Malekith had every intention of seizing the Aether, laying waste to Asgard, and plunging the universe back into darkness—but he was not fool enough to charge in without preparation. The war thousands of years ago had cost the Dark Elves countless lives, and those who now survived aboard the flagship were the finest of their kind. Malekith would never sacrifice his people recklessly.
Yet perfect preparation was impossible. Their long slumber had left them ignorant of the many realms and kingdoms scattered across the universe, and the materials needed to transform their kin into Cursed Warriors had dwindled to almost nothing.
While agents were dispatched to infiltrate Asgard and sow chaos in preparation for the coming upheaval, an advance team also had to be sent to Midgard to familiarize themselves with the battlefield ahead—ensuring they could exploit both the terrain and the tide of war to maximum effect.
Malekith, of course, possessed the means to detect the Aether. Thus, the three Cursed Warriors he sent could study Midgard's environment while simultaneously monitoring the unknown being who had freed the Aether from Asgard's grasp. If that being proved insignificant, disposing of them outright was always an option.
"Rrraaagh—!"
A roar like that of a savage beast tore through the air. The Cursed Warrior, wreathed in thick smoke, burst violently from the shadows. Its colossal strength shattered the ground beneath its feet as it leaped into the air, fists clenched and glowing with veins of molten fire.
"Commander, there seems to be something up ahead?"
The Dark Elf flagship pressed onward. Algrim, serving as second-in-command, stared at the display projected before him, his expression shifting slightly.
"Perhaps some kind of defensive barrier."
"Use the ship's cannons to blast through anything that blocks our path!"
To Malekith, nothing mattered more than the Aether now. Through positional tracking, he could see it drawing ever closer to his own position. After thousands of years of slumber, Malekith's blood was practically boiling—the dream of returning the universe to darkness was closer than ever.
That said, Malekith was no fool. In the Dark Elves' past wars, he had served as strategist and commander. Though he had been outmaneuvered by Asgard's teleportation-and-backstab tactics, he still possessed considerable skill in reading the flow of battle—unless, of course, he encountered the kind of enemy who charged in with no regard for their own life.
Midgard's technology was merely passable. Only their cloaking technology could rival that of the Dark Elves; in every other regard, they fell far short of a civilization that had slumbered for millennia. Furthermore, Malekith had learned that this world had few high-tier warriors. If the bearer of the Aether counted as its strongest combatant, then the rest—the armies and soldiers—were nothing but cannon fodder.
Even accounting for the Dark Elves' diminished numbers, Malekith could not fathom losing to a minor kingdom of such low-tier civilization. How could he possibly lose when his interstellar flagship was staring them in the face?
Still, caution remained necessary. At the very least, Malekith had no desire to squander the last remnants of his people here. He intended to lead his race to dominance in the dark universe.
And, of course, he had to guard against those self-proclaimed cosmic police—the Asgardians.
"Warriors! Follow me, and let us reclaim the darkness!"
As if delivering a pre-battle declaration, the cloaked interstellar flagship gradually revealed its pitch-black silhouette. The colossal vessel cast a shadow that blanketed the skies above Earth. Shaped like a cross of death, its iron gears ground and turned as rows of dark, gaping cannon muzzles emerged, accompanied by deafening volleys of energy fire.
In truth, the moment they entered space, Zod could have wiped them out with a single orbital railgun barrage.
He thought it over, however, and decided to let the people of Earth witness the cruelty of the universe firsthand.
Aliens invading every other day!
This was precisely why S.W.O.R.D. and the Umbrella Corporation needed to exist permanently. In times of war, one acted first and reported later. Anyone who tried to hold things back would simply be executed on the spot.
And if direct execution wasn't possible, well—there were always monsters that could stage a sudden "accident."
After the Dark Elves' invasion began, they discovered they had lost their ability to sense the Aether.
And so Malekith—wait, no, not "Spicy Chicken"… Malekith—decided to make the people of Midgard hand over the one who possessed the Aether themselves.
Then the Dark Elves got curb-stomped by S.W.O.R.D.'s superheroes.
"Impossible! How can Midgard have warriors this powerful!"
Malekith was utterly dumbfounded. The scenario he had envisioned—Dark Elves slaughtering Midgardians and sowing terror—had not materialized. Instead, it was the superheroes slaughtering the Dark Elves.
"This batch of alien invaders doesn't seem all that impressive. Even weaklings like these think they can invade us now?"
Watching the Dark Elves being beaten back step by step, the people of Earth grew increasingly cocky.
It hadn't been easy. After so many alien invasions, this was the first time Earth had cleanly and decisively defeated the invaders.
The appearance of the Zaku mechs further stripped the Dark Elf ships of whatever advantage they might have had.
Left with no other choice, Malekith ordered his second-in-command, Algrim, to become a Cursed Warrior.
Cursed Warriors came in two varieties: mass-produced Cursed and elite Cursed.
The mass-produced version consisted of the rank-and-file Dark Elf soldiers who had fought the ancient super-warriors of Asgard—the generation of Thor's grandfather—five thousand years ago.
Though they were called rank-and-file, they were still terrifyingly strong.
Because the Asgardian warriors of Thor's grandfather's era were each roughly equivalent to a bare-handed Thor in combat power, and it took five of them to take down a single Cursed Warrior.
By that measure, a mass-produced Cursed Warrior was roughly twice as powerful as Thor.
Algrim, the Cursed Warrior from the original storyline, had beaten Thor senseless. According to the director, it was confirmed that this Cursed Warrior possessed four times the combat power of Thor.
Four times Thor—what did that even mean? Not even an enraged Hulk could match that.
And so, the superheroes who had been reveling in their victory suddenly found a monster leaping out from among the Dark Elves. It sent both the Green Hulk and the Red Hulk flying with a single blow, and nearly punched a hole straight through Stark's symbiote armor.
Its strength was absolutely staggering, completely overwhelming a large number of superheroes. Its defense might have been slightly lacking, but its regeneration speed was equally astonishing—wounds that took immense effort to inflict would heal in an instant.
"Damn it, what the hell is this thing?!"
After watching the enraged Hulk get smacked flying yet again—this time with teeth knocked out—Tony Stark couldn't help but feel his scalp tingle.
Zod, witnessing the Cursed Warrior's combat prowess, found his interest genuinely piqued.
His mass-produced Hulk units probably couldn't match a mass-produced Cursed Warrior. But the Cursed Warrior had a major flaw—this state was actively burning through its own life force. After all, it was a super-soldier manufactured from fragments of the Aether.
/-\
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