Chapter 115

Hela's face contorted in an intense rage that surged from the depths of her being. An explosion of power erupted from within her. It was as if a dam had burst open, releasing a torrent of spectral weapons that came into existence around her, swords, spears, daggers, axes, all shimmering eerily as they hung suspended in mid-air.

She moved, her speed supernatural. Each spectral weapon launched from her command, spinning, twirling, streaking towards Lydia in a relentless hailstorm. It was an onslaught, a blitz, a tactic meant to overwhelm, to batter down defenses, to strike from every angle. Lydia moved, her shield a blur, deflecting, blocking, a whirlwind of deflections that mirrored Hela's assault.

But Hela wasn't done. She tapped into her Asgardian magic, reaching deep into the wellspring of power that coursed within her. Waves of dark energy burst forth from her hands, surging towards Lydia in a wild, chaotic fury. The ground shook, the sky darkened, a dramatic change in the environment reflecting the intensity of Hela's counterattack.

Hela was pulling out all the stops. Every ounce of her strength, every iota of her power, every shred of her strategy, she was throwing it at Lydia. She was desperate to assert dominance, to reestablish her superiority, to make Lydia bow before her.

Meanwhile, Lydia held her ground. The onslaught was intense, but Lydia's years of combat experience served her well. Her eyes gleamed with focus, her body moved with precision, dancing through the rain of spectral weapons and energy waves with an unwavering resolve.

She could feel the sting of Hela's power, could taste the desperation in her attacks. But Lydia did not waver. She knew Hela was pushing her limits, and it wouldn't be long before those limits were breached. She had to stay the course, weather the storm, and wait for the opportunity she knew would come.

In the midst of the chaos, her introspective mind found a strange peace. She was Empress Lydia, a warrior, a queen, a cosmic entity. She had faced and overcome more formidable adversaries than Hela. And this battle, no matter how fierce, was one she would not lose.

Hela's assault was relentless, a tempest of spectral weapons and dark energy, her fury incarnate. Yet, it seemed to only bounce off the impervious surface of Lydia's shield, or pass harmlessly beside her as she lithely danced around the onslaught. Her composure remained unbroken, her stance unruffled under the fury of Hela's powers.

"That one," Lydia spoke, a spectral dagger bouncing harmlessly off her shield, "needs more spin on the release."

A scowl etched itself across Hela's face, her attack momentarily faltering. The audacity of Lydia's words sparked a flare of outrage within her. She was the Goddess of Death, the rightful Queen of Asgard, and here was Lydia, mocking her, belittling her power.

Yet, despite her indignation, Hela couldn't ignore the fact that her attacks were proving ineffective. The longer the battle waged, the more apparent Lydia's mastery over combat became. Her every move was precise, her every block impeccably timed, her every dodge a dance that left Hela's weapons flailing at thin air.

"You wield your magic like a child with a toy," Lydia remarked, expertly blocking a particularly fierce wave of dark energy with her shield. "Do you even understand its true potential? Or are you just throwing around power without any comprehension of its form?"

The words struck Hela as hard as any physical blow. She had always considered her power as a manifestation of her will, an expression of her wrath. But Lydia's words painted her understanding in a different light. Was she truly just a child wielding a toy, blind to the depth of her own powers?

Frustration gnawed at Hela, sparking a burning determination within her. She would prove Lydia wrong. She would show her that she was not just some inexperienced child flinging around power aimlessly. She would make Lydia regret ever crossing her path.

Meanwhile, Lydia watched Hela with a calm, analytical gaze. She had stirred the pot, pushed Hela to question her own understanding of her power. It was a gamble, a strategic move to throw Hela off balance. Lydia knew that a warrior who doubted their abilities was half-defeated. It was a lesson she had learned the hard way, and one she hoped Hela would soon learn too.

Once again, Hela lunged forward, a feral snarl etched onto her face as she conjured an arsenal of spectral weapons. They shot towards Lydia like a murderous constellation, each point of light aimed to kill.

But Lydia was already prepared. Her movements were calm, methodical, each one a lesson in control and discipline. Hela's weapon met Lydia's shield, their ethereal forces colliding with an explosive boom that echoed throughout the barren land.

"Again?" Lydia asked, her voice carrying a tinge of amusement, "You are incredibly tenacious, I'll give you that." Lydia swiftly pivoted on her heel, her body coiling like a spring before she unleashed a mighty spartan kick, her foot connecting with Hela's midsection with a thunderous impact.

The force sent Hela hurtling back, chunks of the rocky terrain lifting in her wake. Lydia watched her opponent skid to a halt, Hela's breath coming out in heavy gasps as she pushed herself back onto her feet. Lydia's head tilted slightly, her eyes twinkling with a curious light.

"You've made the same mistake twice now," Lydia's voice rang out across the deserted battlefield, "Too eager to close in, too sure of your victory. You see, that's your problem. Overconfidence. It blinds you to your surroundings, to your enemy's capabilities."

The words echoed around Hela, stinging more than any physical blow could have. She stood there, fury and humiliation etched onto her features. For a moment, she stayed silent, staring at Lydia as if trying to burn holes into her with her gaze alone.

And then, with a roar that echoed across the deserted landscape, she surged forward again, her spectral weapons forming around her like a deadly vortex. This time, however, there was a new spark in her eyes, a spark of determination. She would not make the same mistake again. She would learn from this, grow stronger from it. She was the Goddess of Death, after all. A goddess did not bow down to humiliation, she rose from it.

Thor and Loki watched the conflict from a safe distance, a swirl of bewilderment and awe etched on their faces. The spectacle unfolding before them was beyond anything they'd ever seen. They watched as Hela, Goddess of Death, struggled against the might of Empress Lydia.

Loki shifted his gaze from the battle to Thor, who was standing still with a tight grimace etched onto his face. "Is she teaching Hela or mocking her?" Loki asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Thor turned his gaze to Loki. He saw the perplexity on his brother's face mirrored in his own. "Both," Thor replied, his voice bearing an odd mixture of concern and bewilderment.

The battle continued, each blow and counter-blow causing ripples in the air. Lydia moved with the grace and fluidity of a dancer, each dodge a balletic arc, each block a masterstroke of timing. Hela's attacks were fast, relentless, yet each one was met with calm assurance.

Watching Lydia fight was like witnessing the unfolding of an intricate dance; a dance of war. Her movements were fluid, calm, calculated. A block here, a sidestep there. Each motion was a lesson, a sharp reprimand to Hela's haphazard fury.

Loki and Thor could only look on, each feeling a deep sense of apprehension tinged with awe. They were both acutely aware of the vast gap that lay between them and the Empress. It was like observing a force of nature at work; immense, awe-inspiring, and terrifying.

They watched as Hela launched another onslaught, the air whistling with the force of her spectral weapons. But Lydia only smirked, her movements as effortless as ever. She was not just a fighter, Thor and Loki realized, she was a teacher, an adversary, a warning of what true power looked like. They watched, unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle, their minds spinning with the implications of what they were witnessing.

Lydia stood poised and serene, her armor gleaming in the harsh alien sunlight. She watched as Hela reeled, her breaths coming out in ragged gasps, her shoulders heaving in the telltale signs of exhaustion. Lydia's eyes, though shaded by her helmet, reflected a hint of amusement.

"Oh dear," Lydia began, her voice carrying across the barren landscape, the crisp, articulate words chilling in their calmness, "Is the mighty Hela already tired?"

Her voice echoed outwards, carrying a mocking lilt. It was a tone that commanded, one that exuded an unshakeable confidence and control. There was power there, a raw and untamed force, yet it was held in check by a cold, dispassionate intellect.

Hela, goddess of death, regent of Hel, glared at her. Her eyes were burning coals, her lips curled in a snarl, but there was a flash of doubt, a glimmer of uncertainty that Lydia had seen before in countless opponents.

With effort, Hela straightened, her back rigid, her chest heaving. She lifted her chin, defiance etched into every line of her face. But Lydia could see it, the fatigue that gnawed at Hela's edges, the weariness that pulled at her limbs.

"Your form is all wrong," Lydia continued, tilting her head as if contemplating a particularly intriguing puzzle. "You're telegraphing your attacks. You're leaving yourself wide open each time you strike."

Her voice was patient, as if she were a master teaching a wayward apprentice. She offered criticism, advice, all the while watching Hela as a scientist might observe an interesting specimen.

The air grew tense as Hela absorbed Lydia's words. They hung in the air, a stark reminder of her inadequacy, a challenge she needed to rise to. Her eyes flickered to Lydia, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

The goddess of death squared her shoulders, her eyes hardening with renewed determination. She wouldn't be bested so easily. Not by her father's enemy, not in front of her brothers.

Thor and Loki watched from a distance, transfixed by the battle and the surprising pedagogy at play. They could only wonder about the enigma that was Lydia, a leader, a fighter, and a teacher, all rolled into one.

As if she were a storm waiting to burst, Hela surged forward, her green-black cloak billowing around her like an ethereal specter. Each footfall echoed on the barren rock, like the beating heart of a war drum. Her fingers danced, gathering shadowy weapons that reflected deadly intent in their spectral glow.

She took Lydia's critique to heart. The way she moved was different, more controlled, a dancer's grace in a battlefield's chaos. She feinted left, but attacked from the right, a smart attempt to divert Lydia's focus. For a split second, it seemed her spectral blade would find its mark.

However, Lydia was no ordinary adversary. Her own movements held an effortless elegance, an unhurried certainty. Her shield appeared almost out of nowhere, catching Hela's blade with an echoing clang. The force of Lydia's defense was so potent that Hela faltered, losing her footing. And before she could recover, Lydia countered.

The force of Lydia's spartan kick was like a hammer blow, a raw demonstration of her strength. It landed squarely on Hela's midriff, lifting her off her feet and propelling her through the air like a discarded doll. She crashed into the ground, an undignified heap of crumpled armor and bruised pride.

Hela's gasping breaths filled the quiet, her body struggling under the pain and exhaustion. She attempted to push herself up, her hands clawing at the loose rubble. A grimace twisted her features, highlighting the strain her body was under. Her once haughty eyes held a glint of anger, but beneath it lurked an undercurrent of disquiet.

Silence reigned for a moment, only punctuated by the harsh wind and Hela's ragged breaths. From a distance, Thor and Loki watched, their expressions a mix of apprehension and awe. Thor clenched his hands, an empty grip where his hammer once lay, while Loki's gaze flickered between Lydia and Hela, the gears in his mind visibly turning.

Lydia, however, stood her ground, an unmoving sentinel against the backdrop of a desolate landscape. Her figure was tall, strong and composed, the figure of an Empress who had stared down foes far greater than the one before her. Yet there was a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes, a spark of a mentor watching a stubborn pupil slowly, but surely, learning their lessons.

Hela's voice, strained but resolute, rose from her bruised form like a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished. "If we were in Asgard," she gasped, pushing through gritted teeth, "you wouldn't stand a chance against me."

Lydia's laughter filled the air, a rich, resounding sound that echoed across the desolate landscape. Her figure, adorned in an intricate suit of Uru, Vibranium, and Adamantium, glittered under the alien sun. The laugh wasn't cruel, rather it held a sort of unshakeable confidence, a raw display of dominance that was almost infectious.

"Oh, Hela," Lydia said, her voice dipped in mirth. "If power was only defined by where we stand, then it's no power at all."

She held her ground, the majestic figure of a seasoned warrior amidst a barren plain. Her eyes, glowing with an inner fire, bore into Hela's. There was a subtle challenge in her gaze, a silent dare. It was clear she was not threatened by Hela's claim.

Around her, the atmosphere tensed, charged with an almost palpable anticipation. Thor and Loki stood frozen, their eyes wide, watching the battle unfold. Thor's hand twitched, a phantom grip trying to summon Mjolnir, while Loki's eyes darted around, his mind undoubtedly turning over strategies.

And yet, despite the tension, Lydia's expression remained remarkably calm. She was like a sea of tranquility amidst a raging storm. Her posture relaxed, her grip on her sword and shield steady. It was evident that she was in control, unperturbed by Hela's threats. She held the situation with an iron grip, as if she was playing a calculated game of chess and Hela was simply an opponent who was yet to realize they were checkmated.

"Summoning the dead?" Lydia's laughter echoed again, a sharp note cutting through the air like a blade. She shook her head, her gaze piercing Hela like a lance of steel. "That's a neat parlor trick, dear, but against me? Useless."

As Lydia spoke, her mind briefly flitted to a memory she wished she could forget. A time when she had been just as desperate, just as beaten, standing against a force that seemed impossible to combat. Death herself. But where Hela's power felt raw and untamed, Death's presence was an inescapable stillness, a chilling finality that was far more terrifying than any battle.

Her brother, Victor... she had tried everything, even bargaining with Death, but it was all in vain. The memory of Victor's lifeless body still weighed heavy on her heart, a silent specter that refused to fade.

Lydia's laughter faded, a somber look taking over her features. "I've met Death," she continued, her voice softer but firm. The green cosmic energy of her eyes seemed to deepen, holding a millennium's worth of knowledge and experiences. "And trust me, Hela, you are nothing compared to her."

The words hung heavy in the air, casting a chilling silence over the barren landscape. Lydia's gaze was steely, a simmering cauldron of long-lived experiences, victories, and losses. Thor and Loki watched the Empress with wide-eyed awe, suddenly becoming aware of the ocean-deep depth of this woman they barely knew.

Loki shifted uncomfortably, a strange sense of anxiety gripping him. Thor, however, stared at Lydia, his expression one of grim determination. He was, after all, no stranger to the harsh truths of the universe. The pair shared a moment of silent understanding, each aware that their fight was far from over.