"Stop crying. Stand up and cast."
Su Ming drifted over, patting Monarch’s tear-streaked shoulder. The mage was squatting on mangrove roots like a farr on a field ridge.
A crab-like creature scuttled through the shallow water before him, only to freeze when Monarch’s tears dripped onto its shell, diving into the mud.
"I’m fine... just... grief overwhelms ," Monarch replied, face twisted in pain. Those rabbits weren’t wasted—they were his children!
Su Ming’s mouth twitched. Should he suggest Monarch train with a cannibal tribe in Africa or the Amazon? There, eating deceased kin was custom—not cannibalism, but corpse consumption.
Human-eating, Su Ming opposed. Rabbit-eating? Probably fine. Monarch wasted dozens of rabbits per battle—so plump, so cherished. Eating them wouldn’t ease his heartache but could bolster his health.
Constantly drowning in sorrow, washing his face with tears, he’d waste away nutritionally.
Ronan’s nutrient fluid seed decent. Back on Earth, Su Ming would task his team with developing those lollipops.
These thoughts flickered briefly. Su Ming crouched beside Monarch, tucking his cloak under his stomach.
"Magic demands a price. You know this."
"Yes... I know, and I don’t regret it. But sotis, I dream of a world where magic has no cost," Monarch said, wiping his face with a handkerchief and blowing his nose. His beard was a ss, his belly swaying, nearly toppling him into the mud.
Su Ming clicked his tongue, though Stranglehold’s masked face remained expressionless.
In the Marvel world, human magic rarely escaped the "cost" system. Monarch was fortunate—beyond black and white magic, he knew so shamanic arts. Their strange power had no clear price, only disgusting side effects.
Marvel’s shamanism, or voodoo, drew from the Voodoo God, a deity with peculiar tastes. Please him, and power was yours.
Shamanic spells often required vile ingredients—chicken eyeballs, bat guano, toad eggs. Mash them in a crucible, gulp the sludge, then sing and dance.
Having seen his cousin’s true face, Monarch could probably stomach those materials without flinching.
His cousin had a shaman friend, codenad Black Claw, a necromancer specializing in weak undead and low-grade voodoo zombies. To please the Voodoo God, he wore a yellow chicken headpiece, cracked jokes mid-spell, and mimicked clucks.
"My condolences. Rest a bit," Su Ming said, unsure how to console him. Their emotional wavelengths didn’t align—how could he relate to rabbit grief?
Ancient One had Kamar-Taj apprentices train in martial arts to minimize spellcasting. In the superhero world, mages boosted strength and agility, warriors pumped intelligence and charisma—survival basics.
Monarch, clutching his belly, stood, eyes resolute through tears. "No rest needed. What’s next?"
The darkness was absolute—wind stilled, waves ceased, only a faint salty tang lingered.
Su Ming wasn’t sentintal. Ending this quickly ant Monarch could rest sooner, and he had his plan for the Serpent.
"Portal. phisto’s Hell."
phisto’s domain wasn’t among the Nine Realms, inaccessible by Bifrost. Black magic was the only way.
Without a mage, trapping a Ghost Rider could lure phisto out, but Su Ming barely knew the current Rider—probably the horse-riding one. He had contingencies for Ghost Riders, but provoking an immortal flaming monster was a hassle.
Monarch took a deep breath, striding from the mangroves to firr beach ground. He sliced his palm with a dagger, drawing a blood circle for the spell.
Hell magic often tied to blood and flesh. For sneaking into Hell, blood arrays were most reliable; summoning demons demanded flesh and soul sacrifices.
Su Ming felt a twinge of admiration. Monarch, the magic prince, was a true comrade—bleeding and weeping for a goal he didn’t fully grasp, without complaint.
Wealthy and wanting for nothing, Monarch deserved a reward. Back on Earth, Su Ming would gift him premium breeding rabbits and extra lollipops from the company.
When the array glowed, Su Ming ordered them to stay and maintain the portal, stepping through alone.
If Surtur’s Hell was fire and lava, phisto’s was a chaotic blend—darkness, fla, flesh, death.
The portal’s destination was unclear, but a scream greeted him. Atop a bone pile, a mangled figure was bound to a pillar, wailing.
Two hellhounds gnawed at its entrails. Blood rained like a fountain, swaying with the dogs’ heads.
Su Ming ignored it. The figure was a soul, perhaps once human, now not.
Hell held countless souls. phisto delighted in tornting them, his realm the largest concentration camp among Hell planes. He didn’t need their service—just their screams, treating them as living instrunts.
Souls were labor and currency here, and phisto was filthy rich.
Per comics, phisto answered to Death, the creator of all mythological reapers and demon lords. Su Ming had t DC’s Death but had no desire to et Marvel’s—too anthropomorphic, too complex.
This didn’t change phisto’s soul-reaping nature. How demons used soul energy varied.
Out of Heimdall’s sight, Su Ming reverted to his true form, removing his helt to smoke. The air reeked of sulfur and blood— unmistakably Hell.
Defeating a Hell lord here was near impossible. Su Ming ca to talk, to probe.
Beyond the bone pile, countless similar mounds stretched to lava-draped mountains. Hellhounds ensured souls wailed in varied tones to please their master, though whether phisto heard from miles away was questionable. They worked diligently.
Souls in Hell were mostly chaotic, feeling pain without mortal intellect, cycling through torture and repair.
Ordinarily, dead souls went to Death’s palace via her scythe. Those in Hell had made demonic pacts—fools or the damned.
A living human like Su Ming was an anomaly. Blood-red hellhound eyes turned to him, abandoning their tasks.
No matter. He’d visited DC’s Hell often. Constantine’s lesson: ignore everything, keep a cigarette lit, and focus on the goal.
His greatest bargaining chip? His soul.
"Don’t mind . Carry on. I’m here for phisto." Su Ming wove through bone piles, patting a hellhound’s head, his hand slick with blood. "Tch, feels real."
Hell energy gave souls temporary bodies to feel pain, existing in a liminal state. Once Su Ming left, he’d be clean.
The blood and flesh didn’t sate the hounds—it fueled their hunger, driving their "work."
The hounds didn’t react, perhaps not understanding. They didn’t attack, just watched silently as he stepped over bones and blood.
Being stared at by bloodthirsty beasts would make most shudder, a primal instinct.
Not Su Ming. Fear didn’t touch him—he wielded it.
Cigarette dangling, he trudged toward the distant lava mountain where phisto waited.
Crossing fetid streams, crunching bones, he reached the mountain’s base, greeted by demons and Maidens of Destruction.
He could’ve flown straight to phisto, but that was rude for a realm’s king. Better to request an audience formally.
Yet, seeing the demons’ stance, it seed phisto wanted to test Su Ming’s ttle first.
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