleased.
Freyja's smile thinned. "You were right, Sif. It was not your place."
Sif bowed. "My apologies, All-Mother."
The moment passed.
Above, Loki raised his hand for silence—but the crowd kept cheering.
He scowled and raised the mic again.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
A wave of magic amplified his voice, rattling the sky.
Silence fell like a dropped axe.
Loki cleared his throat, voice now smooth and theatrical.
"Now, now… time for our main event. And oh, what a special main event I, Loki of Asgard, have arranged just for you—by decree of the All-Father himself!"
He gestured grandly.
The left gate rumbled open.
"From the frost-bitten tombs of Jotunheim—seven Frost Giants, convicted of high treason and conspiracy against the Royal Family!"
The giants stomped into view, icy blue and snarling.
"From the raging plains of Muspelheim—three Fire Giants, found guilty of arson, property destruction, and resisting arrest!"
They entered next, crackling with embers.
"And one rogue Cyclops—convicted of devouring an entire village of Midgardians, starting with the children!"
The creature roared, slobbering, dragging a spiked club.
"All have been promised freedom and royal pardon—if they can defeat one single opponent."
The crowd murmured. Whispers of confusion and awe rippled through the arena.
One against eleven?
Loki grinned.
"Oh, but this isn't just anyone. This is someone I had to fetch myself. Someone the All-Father commanded returned to the realm. Someone who is not who you remember—but someone you will never forget."
He paused for effect.
"From Midgard—the Slayer of Fafnir the Skyfire, the Reincarnated God of Cosmic Storms and rattling Thunder, bearer of Mjolnir, and rightful heir to the thunderous mantle of Thor Odinson..."
The right gate opened with a low creak.
"...Siegfried the Thunderer!"
Out strode Siegfried.
Clad in an Uru-weaved sleeveless battleplate, a crimson cloak flowing behind him. His now long red hair crowned with a winged silver helm, and in his hand—
Mjolnir, the divine hammer.
The arena erupted.
Some gasped. Others shouted. Dozens stood. Gods blinked in disbelief.
Even Freyja's posture shifted. Baldur leaned forward. Sif's eyes widened.
Siegfried didn't speak.
He just walked onto the sand, calm, composed—power rolling off him in waves.
Mjolnir hummed with ancient hunger.
The Eleven monsters stared at him.
Siegfried stopped at the center of the arena.
He rolled his neck. Raised the hammer.
And the sky began to darken.
(Siegfried's P.O.V)
It had been two days since I arrived in Asgard.
Two days of walking beneath golden towers and across bridges suspended over stardust oceans. Two days of polite refusals, gossiping elves and revelations.
And within those two days, I began to remember.
Not as a flood—but as fragments.
Bits of old battles. Roars and laughter. A table surrounded by friends, mugs clashing. An Axe in one hand, the Hammer in the other. The heat of the arena's sands baking my skin after a hard-fought duel.
Now, standing in the same arena, I smelled blood in the dirt, sweat soaked into the stone, the hint of iron in the air.
I'd fought here before. As Thor.
Afterward, I'd stagger into the mead halls with warriors at my side, our arms slung over shoulders, bragging and laughing until the mugs ran dry and our voices broke.
I didn't just see it—I felt it.
Loki had been blunt with me during those two days.
"Thor," he said, "was… loved. And hated. Revered. Feared. He was brash, impulsive. A force of nature. An endearing brutish oaf of a dear brother."
According to him, Thor wasn't just the crown prince. He was the Chosen Protector of the Nine Realms. A title that wasn't ceremonial. It meant responsibility. Burden.
I'd asked Loki a question that had been clawing at me since the moment I lifted Mjolnir.
"If Thor was so strong—if he was a god—how did he die? Aren't you all supposed to be immortal?"
Loki's answer stuck with me. "He didn't die. He faded."
Fading—when gods lose power, lose divinity, when no one prays, no one remembers. When belief is gone.
But that didn't make sense.
Thor wasn't some obscure deity. He was Thor Odinson.
And so I asked, "How do you know I'm him?"
Loki only smiled. "I don't. Odin does."
He told me Odin had felt my birth on Midgard. That it shook Yggdrasil, that it stirred the roots of the World Tree. That he had sent Loki to find me.
"Why?" I asked.
Loki's grin didn't waver. "That's something only the Allfather can answer. But if you want to talk to him, well… you'll have to wake him up. And Odin only wakes when there's enough noise to rattle the cosmos."
So here I was. In the arena. Facing eleven monsters.
And as I looked at them—frost giants snarling with icy breath, fire giants burning with embered rage, and that massive slobbering Cyclops pounding its club into the dirt—I muttered under my breath:
"Commotion, huh? I'll give you a commotion."
Above, Loki raised his hand dramatically.
"Begin!"
The giants roared as one, surging forward in a stampede of muscle, flame, and death.
I didn't flinch.
I just lifted my hammer.
Mjolnir.
And waited for the storm.
(General P.O.V)
The Frost Giants snarled, rallying themselves into a frenzy.
"Kill the Thunderer!"
"Rip the godling apart!"
"Freedom waits at the end of his bones brothers!"
Beside them, the Fire Giants burned hotter, blades in hand, lava dripping from their mouths. Together, they charged—bellowing war cries that shook the arena walls.
But the sky responded first.
A rumble echoed above. Clouds swirled into a vortex—blotting out the sun. Wind tore through the arena, and then—
Lightning fell.
A blinding, vertical pillar of raw energy slammed down from the heavens, just narrowly missing Loki's pegasus overhead. It struck the charging giants with deafening force.
The crowd gasped, shielding their eyes from the blinding impact.
When the light faded, the Frost and Fire Giants were still standing—but barely. Their bodies smoked, blackened and twitching, melted armor glowing red-hot, weapons shattered.
And then—
A second strike.
Brighter. Louder.
BOOM.
The thunderclap sent cracks rippling through the arena floor. The giants turned to ash, vaporized in place. One Frost Giant collapsed mid-scream, his voice little more than a rasp:
"Damn you… Thunderer…"
Silence followed.
No one cheered.
No one moved.
The monsters hadn't even touched him.
Then came the sound of feet—one, massive and pounding.
The Cyclops, who had held back from the charge, suddenly turned and ran away from Siegfried, but toward the royal dais.
It roared and leapt high, club raised to crush.
Lady Sif stepped in front of Baldur, sword already drawn.
She didn't need it.
Mjolnir whizzed past her with a boom of displaced air.
It punched through the Cyclops' skull, sending a spray of brain and bone into the sky. A chunk of eye landed with a wet slap on Allmother Freyja's cheek.
The Cyclops' body, now limp and falling toward the stands, threatened to crush dozens.
But Mjolnir wasn't done.
It tore through the air, hitting the corpse again and again—ripping chunks free, reducing the body to flying meat and shattered bone.
The crowd was pelted in gore—but saved from being flattened.
The hammer spun once more, then snapped back into Siegfried's hand with a satisfying thwack.
He stood alone in the arena, breathing slow, surrounded by ash.
Eyes lifted to the royal box.
Sif stared at him, unreadable.
Baldur's mouth hung open, awe plain on his face.
The Warriors Three—seasoned gods who had fought beside Thor before—looked at Siegfried as if they'd seen a ghost.
Then—
"SEIZE HIM!" Freyja's voice cracked through the silence.
Everyone turned.
The Allmother stood, regal even with Cyclops gore sliding down her face.
"That is not Thor," she declared. "That is an imposter. A pretender! Detain him immediately!"
::---------------------::
Chapter 6 Title:- Odin.
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