Chapter 558: Two Norse Gods Meeting
The casino floor seemed to breathe in unison with the neon lights. The clink of chips, the nervous laughter, the metallic sound of the slot machines—all composed a symphony of luxury and decadence. Yet, at that gambling table, the world’s focus seemed to converge on a single figure.
Her.
A cruelly beautiful woman, draped in a black dress that seemed woven from darkness itself. Her long, black hair with emerald green highlights slid like liquid silk to her waist. Her eyes, green as ancient gems, reflected both fascination and menace.
Hela.
The Norse Goddess of Death played as if she already knew the fate of everyone in the room. Her elegant fingers touched the chips with an almost unnerving calm, and then she pushed them all forward.
“All in.”
The murmur spread through the room like wildfire.
The man in front of her—an arrogant gambler in an ill-fitting white suit—narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead. He hesitated for a second, but pride prevailed.
“I accept.”
The cards were dealt.
And victory, inevitably, belonged to her.
The smile Hela gave was small, almost lazy, but charged with something no one dared name.
Her opponent slammed his hand on the table, cursing loudly, spewing profanities that mixed frustration and despair. But before he could stand up…
He paled.
His hand went to his chest.
A dry gasp echoed, followed by a dull thud as his body fell onto the chips.
Heart.
Silence gripped the table for a moment before the screams began. Staff rushed in, calling for security and paramedics. Players backed away, some praying, others filming with their cell phones.
Hela simply stood.
Neither surprise nor pity. Just the elegance of someone who has walked among the living and the dead since the beginning of time.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor like funeral bells as she crossed the room. Her green eyes sparkled, oblivious to the chaos she left behind.
She didn’t need to look to know: the cameras followed her, the gazes fixed on her, the murmurs accompanied her like a silent procession.
The door to the VIP section opened before her without resistance. No one dared to block her path.
Inside, the atmosphere was more private, more luxurious. Thick carpets muffled footsteps, the walls were adorned with discreet gold and expensive paintings, and the sound outside was only a distant echo.
She chose a table in the corner, crossed her legs gracefully, and waited.
Time seemed to double before her. Seconds became minutes, but her patience was infinite. After all, death always waits.
And then he arrived.
The guest.
A man of striking presence, his dark skin gleaming in the golden light. His military-style haircut highlighted the rigidity of his jaw. He was impeccably dressed—dark suit, tight tie—but what truly dominated were his eyes. Intense, golden eyes that seemed to see far beyond what any mortal could comprehend.
Heimdall.
The guardian of the nine worlds.
He walked to the table with firm steps, each movement measured, bearing the discipline of millennia. As he sat across from her, he crossed his arms over his chest, his expression stern as ever.
“What do you want, Hela?” His deep voice echoed like steel being forged.
She tilted her head, her lips curving into a smile that was almost seductive, almost cruel.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Heimdall…” she murmured, as if rebuking an old friend. “Always so hard, so rigid.” It’s as if you don’t miss a good conversation.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at her, motionless, as if trying to anticipate every move before she even thought about it.
She, in turn, lifted the wine glass that had already been poured—no one questioned how or when—and swirled the deep red liquid, as if it were blood.
“You called me here,” he said firmly, breaking the silence. “Then speak. Odin doesn’t know I’m here.”
Her green eyes gleamed in the golden light.
“I could talk about many things…” he whispered. “But I imagine you wouldn’t listen anyway.” She shrugged and looked at him.
She took a slow sip, letting the silence weigh on her before continuing.
“But no. Today I want to talk… about this tournament.”
Heimdall looked at her; this information wasn’t widely known to the gods Odin hated, like Hela. In fact, only great leaders knew about it, and a few important or closely connected gods.
Hela, however… was someone all the Norse gods stayed away from. Even more so because of her domain… Helheim, the Norse Underworld.
Hela rested her chin on her hand, her fingers gliding lazily along the side of her cup. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief.
“This tournament…” she repeated, her voice drawling, almost as if savoring the word. “Tell me, Heimdall… will old Odin participate?”
The guardian didn’t move a muscle, but the intensity of his golden gaze betrayed that the question wasn’t simple. He took a deep breath, keeping his tone controlled.
“It’s no surprise, Hela,” he said finally. “The God-Kings have no choice.” Her smile widened, as if she’d been waiting for that exact answer.
“Thank you, eh?” She inclined her head, letting a lock of greenish-black hair slide over her shoulder. “Even the all-powerful Allfather is forced down from his ivory tower? How delightful.”
Heimdall remained silent, but his fingers clenched on his crossed arms.
Hela took another sip, savoring it as if it were the very flavor of the information.
“Ah, how I love to see these invisible chains…” she murmured, almost to herself. “So proud, so arrogant, and yet bound by the rules of something greater.”
She lowered her glass, setting it on the table with a soft clink. Then she leaned forward, her green eyes meeting his gold with a serpentine intensity.
“And tell me, Heimdall…” she whispered, her smile almost affectionate, but her eyes sharp as blades. “Will you also fight alongside your lord? Or will you just blow trumpets and watch the world fall apart?”
The question hung in the air, thick with venom and curiosity.
Heimdall took a deep breath, but his expression remained as firm as stone.
“My duties are none of your concern.”
“Oh, what a protector.” Hela chuckled softly, leaning in even closer so that the ends of her hair almost touched the table. “Well, I just wanted to know… after all, I’m also bringing someone to the tournament. I hope she finds Odin’s warrior. It will be interesting.”
Heimdall narrowed his golden eyes, finally letting his mask of neutrality falter. Hela rarely spoke in such direct riddles—if she mentioned someone, there was intent.
“A person?” he repeated, his voice thick with suspicion.
Hela merely smiled, playing with the rim of her cup like a child might with the blade of a knife.
“Yes. A new piece on the board…” she said softly. “And, like all good pieces, it will collide with another. I only hope your trumpet is ready to sound when that happens.”
The golden eyes sparkled with a brighter glow, and Heimdall leaned forward slightly. For the first time, there was something close to curiosity in his posture.
“If you called me here only to hurl venom at Odin…” Her voice hardened, cutting. “Then the conversation is over.”
He unfolded his arms, as if he were about to rise that very moment.
But Hela lifted her hand, delicate, almost lazy, and the gesture was enough to make him hesitate for a moment.
“Oh, Heimdall…” She sighed, and her smile widened, turning almost childlike in its cruelty. “It’s not poison. It’s prophecy.”
He stared at her silently, his jaw set.
“Soon, your king will die.”
Her words fell like stones in the silence of the VIP room.
The guardian didn’t respond immediately. Every fiber of his being wanted to leap to Odin’s defense, to deny it with all his might. But beneath the discipline, Heimdall knew: Hela didn’t speak without purpose. And when she spoke of death… she rarely erred.
“Watch your tongue, Hela,” he growled softly, his golden eyes shining like a dawn about to break. “Or she will be the reason for your own downfall.”
She laughed. A soft laugh, enchanting and macabre at the same time, that seemed to echo between the walls like a cold wind.
“Fall?” She leaned back, raising her cup again. “Dear guardian… I have already fallen. I am already the abyss.”
She raised her wine, the red highlights painting her face like blood.
“And your king…” she finished, almost in a whisper, her green eyes flashing like blades. “Is about to join me.”
Heimdall stood, the chair creaking under the weight of his decision. His entire body was tense, like a bow drawn and ready to fire.
“Then I will keep my eyes open more than ever,” he declared, each syllable firm as stone. “Because if your prophecy dares to come true… I will be there.”
Hela simply raised her glass in a silent toast, her smile never fading.
“You will be,” she murmured, satisfied. “That is what I want… after all… Ragnarok will happen. Whatever it may be.”