Chapter 84: Chapter 84: The Throne Beyond the Veil In a realm untouched by light, the sky bled crimson, stained by both a blood-red moon and a sun that burned with black fire. The land stretched out like a corpse left too long in the sun cracked, dry, and rotting from the inside. Wind moved across dark sand, lifting grains into the air, only to drop them into the still, black sea that rested at the edge of the horizon like an open wound. A solitary path, carved into the dead earth by no visible tools, stretched forward a long, narrow trail leading to a towering platform. The structure loomed high above the ground, impossibly tall, nearly scraping the sky as if challenging the heavens themselves. At the very peak, far above the world of the dead, sat a throne of obsidian bones and jagged iron. It radiated no warmth, no life. Only purpose. Seated there, cloaked in a robe as black as the sea below, was a figure with no face. The hood masked everything but the faint flicker of gold where an eye might have been. A spear leaned against his arm, tall, elegant, cruel in design. It pulsed softly with ancient power, as if it too had been forged in defiance of death. The figure did not move. He did not speak. But the realm around him whispered. The winds spoke of war. The sea wept for what was coming. And the throne waited. The voice echoed across the dead sky like oil on water, slow, thick, and deliberate. Each word carried weight, as if spoken from behind a veil of time itself. "Muninn..." A long pause followed, as if speaking the name alone required patience. "...We have failed to kill the brat." The voice shifted in tone, arguing with itself, grinding thoughts together like rusted gears. "No... no, we can’t do that. You’re right. I can’t." A breathless silence stretched, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind. The figure still hadn’t moved, but the voice kept going, faster now, agitated. "That trickster and his dead daughter... always in the way. They’re shielding him. Preventing him from walking into real power. They’ve closed the portals around him, hiding him under Midgard’s broken laws. Clever..." There was a sound, half a growl, half a sigh. "If only I could walk Midgard freely again. This prison reeks of wasted power. Of silence. But I must learn..." Another pause. "Yes... learn. Knowledge is power." The voice dropped to a murmur, intimate, venomous. "A suggestion... mmh... yes." The gold beneath the hood flickered. "We find someone, no, something broken. A mortal with a heart full of holes. Someone easy to shape. Someone who burns with envy. Hatred. Someone who will believe it was their choice, even when it never was." A faint, low chuckle rippled across the realm. "And we let him kill the boy before it’s too late." "But... we must find the realm where the true World Tree resides. All these branches, all these echoes, and still—none have led to it." The voice deepened, burdened with the weight of eternity. "Huginn... Muninn." Two great shadows cut across the blood-red sky. Massive black ravens descended from the air, their wings silent as they glided down and perched on either side of the throne, one on the twisted armrest, the other on the curled edge of the stone platform. They croaked low and harsh, their calls strange and discordant, layered with something deeper, something ancient. The robed figure listened. "Yes... I see." There was no joy in the tone. Only purpose. "Good. Keep your eyes on the boy. And watch the potential puppets. The broken ones. The desperate ones. They’ll be easier to bend when the time comes." The ravens shifted, their feathers rustling like dying leaves. "...And send a message." The air twisted faintly, as if reality itself flinched. "To Thor... and Heimdall. Tell them this: if we fail to kill the boy before he awakens, before he rises to what he truly is..." The ravens leaned in, waiting. "...then they must be ready to kill what comes next." Suddenly, the single visible eye beneath the hood flared, its golden glow shifting into a deep, burning red. The change was slow but absolute, like molten metal consuming light. The eyepatch on the other side remained untouched, a quiet reminder of what had already been sacrificed. The throne creaked under the weight of silence. Above, the ravens croaked once, low and knowing, before spreading their wings. With one beat, smoke erupted around them in black, curling bursts. Then they were gone. . . . . In a vast, dimly lit mansion, a man sat cross-legged in the center of a wide, empty room. The walls were black stone, silent and cold. He was shirtless, his chest rising and falling with slow, frustrated breaths. Thick black hair hung loosely around his face, and along both wrists, dark tattoos spiraled restless and shifting under his skin. In front of him lay three dull, lifeless cores. Their glow was gone, their power drained. He stared at them with narrowing eyes, but the emptiness in them only deepened his scowl. "This is useless," he muttered, his voice sharp with disgust. "How can I be suppressed by a limit... How can I lead when I’m this weak?" He clenched his fist. "No. This needs to work. I need more of those abominations’ cores." He stood, moving with heavy steps to a nearby table. Picking up his phone, he tapped a number quickly. "I want you to start hunting again," he said calmly. "Find more cursed. Kill them. Stay away from the academy for now, I’ve heard their portals will open soon. Bring me hundreds. Dump the bodies like the last ones." The line went dead. He grunted and moved toward the far wall, pressing his hand against a hidden panel. A faint chime rang out, and a small section of the floor shifted. An elevator platform descended into the earth, taking him with it. Moments later, it opened deep underground. The room below was ancient. Its walls were carved with strange markings, and shelves lined with old relics and sealed artifacts filled the chamber. At the far end of the vault stood a pedestal, surrounded by golden light. Resting atop it, untouched, was the single golden apple. He stepped forward, each movement slower than the last. He stared at it, jaw tight. His hand hovered just above the apple, close enough to touch, but not yet daring to do so. Upstairs, outside the mansion, a small black raven perched on the highest window frame. Its head tilted, watching the room the man had been in through the glass. Then it took flight, vanishing into the sky.