London, abandoned factory district.
Malekith, silenced by Lucci's "command," and the entire battlefield were enveloped in an eerie, deathly silence. In the sky, the massive, tombstone-like black battleship and tens of thousands of scythe-shaped flying machines still loomed, but the suffocating breath of death persisted. They hovered like silent vultures, roaming above the city, ready to unleash destruction.
On the ground, the ancient dark king Malekith opened his mouth, his face filled with unprecedented dread and terror, but not a sound emerged. Even Algrim the Cursed Warrior's aura of rage had stagnated—his helmeted face showing, for the first time, the emotion of "confusion."
At the center of this dead quiet, Lucci gazed calmly at the Dark Elf fleet floating in the sky. In his eyes, these cold black metal war machines, overflowing with the aesthetics of slaughter and destruction, deserved only one evaluation:
Ugly. Ugly. Their design, full of rot, death, and hatred, severely marred the joy he'd felt upon comprehending the "Idealistic Creation Law."
So…
A thought suddenly arose in Lucci's mind. Perfect—let's test this ugly fleet.
With that, his mind moved, and a clear, absolute "cognition" took form:
"Such cold, ugly, destructive spaceships should not exist in this form.
Instead… they should become splendid fireworks."
This thought required no energy, no incantation—just… a "thought."
But when this idea formed in the mind of one who had fully mastered the "Reality Stone" and understood the "Idealistic Creation Law"—reality warped!
The next instant—
Under the terrified gazes of Jane Foster, Darcy, Dr. Selvig, and millions of Londoners—
A miracle occurred!
The massive black tombstone battleship, covering the sky, forged from unknown indestructible alloys, suddenly lost its "metal" properties in an instant! The cold black color vanished, replaced by a dazzling, ever-changing spectrum of rainbow lights! It was no longer a battleship—it had become a gigantic, unimaginable artwork of pure light and color!
And then, this "artwork" began to collapse gracefully!
"Waa, waa, waaa—"
Countless brilliant streams of light soared from the hull into the sky, exploding above! There was no thunderous shockwave, no destructive blast. Instead, golden willows, purple peonies, blue stars, green baby's breath—fireworks made of light—performed an unprecedentedly magnificent feast above London!
All the thousands of scythe-shaped flying craft met the same fate—instantly transforming into small, colorful domes, trailing starry arcs as they soared into the sky and joined the grand fireworks display!
At that moment, time seemed to slow. London was enveloped in a beautiful, deathly silence. Everyone forgot to breathe or even think, staring in stupefaction at the sky. They watched the fleet of doomsday transformed into endless, dazzling fireworks, blooming gloriously above. Then, the lights faded, drifting down like summer fireflies or the season's first snow—harmlessly. Every light carried a faint warmth, falling on people's faces and hands, and then quietly vanished.
The shadow of despair that had once enveloped them was gone. Instead, it became the most dreamlike, magnificent spectacle in recorded history!
"I… what…?"
Darcy covered her mouth, tears streaming uncontrollably. Whether from fear, shock, or joy, she would never know.
Old Professor Selvig, lifelong devotee of physics, clutched his glasses as they slipped down his nose, mouth agape as if to swallow an egg. He stared at the sky, muttering:
"No… impossible… Matter… energy… This is not scientific…"
Jane Foster gazed blankly at the drifting light, then slowly turned to the man who had remained calm throughout. Only one thought remained in her heart:
God.
Is this the power of a god?
All across London, after a brief silence, a tidal wave of cheers erupted!
"My god! We're saved! We're saved!"
"It's a miracle! This must be a miracle from God!"
People rushed into the streets, embracing and weeping with joy. They didn't understand what had happened—only that the doomsday fleet had been transformed, in an instant, into the most beautiful fireworks ever seen.
While Londoners witnessed a miracle from despair to ecstasy, what Malekith saw was enough to utterly collapse and erase the soul of an ancient being millions of years old—the deepest, purest cosmic terror!
His fleet—his fleet carried the hope of Dark Elf vengeance… His slaughter fortress, built of the hardest materials in the universe, consuming countless resources and years… Yet, right before his eyes, it had become… absurdly, beautifully… fireworks.
Malekith's pale face was bloodless. His eyes, burning with eternal hatred, were wide with a shock so pure and incomprehensible it seeped into his bones. The mind that once led armies and plunged the Nine Realms into darkness was now completely blank. He felt like a supercomputer filled with infinite data, its logic circuits instantly fried.
He had fought for ages, seen spells that tore stars asunder, monsters that devoured worlds, relics that froze time—but he had never imagined witnessing something so unbelievable, so unreasonable, so destructive to "existence" itself!
This wasn't destruction—he had seen too much destruction. Planets turned to dust by his fleet, stars extinguished by his curses. All of that still obeyed the basic law of converting "energy" and "matter." But what happened before his eyes… was transformation! It was the direct replacement of one "concept" with another—defining "absolutely solid war machines" as "short-lived, dazzling fireworks"!
"Is this… magic?" Malekith's will gave a trembling, silent roar in his mind.
But he immediately denied it!
"No! This is not magic! No magic in the universe can do this!
Without any spell or ritual, to overwrite deeply rooted physical matter with a completely different form in an instant!
…This… this is the creation of a new reality!"
He grew more terrified as he reasoned it out. Only the original power that symbolized "reality" in the universe—the Aether—could accomplish this, when pushed to its utmost limit! Treating reality as a drawing canvas, free to revise and rewrite!
But—
"No… No… NO!" Malekith howled hysterically inside.
"How could this be possible? How could this mere mortal wield the Aether's ultimate power? I am its master! I studied it for millennia, exhausted my race's strength, and could only touch its limits as a destructive force! And you… you're just a human, for how long…? Ten minutes? Twenty minutes?"
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"
At that moment, his will utterly collapsed. It was like a man who studied math his whole life, only to watch a child casually write the universe's ultimate equation on scratch paper. It wasn't a gap—it was a dimensional gulf!
On the level of existence, it was an insurmountable chasm.
His proud ancient wisdom… his mighty army, enough to shake the gods… his great ideals, bearing the flame of his race's vengeance… In front of—no, not even as a joke—he wasn't worthy of being noticed at all.
Puff—
The dark king who once terrified the Nine Realms could only kneel, his knees heavy against the cold, damp concrete. The flame of vengeance that had burned for millions of years was doused in an instant by a bucket of higher-dimensional ice water, leaving only endless, cold, soul-deep despair.
….
Lucci calmly gazed at the sky, expressionless as he watched the fireworks he had created. To him, this was merely a trivial "warm-up exercise."
The power of the "Idealistic Creation Law" was even more convenient than he had imagined.
This power, acting directly on the "conceptual" level, elevated his control over "reality" to a whole new realm.
His gaze fell on Malekith. At this moment, something occurred to Lucci. In the original timeline, his mother Frigga died protecting Jane Foster from Algrim's ambush. Lucci's eyes grew cold—those fireworks weren't enough. That only erased their "tools." But the Dark Elves themselves, who brought only destruction and tragedy… had caused his mother's death… and they were still here!
Thus, Lucci formed an even more absolute, thorough "cognition" in his heart:
"Dark Elves, who bring nothing but hatred, destruction, and slaughter to the universe, are errors of existence.
And errors must be corrected.
They… should simply not exist."
Like the final edict of a supreme deity, this thought took effect instantly at the logical level underlying reality!
Lucci raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
Snap!
The sound wasn't loud, but it was clear.
The next moment—
Correction began.
Malekith, kneeling in despair, suddenly widened his eyes—his feet were… gone! Not severed or vaporized, but as if erased by an invisible eraser from a drawing—quietly, completely, leaving no trace!
From the toes up, the feeling of "ceasing to exist" spread upward with irresistible speed! He wanted to scream, but had no voice. He wanted to struggle, but could not control his body. He could only watch as, bit by bit, he was "deleted" from the universe!
Beside him, the Cursed Warrior Algrim suffered the same fate. His unbreakable armor and violent energy core were as fragile as tissue paper before this "erasure of existence." Not even a ripple of resistance—he vanished from the feet up.
Malekith's eyes, full of despair, became eternal. The last thing he saw before he was completely erased was the indifferent gaze of the black-haired youth—regarding him as nothing more than a speck of dust.
In a flash, not even ashes remained.
Malekith, Algrim, and every surviving Dark Elf in the universe, wherever they were, whatever they were doing—all their bodies faded away from the feet up, like pencil drawings erased by an invisible hand. The ancient race that once shook the Nine Realms was annihilated on the conceptual level.
A moment later, the dark clouds cleared and the long-lost sunlight shone upon the earth once more. The world returned to its original state.
Jane Foster, Darcy, and Dr. Selvig witnessed this scene as if it were a creation myth. Their bodies were paralyzed by ultimate shock, their brains ceasing even to think.
Shock? No, that word was not enough for what they felt. They gazed at Lucci as if looking up at the creator of the world—one who defined everything, laid down the law, and ruled over life and death… a Creator.
….
Asgard, Rainbow Bridge.
Huge golden gears spun furiously behind Heimdall, their roar deafening. The Bifrost teleportation hub desperately swallowed the vast energies drawn from Asgard.
"Faster! Hurry!" Odin urged, spear in hand. Behind him, Thor too was anxious.
"Heimdall! How long? Lucci is still fighting that madman alone—every second for him is a trial of life and death!"
Odin did not stop Thor, because that was exactly how he felt.
"Ready! The energy is condensing!" Heimdall's voice finally came.
He grasped the Guardian Sword in both hands, ready to swing. With his power, the Bifrost's beam would pierce dimensions and send the army straight to London!
"For Asgard! For Prince Lucci!"
Thousands of divine warriors roared in unison, filled with killing intent.
But—
The instant Heimdall prepared to swing the sword, his all-seeing eyes instinctively glanced at their destination: London. He merely wished to confirm the exact landing point.
But that was the last expression he would wear.
Heimdall's hand suddenly froze!