Mjolnir erupts - lightning sheeting across its surface, arcing into the ground, the air crackling with ozone and rage-
Sif moves first.
Blade flashing, she closes the distance in three strides. Fast. Trained. The sword arcs toward Wukong's head in a cut that would split stone.
He leans back. The blade passes an inch from his nose.
Eirik attacks from the right - spear thrusting for his ribs.
He shifts. The spearpoint slices empty air.
Hróðmar charges from the left - axe raised for a massive overhead strike.
Wukong yawns.
The axe crashes down. He's not there. He's behind Hróðmar, perched on the warrior's shoulders, patting his head like a dog.
"Good effort!"
Hróðmar roars, spinning. Wukong backflips off, landing light.
Sif cuts low. Eirik thrusts high. Perfect coordination, years of training -
The Monkey King dodges both, walking between their attacks like he's strolling through a garden. He taps Sif's helmet as he passes. Tink.
"Nice form!"
She snarls, pivots, slashes. He ducks, pokes her in the ribs. She gasps, swings again. He's already gone, dancing away, staff spinning.
Hróðmar charges. Eirik flanks. Sif presses from behind.
Three warriors, three angles, no escape -
Wukong jumps straight up, flips, lands on Hróðmar's axe blade as it swings under him. Balances there for a moment, one foot. Gives them a little wave.
He springs off, staff swinging down. Taps Eirik on the head. Not hard. Playful.
He stumbles, dazed.
Sif presses in, blade work furious now - high, low, thrust, cut, combinations that have felled demons and giants-
Wukong dodges every strike, occasionally reaching out to tap her on the shoulder, the elbow, the knee. Tap tap tap. Like counting points in a game.
"You're pretty good!" he calls cheerfully, spinning under a horizontal slash. "But you telegraph your-"
Sif feints left, cuts right - her best move, the one that never fails-
Wukong isn't there. He's beside her. Behind her.
He turns, plants his feet, and shoves with his backside.
The impact sounds like a thunderclap.
Sif flies. Twenty feet through the air, arms pinwheeling, sword spinning away.
She hits the courtyard wall.
The wooden structure explodes. Beams shatter. Tiles spray outward. The entire section collapses inward with a crash that echoes off the mountains.
Dust billows.
Wukong stands where she'd been, hand shading his eyes, watching her trajectory. He whistles appreciatively.
"Oof. That's gonna hurt tomorrow."
He turns back to Hróðmar and Eirik, twirling the staff. Still smiling. Not even breathing hard.
"Anyone else?"
Thor stares at the destroyed wall. At Sif's crumpled form in the rubble. At this... this creature who just swatted aside three of Asgard's finest warriors like they were children playing at combat.
Lightning screams around Mjolnir. The hammer pulls at his arm, demanding release.
Wukong's golden eyes shift to him. Waiting.
The smile never wavers.
"Well then," the Monkey King says softly. "Your turn?"
Thunder roars.
Not distant thunder. Not natural thunder. Thor's thunder.
Lightning carves across the courtyard - night exploding into white-blue fury. The air itself screams. Tiles crack under the pressure. The remaining walls shudder.
Thor charges.
Each step shakes the ground. Cape streaming behind him. Eyes blazing. Mjolnir raised high, wreathed in lightning that arcs to the earth with every heartbeat.
He brings the hammer down.
Divine fire meets immortal gold.
The impact -
CRACK.
A shockwave ripples outward. Red leaves spiral upward like a thousand fireflies. The courtyard tiles shatter in concentric circles. The sound echoes off the mountains, comes back, echoes again.
Wukong blocks with one hand. Staff horizontal above his head. The blow that would pulverize stone, that has shattered armies, that carries the weight of storms-
Stopped.
The staff rings like a temple gong. Clear. Pure. Unwavering.
Wukong smirks. "You hit hard. I like that."
Thor's eyes widen. Just for a moment. Just a flash.
No one blocks Mjolnir. Not casually. Not with one hand.
He strikes again.
And again.
And again.
Mjolnir becomes a blur - overhead, side, low, thrust, spin. Every angle. Every technique. Lightning streaming from each blow. The air superheating. Thunder continuous now, a rolling wave that drowns out everything else.
Wukong meets each strike. Staff spinning, redirecting, blocking. Sparks fly where hammer meets staff - not normal sparks but bursts of golden-white light that hang in the air like frozen stars.
They move across the courtyard. A storm of motion. Divine lightning versus divine chaos. For three breaths, four, five - they seem matched. Equal. The God of Thunder and the Monkey King, trading blows at speeds that blur the eye.
Thor's thoughts scream. He's fought for hours before without tiring but this -this is different. Every block is perfect. Every counter effortless. He can't find an opening. Can't break through.
The warrior in him howls at this. Rejects it. Refuses it.
He breaks away, skidding back across shattered tiles. His eyes - blazing white now, pure lightning - turn skyward.
"ENOUGH!"
The word splits the night.
The heavens answer.
Clouds boil into existence overhead - black and churning, shot through with veins of lightning. Wind screams down, strong enough to tear the remaining shutters from their hinges. The air pressure drops. Ears pop. The ground beneath Thor's feet cracks.
He plants Mjolnir against the earth.
Lightning - not a bolt, a column - slams down from the sky into the hammer. Thor's body becomes a conduit. His armor glows white-hot. The raw power of a storm meant to level mountains pours into him, through him, ready to be unleashed.
The Einherjar crawl backward, eyes wide.
Sif pulls herself fully from the rubble, leaning against broken wood, staring.
This is Thor at his full might. The God of Thunder. The Storm Incarnate.
The Monkey King watches.
Then sighs.
He spins his staff once. Twice. Plants it lightly in the cracked stone.
And moves.
The first step is wrong.
Not wrong like a misstep. Wrong like the world folding. Like space bending around him instead of him moving through it.
His foot touches the ground and the air distorts - ripples spreading outward in waves invisible to the eye. Reality shivers.
The second step makes the stars tilt.
The air thickens. Becomes heavy. Becomes oppressive. An invisible weight presses down on everything, everyone. Not physical. Deeper. Like gravity but for the soul.
A technique stolen from a realm where gods were men and men hunted gods. Where power was taken, not given. Where every step was a conquest of space, time, and will itself
The Heavenly Demon Stride.