Clear Sky

Each ancient being is marked by a unique characteristic, almost like a brand, though not by choice. It's something they need, an anchor to remind them of their identity. For these beings, who have lived for eons, memory is a fading thing; who they were, what they once loved or feared—all of it lost to time. And each of them, at their core, has a nearly obsessive attachment to something—a need that defines them as much as it drives them.

For Ophelia, it's control. The power to command others—companions, enemies, even the world around her—is the only thing that makes her feel truly alive. Yet, despite all her strength and cunning, that feeling of complete control has always remained just out of reach.

Now, as she reels from Thor's thunderous blow, a creeping realization dawns on her: this opponent, this force, might be like nothing she has ever faced. It's as if all the challenges of her many lives have converged into this one moment. She understands, with a cold certainty, that he might be the one being she cannot bend to her will.

But turning away isn't an option.

Her entire existence has been about dominance, about staying in command. She hadn't avoided battles all this time for nothing; it was all to reach this "perfect form" she now held—a body strengthened, reshaped, resurrected to give her ultimate control. But even this "complete" form has limits, and she knows she can grow no further. This is her final evolution. She has no other choice but to fight with everything she has.

Her scream echoes out—a piercing, unnatural sound. Standing tall on strange, hoof-like legs, Ophelia's true form is revealed. Her pale, smooth skin stretches over a body both disturbing and flawless, like polished, flexible marble, with long, rubbery tentacles spilling from her face. Her mouth opens in a toothless, distorted scream, stretching out in a voice that seems to ripple through the air itself.

And the wind responds. It rises around her, gathering and twisting into a vortex. A shadowy mass, almost like a black dragon, coils up into the sky, and the very clouds darken and churn, drawn into her swirling storm.

A pitch-black tornado takes form.

Thor, still reeling from his own impact, is the first to be pulled into the raging winds. His red cloak flutters wildly as he vanishes into the storm. Cars and chunks of debris are sucked up in the tornado, tossed like feathers in the air. Even a downed fighter jet is caught, spinning up into the chaotic swirl of darkness.

"Take cover!" Ivan shouts, already huddling behind a thick slab of concrete. The others scramble for shelter, grabbing hold of anything stable to avoid being swept into the storm themselves.

"Die! Just die!" Ophelia's voice is a raw shriek, filled with fury. "I don't care who you are—you're nothing to me!"

Under her direction, the wind rages with even more intensity, grinding metal into scrap, crushing steel beams into flat sheets. Parts of machinery twist and shatter, ripped apart as if sliced by invisible blades. Concrete chunks are ground into dust in the cyclone, floating through the air like gray mist.

In the human world, it's easy to see why people once worshipped these ancients as gods. Power like this was beyond anything even the wildest imagination could conjure. It wasn't just strength or magic; it was as if they commanded the very elements themselves, bending the laws of nature with a thought.

Ophelia's storm becomes an inverted cone of death, shredding everything within reach. But for once, she senses resistance. Just as the storm seems to swell and stretch outward, it stops, confined as though an unseen wall is holding it back.

The group, watching from a distance, is shocked to see the storm so contained. The tornado still spins wildly at its center, more violent and powerful than ever, but somehow it's been forced into a restricted area. The further from the core, the gentler the winds become, almost as if someone had wrapped the storm in a tight band, stopping it from spreading out.

"That's…not possible," someone whispers, their voice filled with disbelief.

But no one is more shocked than Ophelia. She is, after all, the source of this storm, and she can feel it slipping away from her control, responding to another force entirely.

"No!" Her voice trembles with desperation as she screams into the chaos, "You will obey me! I command you!"

She pours every ounce of her energy into holding the storm together, but it's like trying to clutch water in her fists. The wind grows fiercer, faster, the air itself dragged into the vortex, yet it moves further from her control with each passing second.

Then she sees him, standing directly beneath her at the storm's eye.

Thor, hammer raised high, is spinning Mjolnir in his hand, each rotation pulling at the storm as if guiding it, turning the vortex into his own weapon. Every gust seems to sync with his movements, as if he's a conductor and the storm his orchestra, a maestro in control of every note and beat.

Ophelia shrieks, hurling every possible attack at him, throwing wrecked cars, metal scraps, even uprooted trees in desperation. But anything that comes near him is obliterated, drawn into the spinning hammer's gravitational force and ripped apart.

Then, something unexpected happens. The entire battlefield seems to tilt, and Ophelia—this towering, monstrous figure—is yanked upward by her own tornado. Her form is suspended mid-air, a helpless puppet in the throes of her own storm.

From above, lightning crackles and arcs down, each strike growing stronger than the last. The bolts of energy crash into her body, tearing at her "perfect" form, ripping into her flesh like an electric storm of knives. She's bombarded by her own power, wind and electricity intertwining to slice and burn her from all directions.

The relentless storm keeps her trapped, lightning pouring down in endless waves, each strike leaving her weaker, more shattered. She can feel her body breaking, coming apart piece by piece, each fragment of her being torn away.

Finally, as if building to a crescendo, all the storm's energy begins to concentrate around the eye. Every arc of lightning, every gust of wind is drawn in, converging on Thor's hammer. Mjolnir glows with an intense blue light, crackling with power, as if it holds the very heart of the storm.

With a fierce battle cry, Thor thrusts his hammer upward, his entire body merging with the lightning, becoming a blinding streak of energy aimed directly at the ancient creature.

The impact is instantaneous, a shockwave of pure energy exploding outward, turning the storm itself into a weapon that tears through Ophelia's form. Blue light floods the sky, followed by pulsing waves of energy that flatten everything in their path. The force of it leaves nothing intact.

Ophelia's body disintegrates under the force of the blow, fragmenting into dust, scattered across the sky like ashes in the wind.

Thor stands, triumphant, hammer in hand, rising from the storm. The dark clouds part as if bowing to his power, revealing a clear, bright sky beyond.

With one strike, the storm is over, and the battlefield is left in silence.