Malekith had imagined many outcomes when he set foot on Earth.
None of them looked like this.
He stood inside the battered remains of his flagship, staring out at a battlefield that defied reason. Thousands of figures surged across the terrain, eyes lit with violent intent, tearing through anything in their path.
For a moment, he genuinely couldn't process it.
"…What happened to Asgard?" he muttered.
In his mind, there was only one explanation.
These had to be Asgardians.
Who else could turn into something like this?
And that one—
The massive figure who had punched straight through a warship—
That had to be their new prince.
Then the prince got hit with a nuclear blast.
Malekith blinked.
…Did they just assassinate their own royalty?
Not far away, a competitor from the weapons division lowered his rifle, a grin stretching across his face.
Inside the weapon's magazine wasn't conventional ammunition, but something far worse—miniaturized thermonuclear payloads, compressed and stored using spatial manipulation, each capable of detonating with devastating force.
Less competition means better odds, he thought.
If everyone else dies, I only need one kill to win.
He wasn't the only one thinking that way.
Across the battlefield, the same calculation played out in hundreds of minds.
There were only a handful of advancement slots tied to the alien targets.
Cooperation?
Pointless.
Better to thin the herd first.
And the aliens? From what they'd seen so far—
They weren't the real threat.
A roar tore through the firestorm.
Out of the lingering mushroom cloud, a figure burst forward.
Mahivacha.
He had survived.
Barely.
His body was charred, half of it reduced to ruin, but something within him refused to let him die. Flesh began knitting itself back together at a visible pace, regeneration kicking in before the damage could finish him off.
But survival didn't calm him.
It enraged him.
His eyes locked onto the direction of the attack.
"Good," he said, voice low and sharp. "That's perfect."
Before the shooter could react—
Mahivacha was already there.
The distance between them vanished in an instant.
A hand closed around the man's head.
And crushed.
Mahivacha didn't stop.
He took the weapon, ripped the magazine free, and examined its contents for half a second.
Then he looked up.
"Let's raise the stakes."
His body blurred.
In the next instant, a series of projectiles launched—each one infused with force, accelerated to terrifying speed.
They detonated across the battlefield in rapid succession.
Explosions overlapped, feeding into each other, turning the area into a blazing inferno.
Screams vanished under the thunder.
Fire swallowed everything.
What Noah Vale had done—introducing new targets and rewards—hadn't eased the competition.
It had made it worse.
The moment survival odds shifted, everyone recalculated.
And then they turned on each other.
Before the Dark Elves could even be wiped out—
The humans began slaughtering themselves.
Inside the wreckage of his ship, Malekith watched it all unfold.
His earlier confidence was gone.
Replaced by something unfamiliar.
Doubt.
He watched fighters tear through steel with their bare hands. Saw weapons that turned entire zones into craters. Witnessed explosions that would have shattered armies—treated like tools.
His grip tightened.
This… this isn't right.
He had come to conquer.
Now he just wanted to leave.
But leaving wasn't an option.
Outside, the battlefield shifted again.
A nearby ship was targeted—obliterated in seconds by a barrage of attacks.
Malekith stared at the wreckage.
Then slowly sat back down.
Maybe staying still is safer.
It wasn't.
Ten minutes later, the chaos began to settle.
Not because the fighting stopped—
But because there were fewer fighters left.
Most of those drawn into the conflict had already died, caught in overlapping blasts and crossfire.
A handful survived.
And they had new targets.
The ceiling above Malekith shattered.
Metal peeled back like paper.
Five figures dropped into view, peering down at him.
The way they looked at him—
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't caution.
It was interest.
Like spotting something valuable.
"What do you—"
A hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat and yanking him out of the ship like he weighed nothing.
One of them tilted his head. "This the guy Noah mentioned? The leader?"
Another squinted. "Doesn't look like much."
"Seriously. He's weaker than half the people here."
"Still worth a slot, though."
They talked over him like he wasn't even there.
Malekith's jaw tightened.
Humiliation burned hotter than any explosion.
He straightened as much as he could in the grip holding him.
"You've made a mistake," he said quickly. "I'm not Malekith. The real one escaped. Went that way."
He pointed.
Without hesitation.
The lie came out smooth. Perfect.
Flawless.
The group paused.
One of them chuckled. "Huh. His English is pretty good."
"Yeah. Didn't expect that."
They didn't seem particularly concerned about the direction he'd pointed.
From their perspective, it didn't matter.
They had already cleared the field.
This was just cleanup.
One of them raised a hand.
Malekith's eyes widened.
"Wait—"
The strike came down.