Thor really wanted to ask Duncan, "Do you even hear yourself?"
How could there be a fourth God of Thunder? It hadn't even been that long—where did a fourth one suddenly come from?
Thor had just finished sorting through his rollercoaster of emotions, deciding to move past the shadow of Loki's departure. He was even ready to bless his brother and was excitedly looking at his father—who, as it turned out, wasn't actually dead.
But then Duncan's words completely shattered his composure.
Thor counted on his fingers. Including Duncan and the Sentry, that made three Gods of Thunder already.
And the second and third Gods of Thunder were essentially both Duncan…
"The fourth one is also you?" Thor's expression stiffened. His gaze clearly said, Are you messing with me?
Even though Thor had accepted the loss of Mjolnir months ago, that didn't mean he had completely given up on it. Deep down, he still yearned for the day he could lift his faithful battle companion once again.
Duncan had managed to wield Mjolnir by inheriting Thor's bloodline, combined with his own qualities. Thor always believed that this simply meant Duncan was barely qualified.
But still, it was Thor's bloodline that made it possible in the first place! By that logic, wasn't it essentially still Thor himself wielding Mjolnir?
Mjolnir remained the same picky hammer it had always been.
Yet now, according to Duncan, Gods of Thunder were popping up everywhere—there was even a fourth one now?!
"Trust me, this time will be different," Duncan said seriously. "I will find a wielder who can lift Mjolnir purely through the strength of their heart. And I already have a suitable candidate in mind."
Even Odin, who had been indifferent at first, couldn't help but take another look at Duncan.
However, in the end, it was just a matter of who would inherit a divine weapon—not some major principle.
"Thor, don't worry too much about Mjolnir's future. I'll find it a reliable partner," Duncan said earnestly.
"Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about this before the war even started. I believe that I can—"
"I don't care what you believe. I care about what I believe. And I believe Mjolnir itself wants to try something new."
Thor was sulking. He knew he should be qualified to wield Mjolnir again.
It wasn't just about regaining his divine power and becoming the strong, confident god he once was. It was also a recognition of his own worth.
"There's no need to worry about that, Thor," Odin said. "You are the God of Thunder, not the God of Hammers. Mjolnir is just a tool—it is not the source of your power. Have you forgotten? All the strength you possess, you built through relentless training."
Thor looked bewildered. Of course, he knew that. But how was he supposed to unlock his true power?
"You will understand in time," Odin said. "In a while, come with me to Nidavellir. I'll have the Dwarf King forge you a weapon that is truly your own."
"But what about Mjolnir? It was my weapon, too."
"No, it wasn't."
Odin didn't elaborate further. His time was running out, and he needed to prepare Thor—the only somewhat dependable heir he had left—for what was coming.
Once he was gone, Hela would break free. And it would be Thor's responsibility to stop her.
As for Duncan, who had taken Mjolnir…
"Return the Destroyer armor. You can keep Mjolnir, but the armor is not yours to keep," Odin said, extending his hand.
Duncan blinked, then shrugged. "If it were just me and Thor here, I might've been able to talk my way out of this. Unfortunately…"
It was obvious—Odin was laying the groundwork for Thor's future. The most powerful weapon would be forged for Thor in Nidavellir, and the most powerful armor had to stay in Asgard.
After all, the Destroyer armor was blessed by all the All-Fathers in the World Tree's history. A thousand years ago, when Odin wore it, he had dared to face the Celestials head-on.
"What about the Casket of Ancient Winters? Don't tell me Loki took it," Duncan quickly changed the subject. "If someone like him brings that thing to Earth, it'll be a disaster. Kamar-Taj won't just let him run around unchecked."
"I'll handle discussions with the Ancient One. That's none of your concern," Odin said, his tone firm. "As for the Destroyer armor, it was only loaned to you by Loki and Thor. It was never yours to keep. However, regardless of what you think, you did use it to help Asgard defeat a powerful enemy.
"As a reward, I will grant you access to the Bifrost. If you ever need to travel, you may call on Heimdall. As long as your requests aren't excessive, he will grant them."
Clearly, Odin had seen through Duncan's reluctance. He knew exactly what Duncan truly wanted.
"A shame," Duncan said with a dramatic sigh. "I was going to give the Destroyer armor to the fourth God of Thunder. But if you insist, I suppose it's only fair to return it. Thanks for the payment, though."
Duncan's body trembled slightly, and the Destroyer armor detached itself from him, stepping to Odin's side.
He didn't particularly care about losing it. After all, the armor ran on divine energy—it required godly power to function at full capacity. For Duncan, it had always been just a temporary piece of gear.
"I want Heimdall to regularly transport my Xenomorphs between Earth and Jotunheim. I need to capture enough giants to serve as hosts for them—this is the spoils of war that I rightfully deserve as the victor."
"You intend to completely wipe out all the giants in Jotunheim? To exterminate their entire race?"
"Of course not. At the very least, you wouldn't allow that, would you, Odin? Maintaining stability across the Nine Realms is your top priority—at least until Thor reaches your level of strength. Keeping the status quo is the best course of action, isn't it?"
Duncan spoke openly to the father and son before him. "I never planned to slaughter every native lifeform in that world, but I do need Jotunheim as a stable source of hosts. Let's see... how about fifty thousand? As for those who willingly pledge allegiance to me and accept my parasitism, they'll be counted separately."
This was the division of war spoils. To be blunt, Duncan's proposal would take away at least half of Jotunheim's population.
Just the hosts for Chestbursters alone would require fifty thousand giants. That meant fifty thousand would die in agony, their bodies devoured as food for the Xenomorphs.
And that number couldn't be solely borne by the Frost Giants. Other giant clans—Ice Giants, Frostborn Giants, Wind Giants—would have to share the burden.
And this was only the number of hosts that would perish.
As for those who submitted to Duncan's strength, who cooperated and willingly accepted parasitism without the fatal Chestburster phase—well, that was another matter entirely and didn't count toward the fifty thousand.
Adding both groups together, the entire Jotunheim giant race was in for a grim future. But then again, they had lost the war.
At least they'd survive. Perhaps, in a few million years, they might recover.
"Such ruthless methods. If this had been tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago, you might have been the strongest opponent I ever faced on my path to conquering the Nine Realms," Odin remarked.
In the end, he agreed. After all, it wasn't Asgardians who were dying—it was the people of Jotunheim, the very ones who had sought to destroy Asgard.
Not that he had a choice. If Jotunheim's native deities didn't offer up their bodies to satisfy Duncan's hunger, what was the alternative? Sacrificing Asgardians instead?
Impossible. Odin was no naive pacifist, and besides, Thor would need Duncan as a strong and reliable ally in the future.
Duncan left first, taking with him his greatest prize—Laufey.
"Thor, be wary of that man," Odin cautioned. "He's more dangerous than you think, and his ambitions are far beyond what you can imagine. But for now, at least, he keeps his word. That means dealing with him isn't necessarily a bad thing."
Odin sighed as he watched Duncan's departing figure.
Times had changed.
Thor said, "My instincts tell me he can be trusted—as long as I make sure I never stand in his way when he sets his sights on something. If possible, I'd rather join forces with him."
Odin neither agreed nor disagreed. He gave no judgment because, when the time came, for better or worse, Thor would have to face the consequences himself.
He couldn't even deal with Hela—how could he concern himself with what Duncan might become in the future?
Odds were, he wouldn't live long enough to see it.
"And then there's Laufey…" Odin let out another sigh. Never in his wildest thoughts did he imagine that one of his greatest adversaries would end up like this.
Perhaps, in the little time he had left, he would cross paths with Laufey once more. But when that day came, Laufey would no longer be Laufey.
He would be… a Xenomorph.
What would a Chestburster that emerged from Laufey look like? It would undoubtedly be tall and massive. Its body would likely be pale blue and white, just like the other Xenomorphs that had emerged from Frost Giants.
But how much of Laufey's power would it inherit? It certainly wouldn't be stronger than Laufey himself—divine power wasn't something that could be passed down through mere genetics.
"When we return from Nidavellir, I will subject you to high-intensity training. You should prepare yourself. Otherwise, you won't be able to inherit my power," Odin said.
This would be the greatest strength he could pass on to Thor. But whether Thor could handle it—that was up to him.
If he succeeded, he would become a Thor who wielded both the power of the Thunder God and Odinforce, armed with legendary weapons. One day, when he faced Duncan—or even more dangerous foes like the Celestials—he would stand with confidence.
As the figures of these powerful individuals departed, the real division and plundering of Jotunheim had only just begun.
With the constant flashing of the Bifrost, giants of various tribes were hunted down, captured en masse. Their fate was no mystery to anyone.
Those giants who had not stepped onto the battlefield against Duncan might have the slim chance of being parasitized without being fatally Chestbursted.
But those who had fought and been frozen by Loki's Casket of Ancient Winters—captured intact by Duncan—had little hope. Most of them would face a terrible end.
Xenomorphs were ruthless, merciless creatures to their enemies. And their master was no different.
Across the World Tree, in every realm, observers watched this unprecedented conquest and plundering. The once-proud, independent Frost Giants now lay broken, trembling, scourged by whips, or resisting fiercely only to have their limbs severed and eyes gouged out before being dragged away for parasitism.
Mercy was a rare commodity on the battlefield.
And in the ruined landscape of Jotunheim, where entire regions had become uninhabitable, countless other life forms now faced a slow, agonizing extinction.
No one would come to their aid.
The rivers of blood, the endless severed limbs, the cries of agony and despair—those who witnessed it all remained silent.
Not out of sympathy for Jotunheim's fallen deities, but out of fear.
They had seen Duncan's overwhelming power. They had witnessed his ruthless methods.
And his rise was happening too fast.
To them, his ways were far too aggressive.
"Are Xenomorphs lifeforms capable of parasitizing hosts and seizing their best genetic traits?"
"This species may be powerful, but no matter how you look at it, it shouldn't be able to take divine power from the gods along with the genes. At most, after assimilating divine bloodlines, it might gain the qualification to cultivate divine power."
"It was Duncan who elevated the Xenomorphs beyond their natural level. Look at those Xenomorph warriors battling the giants of Jotunheim—some have suffered chest-bursting, some have not, but without exception, they are all Xenomorphs. Among them, there are even some formidable individuals."
"Are you talking about the one who fought Laufey? According to the intelligence we obtained from Midgard, that person wasn't Duncan, just one of his subordinates."
"No, something is off. That person's mental frequency has changed—it's as if he has become someone else. There must be something wrong. Perhaps this is one of Duncan's abilities."
Anyone with status on Yggdrasil had lived for countless years, witnessing and hearing about all manner of strange beings. The two fierce battles against Dormammu and Laufey were enough for these experienced and sharp-eyed individuals to notice something unusual.
Everyone kept the devastation of Jotunheim in mind, secretly speculating about the tragic fate that awaited the defeated All-Father, Laufey.
Some had already started making moves, preparing to establish contact with this newly emerged and powerful race on Yggdrasil.
"However, these creatures are ultimately not gods. They have not been acknowledged by Yggdrasil, which means they are not one of us."
Nidavellir.
The Dwarf King irritably ruffled his tangled hair. His impression of Duncan had initially been positive due to Duncan's close cooperation with Asgard. A leader willing to send his legions into battle, sacrificing lives and facing death, was someone difficult to reject.
But the thought that Xenomorphs were an entirely different existence from the divine beings of Yggdrasil unsettled him.
The Dwarf King was an extremely meticulous and fastidious god. Without such a personality, he wouldn't have been able to forge artifacts that made every deity envious.
"They may not be gods now, but it won't be long before they are."
Odin arrived with Thor, his voice carrying an imposing weight. "With many of Jotunheim's divine beings as his vassals, he will undoubtedly cultivate a group of Xenomorphs bearing divine bloodlines. These will be the seeds of a new godly race."
"Even if these so-called 'Xenomorph Gods' remain Jotunheim giants at the genetic level, they would only possess stronger talents at most. If the Xenomorphs also capture and parasitize the fire giants and rock giants of Muspelheim, they will have collected all the giant clans of Yggdrasil."
The Dwarf King immediately countered, then suddenly brightened and said with delight, "I knew you wouldn't die so easily. Since you brought your son here, have you finally made up your mind? I've long said that if you let me forge a weapon tailored for the Aesir, you could save years of training."
Meanwhile…
Skurge walked down Asgard's grand, gilded streets with a face full of despair.
Around him, Asgardian civilians crowded in, furiously throwing all manner of objects at the captured giants, himself included.
If only some of what they threw were food, at least then he could eat something to regain his strength, Skurge thought, his face gaunt and weary.
Compared to the other giants, Skurge was pitifully small. He wasn't just inferior to the Frost Giants—the ruling clan of Jotunheim—but even compared to second-rate divine giants like the Ice Giants and Wind Giants, he was still a runt.
There was no helping it. He was a half-blood, the offspring of an Asgardian and a Wind Giant, raised in Jotunheim. Naturally, when the world war broke out, he fought as a Jotunheim giant.
Because of his mixed blood and frail physique—by giant standards, his two-meter height was barely noteworthy—he had suffered bullying and mockery from his kin since childhood.
But Skurge refused to accept a mediocre fate. For years, he honed his skills in combat. Though short in stature, he possessed the blood of two divine races, and in terms of strength and speed, he was no weaker than his kin. In Jotunheim, he had ruthlessly hunted various giants, earning himself the title of "Executioner."
But now, all that effort and status meant nothing. Before he could truly rise, he was unlucky enough to be caught in a world-shattering war. Now, even his most basic dignity had been utterly stripped away.
As a half-blood, Skurge had not been on the front lines at the start. The first to clash with Asgard and the Xenomorphs had been Laufey's most trusted Frost Giants.
Skurge had been in the second wave, fighting alongside Ice Giants and Frost Giants—until he was frozen by Loki.
Though he had been trapped in the enchanted ice, unable to break free, his mind had remained conscious. He had witnessed the entire battle between Duncan and Laufey—watching as Duncan tore Laufey apart, limb by limb, before carrying him away.
The scene reminded Skurge of when he was a child, hacking apart the Wind Giant who had bullied him. The bloodshed, the cold detachment—it was the same.
One by one, the arrogant giants had been reduced to mere ants in this war. Even the mighty All-Father Laufey had suffered a wretched fate.
Skurge stiffly turned his head, looking at the Xenomorphs escorting him.
These creatures, and their master, had orchestrated all of this. They were responsible for Jotunheim's unprecedented defeat, for the fall of their entire world.
Even with his limited intelligence, Skurge understood that Duncan, not Asgard, had been the decisive force in this battle.
Even his revered All-Father had been reduced to such a fate.
"Heh… They say these creatures will invade my body, steal my best genes, and eventually burst from my chest in a new form? Then they'll devour my corpse to nourish themselves… That means there will be a Xenomorph born with my genetic traits—no, with even greater potential than me… That's not such a bad fate, at least I'll continue to exist in another form."
Skurge envisioned the moment of his transformation, then suddenly let out a low chuckle. His laughter grew louder, filled with the scent of blood, drawing even more curses from the onlookers.
He found it all hilarious.
Those fools who had mocked him for being a half-blood—every single one of them was dead. Their towering stature, their so-called "pure" bloodlines—everything they had taken pride in had been stripped away by the Xenomorphs. The irony was too perfect.
All of them had turned into Xenomorphs. He wondered how they would laugh now—would they clack their secondary jaws and spit acid instead?
At that moment, the crowd stirred, quickly making way for someone approaching.
"The Queen, the Queen is here!"
"Why is Queen Frigga appearing here?"
"We must protect the Queen at all costs—these filthy giants must not startle her!"
The Queen? Why would someone of such high status come here…
Skurge's mind raced with questions. Then, he heard a familiar voice calling out. In disbelief, he lifted his head and looked toward the figure standing beside Frigga.
Skornheim—his mother—a witch who followed Frigga!
"Is this him, Skornheim? Your son?"
Frigga confirmed once more before stepping forward to negotiate with a Xenomorph. Even as a wise and powerful witch, she was uncertain whether these creatures would understand her.
The study of the Xenomorph language was still incomplete. Frigga hesitated, debating whether to use telepathic magic to facilitate communication. However, she feared this might be too abrupt and provoke their instinctual resistance.
She understood all too well how powerful and dangerous these creatures were. She was also keenly aware of the delicate relationship between Asgard and Duncan. She hoped to see this alliance strengthen over time and had no desire to create unnecessary conflict over trivial matters.
Skurge was released on the spot.
The proof? A Dracula Xenomorph unlocked the enchanted chains binding him, grabbed him roughly by the throat, and tossed him out of the group.
Without sparing him a second glance, the Dracula Xenomorphs continued marching the remaining prisoners toward the prison.
There, a vast number of Xenomorph eggs—transported from Earth—were already waiting for their hosts.
Such brutal efficiency—it was so distinctly Xenomorph. It perfectly fit their savage image.
Skurge's thoughts were a tangled mess. He could hardly believe he had been rescued in such a manner—by his estranged mother, no less.
"My child, cherish your mother. She went through great lengths to find me and plead for your release."
Frigga's voice was gentle as she stepped aside, allowing mother and son their moment.
Skurge remained silent for a long time. He was never good at dealing with his biological mother. His eyes, however, were locked onto the towering Xenomorphs around them.
"What's wrong? Are you still afraid they'll attack you?" Skornheim asked, lowering her voice, as if wary of disturbing the deadly creatures. "Don't worry. They are our allies now—and yours as well. I should never have left you with your father. I should have taken you to Asgard from the start. You would have been one of us, and you wouldn't have had to face these terrifying beings."
She pointed toward a group of sleek, pitch-black Xenomorphs approaching from behind.
"See those? Their original hosts belonged to a race called the Mutates. According to Queen Frigga, they were artificial lifeforms created by the Celestial Beings. I don't fully understand it, but they were apparently defeated and assimilated by the Xenomorphs."
The Celestial Beings? Skurge had never heard of them before. From the name, he guessed they were a group of godlike entities—more than just one.
Skornheim continued, trying to mend her long-broken relationship with her son.
"As for the ones that threw you out—those are particularly strange. Even Queen Frigga hasn't figured out their original hosts. The leading theory is that they came from a species called vampires from Midgard. That entire race was also conquered and turned into hosts."
She paused, her tone careful. "But these Xenomorphs… they are far too powerful. There's no way ordinary vampires could have produced such monstrous beings. And they all look identical. Queen Frigga considers this a crucial mystery to solve… Oh, you might not know this, but even though she rarely appears on battlefields, she is a key protector of Asgard. Not only is she a formidable witch, but she also excels in scientific research."
But Skurge's mind was elsewhere. His gaze was fixated on the Xenomorphs. Then, suddenly, he turned his head toward a group of Xenomorph hosts—people who had not yet gone through the chest-bursting stage.
Among them, many seemed like ordinary Midgardians. None were Asgardians.
The defeated giants walked past them, some trembling with fear.
"These people are pitifully weak," Skurge scoffed. "I can tell. Their abilities are nothing special. I could cleave them in half with a single swing of my axe."
He pointed at a few of the cold-faced Mutates.
"What nonsense are you speaking, my son?" Skornheim chided. "They are our allies, and they are incredibly strong—"
"These weaklings are only respected because they joined the right side," Skurge interrupted. "Jotunheim was crushed and conquered by this species. Even Asgard dares not provoke them."
He quickly reached a conclusion. "Then someone like me, with extraordinary talent, should have even greater potential. I've decided—I will join the Xenomorphs. I will become one of them."
As for his father's people—the Wind Giants? They could go to hell.
Not just the Wind Giants—he wouldn't even consider himself an Asgardian anymore. He would embrace this relatively young yet terrifying force.
If he had to choose between three factions, why not pick the strongest from the start?