The All-Father's Sabbatical.
One month later, the gears of the "World Tour" finally began to grind.
It was an ambitious itinerary. Odin intended to traverse the Nine Realms in a display of regal visibility—starting with the lush forests of Vanaheim, moving through the starlight spires of Alfheim, the deep forges of Nidavellir, and finally descending into the bustling chaos of Midgard. Loki had privately amused himself by adding "inspection of exotic local beauties" to the hidden agenda.
It had taken every ounce of Frigga's influence to convince Odin that he deserved a rest. She argued that the boys were men now, the borders were stable, and the Queen deserved a chance to clear her mind far from the heavy incense of the throne room. Odin, weighed down by centuries of unspoken guilt toward his wife, found himself unable to refuse.
The Bifrost flared, a prismatic pillar of light that swept the King and Queen away into the stars.
Loki, left as the acting "steward of the house," waited exactly twenty-four hours. He spent those first few days in the Northlands, bringing Goria a crown forged of starlight gems and a vintage of ten-thousand-year-old mead. They were inseparable until the inevitable chime of destiny arrived—a messenger from the Witch Mave.
The time for the Ymir Inheritance had come.
Loki didn't choose the path of the "Near-Death Ordeal," but even the "Gentle" version was a revelation. He consumed a potion that glowed like a trapped sun and bathed in a pool of ancient, primordial ichor for a full day and night.
The results were staggering. He refined his divine power eight times over in a single session. His physical form underwent a densification that put him on par with the legendary "Stormbreaker" level of strength from the old histories. More importantly, his potential was unlocked. If he were a game character, his base attributes at level one had just jumped from a five to a twenty. He was no longer just a Prince; he was a powerhouse in wait.
The Smuggler's Path.
The next phase of the plan required a delicate touch. Loki traveled to the South Sea Bay, to a jagged reef known to the locals as the Devil's Reef. Beneath its shifting magnetic tides lay a vibrant, hidden tunnel that led directly to the frozen wastes of Jotunheim.
Using a ritual map provided by Mave, he bypassed the destroyed main gates and slipped into a series of ancient, unstable passages. These "Dark Energy" veins connected the Nine Realms in ways the Bifrost never could. He eventually emerged in the cold, damp forests of Norway on Midgard—the ancient battlefield where Aesir and Frost Giant had once bled together.
Technically, Loki could have just opened a spatial portal. But he was an actor who respected the craft. Taking the long way allowed him to familiarize himself with the "smuggler's routes" of the universe, and it avoided leaving a massive magical signature for Heimdall to track later.
In the heart of an ancient stone church, Loki found his prize. The Tesseract sat in a hidden chamber, worshipped as a relic by oblivious monks.
Loki was cautious. He waited until the dead of night, used his Psychic Mastery to bypass the priest's mind, and swapped the Infinity Stone for a "Real-Grade" illusionary duplicate. It was a masterpiece of trickery that would hold its form long after he was gone.
Now, he had the key to the abyss.
The Land of the Dead.
Norway held a unique secret: a "Deep-Sea Rift" that acted as a natural thinning of the veil between Midgard and the Land of the Dead. This was why, in the ancient stories, Hela always appeared in these cold waters first upon her escape.
"Gurgle... gurgle..."
Loki dived. The pressure of the icy sea was immense, but the Tesseract in his hand projected a sphere of azure light, isolating him from the crushing depths. He searched for the intersection—the "manhole cover" of the universe.
"There's the signal. East."
Using his enhanced spatial abilities, Loki pried open the dimensional "tomb-raiding tunnel." He slipped through the rift like a swimming fish, leaving the ocean behind for a world of gray ash and silence.
"Sister Hela?" Loki called out, his voice sounding small and clear in the desolate wasteland. "Sister... Sister! Big sister, are you home?"
Suddenly, the black mist erupted. It didn't just move; it hunted. It engulfed Loki, dragging him through a forest of obsidian sword-mountains until he was thrown onto the cold stone floor of a solitary, pitch-black throne room.
There sat Hela. Fifteen hundred years younger than the woman of the histories, yet twice as terrifying. She was cool, elegant, and radiated a deathly pressure that made the very air feel heavy.
"An Asgardian cub?" she whispered, her voice like a razor on silk.
"Sister, I—"
"Kneel," she commanded.
"I just—"
"I said... KNEEL!"
The Goddess and the Actor.
Loki knelt. He knelt with his whole heart. He wasn't there to fight—he couldn't win here, not on Death's home turf. He had transformed himself back into his seven-year-old form, hoping a child's face would bypass her legendary rage.
Hela rose from her throne, her dark robes trailing behind her like smoke. She beckoned, and a tendril of mist dragged Loki to her feet. She pinched his chin, tilting his head from side to side as if inspecting a strange breed of livestock.
"Asgardian cub?" she asked again.
"Yes."
"You're lying." She squeezed.
"Ah! Ow! I really am!" Loki struggled, his eyes watering. "Mother sent me! Frigga! I'm your younger brother, Loki!"
Hela's thumb-nail grazed his cheek, drawing a single bead of blood. She tasted it, her brow furrowing in a mask of pure, cold impatience. "You're lying again!"
"Not biological! Adopted! I'm a Frost Giant!"
The pressure on his jaw eased slightly.
"Mother met you through the bloodline shackles," Loki spilled, talking as fast as his seven-year-old lungs would allow. "I've been studying your notes on Crystallized Divine Power. I'm here to get you out. Look at me—I'm in the Land of the Dead. What could I possibly want from you that's worth the risk of coming here?"
Hela remained expressionless. The fact that a cub had breached her prison was a feat of impossible skill, but his logic held. "A Frost Giant? No wonder. A race of spineless cowards."
Loki sighed internally. Being the little brother is going to be a long-term job. "Sister, focus. Mother loves you. She wants you home."
Hela snorted, a cruel arc touching her lips. "Is Odin blind? To adopt such a little good-for-nothing? Does he think a blue runt can replace me?"
"How did you know Father lost an eye?" Loki asked, playing the innocent child.
Hela paused. "Oh? Did he?"
"He did. In the war."
"Ha! Hahahahaha!" Hela's laughter was a jagged thing, echoing off the sword-mountains. "Good! It serves him right! Let him keep that one eye for me! One day, I will take it, and everything else he holds dear!"
[Chaos Points +10, +10, +10...]
She's getting there, Loki thought, watching her meltdown. Just a little more chaos and we might actually have a conversation.
After her outburst, Hela looked down at him. Her cold eyes softened into something equally terrifying: a twisted sort of maternal affection. She reached down and pinched both of his cheeks, twisting them with predatory glee.
"Ow... it hurts... Big sister, stop," Loki whimpered, trying to maintain the "actor's self-cultivation."
"You're soft," she laughed maliciously, pinching harder. "Very soft."
Hiss... please, can we move on to the escape plan? Loki thought. My face can't take much more of this family bonding.
If you like it, please give power stones.