Chapter 734: The Symphony of Victory (Part 2)

A bird flew across the sunset sky, and the magnificent city on the horizon became a dark silhouette.

Asgard's scenery was always more grand and magnificent; this city suspended alone in space appeared lonely yet radiant in the sunset's light.

The people of Asgard always enjoyed soaking in baths after vigorous battles in the training grounds, and the royal family was no exception—though their bathhouse was more luxurious.

The World Tree's core was a mysterious space accessible only to Asgard's royal family, though they didn't go there to pray—only to bathe.

The World Tree was not a true tree; the Nine Realms were merely its leaves. At its very core lay a lush, green space, where deep within grasslands and forests bubbled a hot spring.

At this moment, Shiler, Loki, and Strange were soaking in the hot spring.

Strange pulled a floating wooden board toward him; it held fresh, delicious fruit. He broke open a spiky fruit, bit into it, and shuddered from the sourness.

Shiler sipped wine, leaned his head against a stone beside the spring, and felt the coolness of the stone's surface dispel the heat from prolonged soaking—he sighed contentedly, growing drowsy.

"You'd better stay awake. Falling asleep in a hot spring isn't a good habit," Loki warned.

He too pulled the fruit tray closer, picked up another fruit, used his divine power to slice it into pieces, speared one with a silver fork, and placed it in his mouth, casting a look of disdain at Strange, who was biting directly into his fruit.

"Seriously, how did you suddenly close such a difficult deal?" Loki asked Shiler, puzzled. "By the way, I've just had a stubborn client myself—I think I could learn from your experience."

"What client could possibly trouble you? … Never mind. The point is, if you want to open a window for him, you have to tear off his roof—then he'll be delighted to have you as a guest."

Loki's expression turned thoughtful, then he nodded, as if gaining insight—but quickly added: "By the way, you said you wanted to speak with the Allfather. What do you intend to do?"

"Don't worry, I'm just curious," Loki added quickly.

"I want to make a deal with him. You should trust me—he'll be very interested," Shiler smiled.

Loki, however, wore a look of curiosity—he couldn't fathom where Shiler got the confidence that Odin would care about his business.

No matter how much he pressed, Shiler refused to reveal more. They soaked until nightfall, and when they returned to Xiangong, most goddesses and guards had already retired.

Shiler slept overnight in his guest chamber at Xiangong. The next morning, the Gray Mist told him his cellular vitality had greatly increased—if he were an ordinary human, his lifespan would have extended by at least fifty years. Even as a non-ordinary human, the Gray Mist factor had gained greater activity.

Early that morning, a royal attendant arrived to escort Shiler to the palace where the Allfather Odin resided.

Odin sat upon his throne, relaxed and casual, wearing no armor, holding no spear—he looked more like an ordinary old man than a god-king.

Shiler entered and spoke to Odin:

"Hello, Allfather."

"I'm no longer the Allfather. They call me Father out of respect, because they're Asgardians. You can just call me Odin," Odin replied, his voice no longer booming but casual.

"I can see you're quite satisfied with the new god-king," Shiler smiled. Odin smiled back and asked: "Loki told me you have a business proposition. Remember, not just anyone can trade with Asgard."

"Of course—even Death, a great entity, refers to you as one of the most powerful beings in the universe…"

Odin's expression stiffened. He stared at Shiler: "You've met Death?"

"Yes. Recently, I visited his realm and made a deal with him."

"You're lying. As far as I know, Death no longer deals with individuals," Odin said bluntly, without circumlocution.

"True. But there must be other changes too—for instance, most of the Valhallas across this universe now face strict restrictions: fewer resurrections, and many conditions attached, correct?" Shiler shook his head.

Odin narrowed his eyes: "So your deal is…"

Shiler produced a contract. Odin could clearly sense Death's aura upon it—even stronger than the relic he used to control Valhalla.

"Just now, I signed a contract with Death. For certain reasons, she offered me extremely favorable terms—and there's a loophole in this contract. That's why I'm here."

Odin took the contract, flipped through it, and asked: "What loophole?"

"I believe you've already noticed: the contract specifies quantity and time, but not race. That means the resurrected can be humans—or Asgardians."

"On Earth, I don't have many people to resurrect. But I can sell these slots to Asgard. You wage wars across the universe—your losses must far exceed humanity's. I'm willing to sell half the slots."

"What do you want in return?" Odin asked directly.

"We'll discuss that later. Does Asgard wish to make this deal?" Shiler asked.

Odin considered. Shiler was right. Since the resurrection restrictions tightened, Valhalla had become meaningless. Though Asgardians lived long, only three could be resurrected every ten years—what difference did that make from none?

Asgard had indeed reduced warfare, but guarding the Nine Realms remained perilous. More importantly, if word spread that Valhalla no longer lived up to its former glory, panic would follow.

After a moment's thought, Odin nodded: "Resurrection is vital to Asgardians. State your terms."

Hours later, in the garden behind Xiangong, Loki, playing chess with Strange, asked curiously: "What are they even discussing? Why so long?"

"I'd guess they're haggling over price," Strange said, placing a piece.

At that moment, footsteps sounded from behind the bushes. Loki turned and saw Shiler emerge.

Shiler wore a smile, clearly pleased. Loki stepped forward: "Looks like the deal went well?"

"Yes. The deal is done. Results should come soon."

Seeing Shiler's smile, Loki and Strange both knew someone was about to suffer terribly.

The next day, a typhoon swept through New York. Outside, wind howled, but inside, Shiler slept soundly.

A faint breeze slipped through the window cracks—not cold—but soon, a sharper sound pierced the air: the obelisk in the cabinet vibrated violently.

Shiler's ear twitched—he heard it. But he rolled over, pulled the blanket over his head, and kept sleeping.

This was rare. He rarely woke after seven. But typhoon days were perfect for sleeping—he had no intention of rising.

The obelisk vibrated for a full hour. By the time Shiler awoke from his dream, it had fallen to the floor and was now scuttling wildly at full power.

He bent down, grabbed it, and smiled brightly before placing it back where it belonged.

At noon, Shiler went to SHIELD's cafeteria for lunch and chatted with Steve, observing his anxiety recovery.

"Doctor! I'm truly fine! Ten tests in a week still aren't enough?" Steve said, eating steak.

"Yes, but further observation is needed. You haven't changed your environment—certain triggers may still provoke anxiety. Stay alert," Shiler warned.

Steve nodded, then looked puzzled at Shiler: "Actually, since earlier, I've wanted to ask—Doctor Shiler, what's that thing beside you? A sculpture? Why is it shaking?"

Shiler smiled, saying nothing.

In the afternoon, Shiler visited Stark's lab for a follow-up. Stark was impatient: "I told you I'm fine! I'm not Steve—you should check his brain!"

"Your vitals are normal, but your brain activity is unusually high," Shiler said, studying the report.

Stark sighed helplessly: "Of course! You only twist lightbulbs, so your brainwaves don't move. Come on—I'm a scientist! I'm conducting research. Halfway through an experiment, I'm dragged in for a checkup. My mind holds knowledge that can save Earth—it's bound to be active!"

"Alright, nothing else… oh, what are you looking at?" Shiler followed Stark's gaze to his own hand—where the obelisk kept vibrating.

"What weird gadget did you make now?" Stark frowned, staring at the strange object.

"It's my phone," Shiler smiled, saying no more.

That night, when Peter arrived at Arkham Sanatorium, he also stared at the strange sculpture on Shiler's desk. This time, before he could ask, Shiler said:

"It's a phone."

"But why is it ringing?"

"Because it's playing music."

"... hat music?"

"The Symphony of Victory!"

In the boundless universe, within a galaxy darker than all others, on a dark planet, Thanos slowly opened his eyes. In his dream, he saw his beloved again.

Perhaps his longing was too great—her beautiful voice echoed once more in his ears. Thanos knew: she was urging him to spread death.

As he rose to arrange war, he suddenly noticed Death's voice sounded wrong.

He listened closely—and heard a shattered female voice cry out:

"Find that bastard Shiler!"

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