A Little while
Staring at the stone construct before him, Rowe remained silent.
At that moment, a small stone golem stood motionless amid the rubble. A faint glow of holy light flickered across its body—undeniably, it contained some divine energy.
But… this was it?
The golem was barely a meter tall, no larger than a toddler.
Seriously? This was supposed to be a rock golem?
A rock golem—Rowe had envisioned a towering creature, three to four meters tall, fists the size of cauldrons. What stood before him looked more like a stone garden gnome with a spiritual afterglow.
Rowe blinked and tilted his head in disbelief. After a long pause, he composed himself.
"…Attack." He pointed to a tree nearby and issued the command.
The little golem turned without hesitation, ran forward a few steps, and swung its stone fist.
Boom.
Its rocky arm slammed into the tree with a muffled thud, chipping the bark and leaving a shallow dent.
Rowe furrowed his brow. The impact was barely stronger than a sledgehammer. It felt no more effective than a peasant swinging a mallet.
He exhaled. "Try launching a stone."
The little golem shuffled back, lifted its arm, and with a swirl of holy light, propelled its fist like a projectile. The stone appendage shot out, striking a thick tree trunk.
CRACK.
The trunk split apart with a violent snap, and the upper half crashed to the forest floor in a cloud of dust.
Okay, that was decent.
Rowe nodded with satisfaction. Though its close combat potential was underwhelming, its ranged attack—the stone projectile imbued with holy force—was actually impressive. At the very least, it wouldn't be a bystander in battle.
Then voices emerged from beyond the treeline.
"I heard something over here."
Rowe's ears perked up. Patrol soldiers.
Quickly, he raised his staff. The holy glow surrounding the golem faded instantly, and it crumbled into ordinary rubble on the forest floor.
A few moments later, a group of patrolling Asgardian soldiers approached.
"What happened here?" one of them asked, looking at the fallen tree.
Rowe offered a polite smile. "Just testing out some new enchantments."
One soldier recognized him and grinned. "It's you, Lantern Bearer. Heard there's a transfer coming. Are you heading to Jotunheim?"
During wartime rotations, warriors had little say in their deployment. Healers, particularly young apprentices like Rowe, retained more agency.
Rowe thought for a moment. "Yes. I'm going."
The man gave him a solemn nod. "You're brave… Let's hope we all make it through."
With that, the patrol moved on.
Rowe lingered for a while before returning to the healer's quarters, resuming his daily duties—mixing potions, crafting minor healing stones, and preparing antidotes.
As he worked, Sigurd strolled in.
"You're really going to Jotunheim?" he asked.
"Yeah. What about you?" Rowe replied.
Sigurd shook his head. "No. Too dangerous. My grandfather died out there. I've got a bad feeling about the place."
Rowe chuckled. "Last time you said the same thing about trolls. What happened? I was nervous until you started panicking."
Sigurd scowled. "That was just bad luck."
Rowe leaned back. "Pol once said that fate stares directly into Asgard, and the gods don't deal in coincidences."
Sigurd scoffed. "You actually believe in Ragnarok?"
Rowe paused. He remembered everything he'd learned in his past life.
Would Ragnarok, as depicted in Thor: Ragnarok, truly unfold here?
Sure, Surtur destroyed Asgard… but the people weren't wiped out. Most of Asgard's losses came at the hands of Hela and later Thanos.
So, was Ragnarok triggered by Surtur? Hela? Or was it Thanos?
That question lingered in his mind.
---
A Few Days Later
The third encampment was bustling. Soldiers gathered in formation across the grounds—nearly half the camp prepared for departure.
Commander Heimdall stood at the front, a battle axe in hand, his voice calm but commanding.
"Today at midday, once reinforcements arrive, half of Camp Three—including myself—will depart for Jotunheim's seventh outpost via the Bifrost."
"The Frost Giants are nothing like the Marauders or Skrulls. Jotunheim is no ordinary battlefield."
"When we arrive, military discipline will be significantly stricter. It must be."
He swept his gaze over the assembled troops.
"Remember—discipline isn't for control. It's for survival. On Jotunheim, one careless move can mean death."
He paused.
"I remain your commander, but I won't be the outpost leader. That honor belongs to Princess Hela—daughter of Lord Odin."
Rowe stood among the medical staff, his eyes widening.
Hela?
This must have been centuries before Thor was even born. At this point, Hela was still Asgard's champion—loyal, formidable, and untainted.
Heimdall continued: "Jotunheim houses the largest concentration of Asgard's foreign forces. In addition to our warriors, we'll be joined by Berserker units, Valkyrie squadrons, and the Einherjar."
"Respect them. Learn from them."
After concluding his speech, Heimdall fell silent, waiting with the rest of the army.
Moments later, a brilliant cascade of rainbow light descended from the sky.
The Bifrost. The colored beam struck the ground with precision, leaving scorched patterns where it landed.
As the light faded, another group appeared—reinforcements, mostly young soldiers.
Among them were numerous boy scouts—Asgardian youth, typically aged 20 or older, trained in battle and occasionally deployed in active campaigns against threats like the Skrulls and Marauders.
As a healer, Rowe stood apart, robed rather than armored, his staff marking him as both a physician and a wielder of the Light. His appearance was unmistakable.
"Rowe!"
A familiar voice rang out from the new arrivals.