Marvel: AS A PRINCE IN ASGARD

It was light—blinding, searing, cosmic in its intensity!

The stellar core, once stable, pulsed with untamed fury, its nuclear fire surging through the collapsed remnants of the neutron ring. The forge of Nidavellir, where kings and gods had once shaped the mightiest weapons, was now breaking under a force unlike any before it.

Ragna , his body wreathed in golden flames, extended his arm, fingers curled like talons as he seized control of the unstable stellar energy. With a command of divine authority, he guided the cataclysm.

Break everything. Burn everything. Reduce all to nothing.

The cosmic crucible cracked. The fixed star-ring, once bound by the gravity of the neutron forge, snapped apart like brittle glass before a hammer. The radiance of a thousand dying suns burst forth, illuminating the void in an unrelenting cascade of annihilation.

King Eitri of the Dwarves, the master smith of Nidavellir, beheld the scene with horror. His massive, calloused hands trembled as the ancient forges of his ancestors crumbled under the unleashed inferno. He wanted to protest—to demand Ragna stop—but the sight of the surging, apocalyptic force silenced him.

The energy—unfathomable, divine—tore through the heavens, a tidal wave of destruction cascading through the battlefield. Ragna , straining against the celestial power, wrestled the torrent into a singular, focused stroke.

It was the Ruyi Jingu Bang, the fabled staff of Wukong, reborn in cosmic fire.

With a downward sweep, the Thousand Star Strike descended—a golden arc of devastation splitting the void.

The first impact burned across the surface of a rogue planet, igniting its crust in a brilliant, planetary explosion. A second later, the inferno scythed through Sanctuary II, Thanos' flagship, shearing through its obsidian hull like a hot blade through flesh. Metal melted into slag, and charred remnants of Chitauri technology were left drifting in the void, remnants of a once-invincible warship.

Then, the stroke reached the Black Order.

The Dark Quadrant's elite forces—Outriders, Leviathans, Chitauri hybrids, cybernetically enhanced zealots—stood no chance. From the first rank to the last, they were incinerated in an instant. No screams, no resistance—only dust, carried away by the cosmic winds. The battlefield was split in two, a searing trench of absolute annihilation separating the remaining forces.

Yet, even as a legion burned to nothing, one form remained unmoved.

Thanos.

The Mad Titan had seen this power before—the destruction of civilizations, the death cries of countless trillions—but never had he felt its full force upon his own flesh.

Instinct took hold. He moved swiftly, shielding the surviving Black Order—Ebony Maw, Proxima Midnight, Corvus Glaive, and Black Dwarf—behind him. Then, with all the might of his Eternal-born Titan physiology, he took the blow head-on.

Heat. Pain. Agony.

Thanos endured it all.

The golden plates of his Celestial-forged battle armor, the very same that had withstood wars across galaxies, turned molten, peeling from his form in dripping, liquified streams. The Uru-infused plating, crafted by the forges of ruined worlds, vaporized before it could hit the ground. His flesh, impervious to most weapons, blackened, cracked, and burned, but his muscles—unbreakable, unyielding—held firm.

Behind him, the Black Order struggled to withstand the aftershock.

Corvus Glaive's unholy glaive, infused with dark necrotic energy, glowed crimson-hot. The blade that tethered his soul to the mortal plane was rapidly disintegrating. If it perished, so would he. He fought to repair it, his flesh melting and regenerating in a gruesome cycle of death and rebirth.

Ebony Maw, a psionic prodigy among the stars, wove an intricate barrier of telekinetic force around himself. It held, but barely—his pale, expressionless face contorted as blisters erupted across his form. His robe burned away, leaving his skin raw and bubbling beneath.

Black Dwarf, a colossus of near-invincible flesh, fared better—his natural resilience allowing him to withstand the fury, though his mighty form glowed red-hot, cracks forming across his once-impervious hide. The pain was immense, but he stood tall, a living fortress.

Only one among them was doomed.

Proxima Midnight.

The deadliest woman in Thanos' army, an assassin whose name was whispered across a thousand planets, stood no chance.

Her lance, a weapon forged in the heart of a dying star by Thanos himself, turned to molten slag in her grip. The moment she lost her weapon, her fate was sealed.

She could have fled.

She could have tried to fight.

Instead, she looked upon Thanos.

Adoration flickered in her eyes—the same unwavering devotion she had carried since the day she swore her undying loyalty to the Titan. Even as her flesh blistered and blackened, even as her muscles charred and cracked, even as the bones of her fingers crumbled to dust, she did not scream.

Instead, she turned her gaze to Corvus Glaive, her lover.

Their eyes met.

There was understanding.

There was acceptance.

And then, Proxima Midnight smiled.

It was a final, fleeting expression—a whisper of emotion before the fire claimed her utterly.

Her form dissolved. First, her hair disintegrated into the abyss. Then her skin, her muscle, her organs—each vaporized in an instant. Even her skeleton, once infused with the might of a dying sun, blackened, cracked, and crumbled.

Nothing remained.

Only the melted remains of her weapon—slowly cooling beneath the ashes of her existence.

Corvus Glaive did not look up.

His eyes, hollow and devoid of light, locked onto the ground.

Yet something stirred within him—a silent, monstrous rage, an abyss of hatred and grief so deep that the very void trembled.

Ebony Maw and Black Dwarf turned their gazes toward Thanos. They had survived, but at what cost?

The battle was not yet over.

Ragna watched as Thanos still stood. The Mad Titan—his flesh burned away, his armor lost, his strength barely holding—but still, he stood.

If not for the vast power needed to annihilate the Dark Quadrant's forces, the Thousand Star Strike might have been enough to break him. But it wasn't.

Thanos was not yet dead.

The battlefield fell silent.

Then—

Corvus Glaive lifted his head.

His glaive, though damaged, remained intact. His body, though broken, was regenerating. His mind, though grief-stricken, was focused.

Ebony Maw and Black Dwarf exchanged glances. They knew what was coming.

This was not surrender.

This was vengeance.

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