The coronation was everything Thor hoped it would be—golden, thunderous, loud.
Yesterday's hunt had ended exactly how he planned; in blood, muscle, and victory. The roc beast's wings—once the proud symbol of vigilance among the frost giant—now lay limp beneath the hooves of Asgardian steeds. Loki had warned him. "This beast is sacred to the frost jotun," Loki had said, voice low, gaze wary. "Killing it will not go unnoticed." But Thor had snapped the beast's neck with Mjolnir in one hand and pride in the other.
Now, the feast hall brimmed with laughter and applause. The golden banners of Asgard shimmered like captured lightning. Thor, newly crowned, sat tall on the main seat on the table, the crown still settling into the weight of his brow. Beside him, as promised, was the head of Mimir, placed on a pedestal encrusted with sapphires.
"I'll find a body for you, Mimir," Thor declared with his usual flair, raising a goblet high. "A king's advisor deserves a spine of his own."
Mimir, ever the cryptic, let out a soft chuckle. "Thank you, crown prince. Though I suggest we finish this banquet before making declarations about realms beyond our own."
Thor laughed. "What better time than now? A king must march, not sit!" He stood, slamming Mjolnir against the golden dais. "Let this feast mark a new age! Let food and ale fill us through the heavens!"
The crowd roared. Baldur toasted him, Njord smirked into his wine, and even Loki gave a half-hearted clap, eyes distant, shadowed by old doubts. At the grand table, the ale flowed like waterfalls and the stories were just as reckless.
One curious guest leaned in, asking the servant near him, "What meat is this? It's divine."
"The roc beast, my lord," the servant beamed. "Hunted by His Majesty himself in the wilds of Jotunheim."
The man paled, as if the flavor had turned sour on his tongue. And then—the doors slammed open. An armored guard sprinted in, breathless and pale. "Crown Prince!" he shouted. "The vaults—breached! Frost jotun—"
He never finished. Panic swept through the crowd like a thunderclap. Gasps, screams, the clatter of goblets and cutlery.
Thor stood at once, Mjolnir humming with power. "For the glory of Asgard—!"
But before he could even raise the hammer fully, another voice cut through the storm. "Stand down." Odin entered the hall, walking with the weight of a thousand winters behind his gaze. The feast fell into total silence. "The intruders are dead," Odin said coldly. His eye scanned the crowd, then landed on Thor. "Follow me."
Thor obeyed. The guests, the warriors, the servants, even the Valkyrie—they watched in silence as the crown prince followed the king, and in that silence, the air chilled.
…
High above the city, where steel once ruled and corruption festered, stood a miracle no mortal could explain—a god tree, a golden peach tree spiraling around the former Fisk Tower like a divine serpent of nature. What was once Hell's Kitchen had bloomed into Golden Peach, a district reborn through will, laughter, and reckless spells.
Natalie Beckman stood on the balcony of the top floor, eyes sweeping across the skyline. Morning hadn't fully arrived, but the city lights were dimming, fading into the pale orange hue of dawn. The world looks different now. Cleaner. Wilder. Stronger. All because of him.
The roots of the god tree had broken through the concrete, coiling upward in sacred patterns. The once-infamous Fisk Tower was now almost unrecognizable—veiled in pink leaves, peach blossoms, and glowing sigils Jack had casually drawn one night while chewing on a skewer. It looked like nature had decided enough was enough… and took back what was hers, using divine graffiti as her signature.
Natalie pressed her hand gently against the cool marble arm of the statue beside her. Jack Hou, captured mid-smile, frozen in time. His signature smirk never wavered. Not even in stone. His marble form, cracked with golden ichor, had become the symbol of defiance and chaos—and oddly enough, hope. The people of Golden Peach had crowned him their prince, even in silence.
And in his absence, she—Natalie Beckman, once an intern—had picked up the mantle. "Don't smile at me like that," she muttered to the statue. "I'm doing my best here, okay?"
A quiet ding echoed behind her. Natalie quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, straightened her coat, and turned just as the elevator door slid open. A slow, steady click-clack filled the air. Cane tapping gently on marble. Red glasses. Subtle grimace. A presence that never asked to be acknowledged but always was.
Matt Murdock. "Good morning, Natalie," he said softly.
She smiled faintly. "Good early morning."
Matt paused. "Too early?"
"It's okay," she said, brushing her bangs out of her face. "How's the lawsuit?"
Matt sighed, lips tightening. "Not good. The vultures in high places… they're circling. They've grown too comfortable. Now that Jack's gone, they think the peach tree is ripe for plucking."
Natalie turned back to the balcony, arms folded. "Let them circle. Let them try. The barrier still holds. That means Jack is still alive."
Matt nodded slowly. "I get that. But they've already started moving. Supply routes are being cut. Roads blocked. Legal pressures. Sanctions. It's not just a siege anymore—it's a stranglehold. People are safe in their homes, their shops, their wards. But without raw material, without trade, without fuel… this place can't function like a society."
"I know," she said.
"You sure about holding the line?" Matt asked.
"I don't need to be sure," Natalie answered, turning toward Jack's statue. "I just have to wait. Something tells me… we won't have to wait much longer."
Behind her, the sun peeked over the horizon, casting the first true light of day across the petals of the god tree.
The marble statue caught the glow—just for a second, it looked like Jack's smirk deepened.
…
It was a quiet morning in Los Angeles, or at least as quiet as a city full of egos and exhaust fumes could be. Birds chirped over the buzz of early traffic, and nestled proudly above a nondescript corner on La Cienega sat the one thing Tony Stark deemed sacred that morning.
Randy's Donuts. And there he was—inside the donut, sitting cross-legged in the center of its iconic ring, a little too overdressed for a pastry break. Tony Stark. Sunglasses on. In red-and-gold Mark IV armor. Half eaten donut in hand. He looked like a billionaire playboy doing cosplay in a depression spiral.
Down below, a long black SUV pulled up to the curb. The passenger door opened. A bald man in a black coat and eye-patch stepped out with the casual confidence of someone who'd walked out of twenty explosions without flinching. He looked up at the donut's hole, sighed like a dad about to yell at his teenage son, and walked into the shop.
"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to exit the donut."
Tony squinted behind his shades. His fingers curled reflexively—his armor now upgraded with reinforced plating on the middle finger, a direct overreaction to a certain someone who once robbed him of it. The trauma was real.
He sighed and slipped out of the donut ring, descending into the shop below with a heavy thud as his suit sealed. Inside, he took a seat. Across from him sat Fury, calm and unreadable as always. "You're looking chipper," Tony said dryly. "Shouldn't you be busy gawking at statues? Heard Jack Hou's joined Mount Rushmore in style." He raised his cup mockingly. "Still not joining your super-secret boy band, by the way. Go offer it to the marble lunatic."
Fury chuckled. "That's rich, coming from a man who's made a career out of doing everything by himself. How's that workin' out for you?"
Tony opened his mouth, then stalled. "It's… I—" He exhaled. "Wait, hold on. Am I supposed to be looking at your eye or the patch? Because right now I'm confused about which one's judging me."
Fury smirked. "Looking a little pale there, Stark."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Yeah? Say that to Miss Universe—I just slept with her, kidding."
Before Fury could respond, a voice crackled from behind. "We've secured the perimeter, but I don't think we can hold it for long."
Tony blinked, turned his head slowly, and froze. "...Huh. Well. You're fired." Natalie Rushman—or rather, Agent Romanoff—stood in SHIELD gear, her cool eyes unreadable. "If that's even your real name," Tony added, scowling.
Fury didn't miss a beat. "Tony, meet Agent Natasha Romanoff."
Natasha gave a professional nod. "I was embedded in Stark Industries as a deep-cover operative. Shadow agent—"
"Yeah, yeah," Tony waved her off. "Big whoop. You got into my company. Want a gold sticker?"
Fury leaned in slightly. "See, that's what's got me worried, Stark. You appoint Pepper as CEO, you start playing Iron Man more than the Marines deploy, and then you let your buddy joyride in your suit."
Tony scoffed. "Listen, Baldy—clearly, you don't know me. But he took it. Just swiped it."
"Oh yeah?" Fury's eye narrowed. "And I'm supposed to believe you—the Iron Man—got his toy stolen like a Game Boy? If it was Jack Hou, maybe I'd buy it. But newsflash, he's currently a very fashionable lawn ornament with gold veins at Xavier mansion."
Tony, ever gracious, flipped him off. With that finger. The very same newly-reinforced middle finger Jack once jacked. He waved it with flair. "First of all, he turned into marble, not just a lawn ornament. Marble—with fancy golden cracks. Get it right. Secondly…"
From behind, Natasha struck. Click. A sharp prick in his neck. Tony flinched. "Ow! What the hell? You're double fired. I don't care how. I will make it happen."
Fury waved him down. "Relax. Lithium dioxide. It's not a cure, but it'll take the edge off. Keep your toxicity at bay, give you more time to find a solution."
Tony winced, his breathing evening out. "I am the solution. I've been looking—"
"—Not everywhere," Fury cut him off. "Not hard enough. So now that you're a little more... lucid—can we talk business?"
Tony slouched. "Depends. Does it come with fries?"
…
The frozen wastes of Jotunheim stretched out in all directions—blasted ice fields glittering beneath a pallid sky. Here, the very air sang with bitter cold. Thor stood at the cliff's edge, his crimson cape whipped by sculpting wind. Around him lay his battered companions. Fandral, clutching his side where frost giant axes had nicked him, Ullr, blood seeping through the feathers on his quiver arm, Baldur, Njord, Sif, Volstagg and Hogun—each nursing wounds but standing fast.
In front them, hundreds of frost giants advanced in slow, deliberate rows. Their blue-tinged skin gleamed like ice; their spikes of bone armor clanked with ominous promise.
Loki's voice was low and urgent, carried on the wind. "I told you this was folly, brother. There is no retreat now."
Baldur, steadying his spear with shaking hands, called out. "We must withdraw—to save our lives!"
Thor's hammer glowed faintly at his side. He lifted his head, eyes burning with stubborn fire. Just behind the group, the cliff's edge crumbled into an abyss. There was nowhere left to run. Before he could speak, reality itself trembled. The bo-run of the Bifrost echoed, and a column of opalescent light tore open the sky.
Through that swirling portal rode Odin All–Father, astride his eight-legged steed Sleipnir. He descended like a tempest's eye—armored, regal, silent.
Thor let his hammer fall to one knee, voice bright with relief. "Father, help me vanquish—"
Odin cut him off with a single, thunderous word. "Silence."
Thor's mouth snapped shut. He had expected praise, reinforcement—even celebration. Instead he found only stern reproach.
From amid the frost giants emerged Laufey, towering seven meters tall, his great staff crowned with frozen runes. He stepped forward with measured dignity. "All–Father, it is good to see you—though I had hoped your first arrival would call for parley, not war."
Odin's helm gleamed. He regarded the giant with cold calm. "End this now, Laufey,"
Laufey's eyes blazed with righteous fury. "He slew our sacred elder beast without mercy—he snapped the Roc Beast's spine with his own hammer."
"He did," Odin admitted. "But these are the acts of a boy. Then treat them as such. You and I—we—can end this now."
Laufey spat a frosty breath. "There is no end," Laufey growled. "Not without blood. Your son wanted war. Now he'll drown in it."
Odin drew Gungnir, his spear of unbreakable resolve, and raised it. The very ground trembled. "Then so be it."
Laufey hurled a blast of blue–white frost magic. It shattered ice pillars behind Odin—but Gungnir's point halted the spell midair. The energy collapsed back upon itself in a roaring shock-wave. Odin's spear forced the giants back.
The Bifrost flared again. In a heartbeat, thunder and light tore space open—and whisked Odin, Thor, and their company away from Jotunheim's frozen battleground.
The shimmering light of the Bifrost faded behind them as the warriors of Asgard reappeared within the golden halls. The ringing echo of battle still clung to their armor like frost, but the battlefield was gone. They were home.
Thor's boots hit the golden floor with a heavy thud. He turned sharply, fury dancing in his blue eyes. "Why did you bring us back?"
Odin did not answer at once. He handed the reins of Sleipnir to a nearby guard before turning to face his son. "Because you have no idea what you've just done."
"I was protecting my home," Thor growled.
"You couldn't even protect your friends," Odin barked, pointing at Fandral and Ullr, both barely conscious and now being carried by healers. "How then do you expect to protect a kingdom?" His words were thunder. Odin turned to the others, shouting. "Take them to the healing chambers. Now."
As the group hurried to obey, only Baldur and Loki remained behind, standing in the heavy silence like statues.
Thor, still bristling with indignation, did not budge. "There won't be a kingdom to protect if you keep doing nothing," he said. "The Jotun must learn to fear me—as they once feared you."
Odin stepped forward slowly, eyes burning with restrained wrath. "That's not leadership. That's vanity. You've forgotten everything I and Mimir taught you—Warrior patience!"
"And while you wait with your so-called patience," Thor snapped, "the Nine Realms mock us. Even Midgard has become a playground for a hatchling god! The Miracle Age is coming. Your old ways will only lead us to ruin."
The words struck deep. Odin's voice rose like the fury of a storm. "You are a vain,greedy,cruel boy!"
Thor's voice returned with equal venom. "And you are an old man, and a fool!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Baldur and Loki stood frozen. Even the torches along the wall seemed to flicker in hesitation.
Odin's voice dropped low, carrying more weight than before. "Yes. I am a fool…" he muttered. "A fool to think you were ready."
Baldur stepped forward, voice soft. "Father—"
"Stand where you are," Odin ordered, not even looking at him. He turned back to Thor, his gaze colder than the far ends of Niflheim. "Thor Odinson," Odin said, "You have betrayed the direct command of your king. Through your arrogance and stupidity, you have exposed this peaceful realm—and innocent lives—to horror and the desolation of war."
Odin turned and took up Gungnir, the spear of kings. It shimmered with raw, divine energy. He turned to the central dais. The Bifrost shimmered to life once more—a roaring vortex of rainbow energy.
Then Odin advanced toward his son. Each word carved into the air like a brand. "You are unworthy of these realms… unworthy of your title…" His voice cracked—just once. "Unworthy… of the loved ones you've betrayed."
Thor stood still, his fury fading into something closer to disbelief.
Then came the final words. "I now take from you… your power… and your memories… in the name of my father, and his father before him…" With a surge of energy, Odin raised Gungnir. Lightning shot from the heavens. Thor's armor cracked, piece by piece—his cape burned away, and Mjolnir turned itself into a cane. "I, Odin All-Father, cast you out!"
The final word echoed as Gungnir struck the ground. The Bifrost roared open behind Thor, and in a flash of color and sound—He was gone. Thor Odinson fell from the sky like a comet, banished to the very realm he once mocked—stripped of his name, his glory, and his birthright.
Baldur and Loki stood frozen, their expressions blank with shock. Somewhere deep within the palace, Mimir's head sighed. "So begins the storm."
…
On the rooftop of the New York Sanctum, amidst rows of carefully cultivated herbs and flowers that glowed with residual energy from other realms, the Ancient One stood barefoot, watering a particularly stubborn batch of lunar jasmine.
His gaze was distant, his movements mechanical, as though his body was on autopilot while his mind was adrift through the threads of the multiverse. Then, the wind shifted. With a shimmer of black feathers and a graceful dive from above, a raven landed on the banister beside him. Its dark eyes shimmered with intelligence beyond the mundane. "Hello, Muninn," Yao greeted, not even looking.
A low chuckle emanated from the bird, and Odin's voice replied, "It's Huginn this time."
Yao's lips quirked into a small smile. "You swap them every time I try to guess. You old schemer."
The raven tilted its head, and Odin's voice turned serious. "I've sent Thor to you. He is no longer my concern. Teach him what he must learn. He's all yours now."
Yao finally placed his watering can down, brushing off his sleeves and straightening his back. "Very well. He'll be mortal… so technically, no breach of the agreement."
"Indeed," Odin replied. "And thank you—for doing this."
"You gods and your parenting," Yao said dryly. "Fine messes you leave for others to mop up."
The raven flapped once, then lifted into the air, disappearing into a ripple in space.
Yao sighed, then levitated slowly upward, rising into the sky—higher and higher, until the clouds thinned and space stretched around him like a velvet dome. And there—a falling star. Except it wasn't a star. It was Thor Odinson. His godly radiance had begun to dim, each breath and second further eroding his memories. Like sand slipping through divine fingers, his identity began to unravel.
Yao waited in the atmosphere like a fisherman ready for his catch. "Sorry, boy," he muttered. "This will sting."
As Thor plummeted, Yao snapped his fingers, Mystic Runes and Celtic Seals spiraling around Thor's flailing body. The Prince of Asgard screamed, his voice ragged with disbelief and pain. The magic worked fast. Thor's golden hair shortened, dulled. His muscle mass diminished, replaced by a lean, uncertain frame. Scars vanished. Strength drained.
What was once the mightiest god in Asgard… was now a young, fragile man with hollow eyes and a cane. "Donald Blake," Yao whispered.
Yao conjured a gentle breeze and cradled the now unconscious Blake. He watched as Mjolnir, no longer a hammer, reshaped itself—a long, worn cane, etched with ancient script only visible to gods and sorcerers.
Yao held the cane in his hand. He stared at it. "Should I keep it?" he murmured. Then he chuckled to himself. "No… that kleptomaniac monkey's bad habits are rubbing off on me." With a quiet smile, he placed the cane beside Blake's sleeping form, then waved his hand.
Reality folded—and Donald Blake appeared in a modest Harvard dorm, tucked neatly into a twin bed with sheets of plaid flannel. A medical textbook rested on the desk nearby. His memories—fabricated but seamless—settled into place.
Yao remained hovering high in the sky, eyes watching the horizon. "You better wake up soon, Monkey," he said softly. "Or you'll miss the best part."
…
Far below, in Westchester, on the freshly restored lawn of the Xavier Mansion, a statue stood silently among the flowers. The statue of Jack Hou. And now—Crack.
A spiderweb of fracture lines spread wider across his left arm. The golden ichor glowed brighter, pulsing with mounting energy. Something stirred deep within. The earth hummed. And somewhere, far away, the wind carried a familiar laugh—Kekekekekekeke…
**A/N**
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**A/N**