The blades struck true.

Eight shimmering knives pierced through Surtur’s body and skull in an instant, leaving gaping holes where the molten giant should have been invulnerable.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe for a second that it would be enough. With a mere thought, the weapons curved in a deadly arc and slashed back toward the giant’s body, carving at him again and again.

A guttural roar tore out of Surtur’s throat.

At last, the fire giant reacted. The Twilight Sword in his hands ignited with a flood of blistering flames, and his entire body erupted into fire so intense it distorted the very air. Rowan’s blades plunged into the inferno yet instead of cutting flesh and bone, they felt as though they were slicing into a furnace of pure flame.

When they reemerged, every blade glowed red-hot, trembling with the heat. And yet… none of them melted.

Rowan had reforged them with vibranium. Against the primordial fire of the Twilight Sword, lesser weapons would have turned to ash, but his blades endured.

The sight made even Surtur falter. For a being who had dominated Muspelheim for hundreds of thousands of years, to see his eternal fire fail against a mortal’s weapons was unthinkable. For the first time, doubt clouded his eyes.

The flames cloaking his body recoiled, shrinking back into his chest and sword until only faint embers lingered across his molten skin. His wounds sealed with magma, yet the giant’s movements betrayed weakness.

Rowan didn’t hesitate. His blades shrieked through the air again, stabbing toward the weakened colossus.

“Wait! Midgardian, hold—”

The plea was cut short.

Three blades pierced his torso. Another sliced through his head. His skull toppled from his shoulders before magma glued it back in place, the fiery cracks knitting together with visible strain. His light dimmed further, the glow of his chest like a dying coal.

“There… there is no need for haste,” Surtur rasped, the pride gone from his tone. His breaths came heavy, every word betraying the fear in his heart.

He thought of escape. Rowan saw it instantly. Six blades shifted into formation, hemming him in on every side, leaving no opening for retreat.

“Midgardian!” Surtur’s voice thundered with forced defiance. “Why have you come to Muspelheim? What is it you seek?”

Rowan guided the floating ship closer, hovering above the fire giant with an ease that mocked his stature. His gaze was steady, cold, merciless.

“I came,” Rowan said evenly, “to rob you.”

The words hit Surtur harder than any blade.

Silence hung between them.

Never in his endless reign had he heard such audacity spoken aloud. Even Odin himself had veiled his conquest beneath noble excuses. But this mortal? He simply declared his intent to plunder.

Surtur’s jaw clenched. Finally, he muttered, “What do you want?”

“What do you have?” Rowan countered, eyes roaming the molten halls of fire around them.

The giant stiffened. His grip on the Twilight Sword tightened. He heard the unspoken message: Everything.

“You dare—” His rage surged, flames threatening to burst forth again. But Rowan’s gaze was colder than the void between stars.

“If you can offer something that satisfies me, you live,” Rowan said flatly. “If not, then that crown on your head becomes part of my collection.”

The words left no room for doubt.

For a moment, the ruler of Muspelheim felt the same humiliation he had once tasted only under Odin’s shadow. He had been robbed of the Eternal Flame by the All-Father long ago; now a mere mortal sought to strip him bare.

He nearly chose death over dishonor. Yet the reality was cruel: without the Eternal Flame, he could not burn with his true might. He was vulnerable, perhaps killable.

Grinding his teeth, Surtur said, “I can grant you treasures gold, jewels, relics I have plundered from a hundred realms. Weapons, armor, artifacts beyond price.”

Rowan shook his head. “Antiques. Worthless.”

“Then… the command of my legions! You could wield Muspelheim’s army as your own, an endless tide of flame at your command!”

Rowan spared a glance at the host of fire demons that ringed the battlefield. Their snarling faces and crude weapons held no appeal. He dismissed them with a wave.

“Useless.”

Surtur’s molten jaw twitched. His knuckles whitened around the Twilight Sword.

“Then…” His voice dropped, heavy with reluctant desperation. “I can give you the Fire Core Stones gems condensed from Muspelheim’s very heart. With them, you would command fire itself. No flame in any realm could harm you. Even the Eternal Flame would bow to your will. Will that satisfy you?”

The admission cost him dearly. Creating such stones drained his dwindling essence, and he would not offer them lightly.

Rowan paused, intrigued despite himself. Fire Core Stones… a shortcut to elemental mastery. If he could bend fire to his command before even stepping into the next stage of evolution, it might rival the natural awakening of a planetary warrior.

But after a moment’s consideration, he shook his head.

His affinity remained uncertain. Fire might not even be his path. And to travel all the way to Muspelheim only to walk away with trinkets? It felt insulting.

“Midgardian,” Surtur roared, his fury finally breaking through, “you go too far!”

Rowan’s expression turned glacial. “Silence. If you die here, all of Muspelheim becomes mine by right.”

The giant’s chest heaved. His instincts screamed to unleash his fury, to gamble everything in one desperate strike. But Rowan’s calm, predatory gaze froze him in place.

Rowan considered the broader picture. Killing Surtur now would waste him. He remembered the prophecy: only the fire giant, reborn in the Eternal Flame, could end Hela and shatter Asgard itself.

And Rowan had plans for Asgard. Its treasures, its rainbow bridge, its legacy all of it could be his if Surtur survived long enough to play his role.

No, not yet.

But that didn’t mean Rowan couldn’t squeeze him harder.

His eyes slid to the weapon in Surtur’s hands.

“That sword,” Rowan said quietly, “is exquisite. Give me one Fire Core Stone… and the Twilight Sword. Do that, and I may let you crawl away.”

Surtur froze.

The Twilight Sword was no mere weapon. In the sagas of gods and monsters, it was the blade destined to bring about Ragnarök itself. Even without the Eternal Flame, its power dwarfed that of mortal artifacts. In Rowan’s hands… it could be catastrophic.

“Impossible!” Surtur bellowed, his pride erupting at last. His body blazed, fire pouring from every crevice as the Twilight Sword roared to life.

No more bargains. No more humiliation.

If Rowan wanted the Twilight Sword, he would have to take it by force.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep