John was certain those soldiers had belonged to Asgard in life.
Why?
Because the undead army's armor was practically a black-painted version of Asgardian armor.
In a place where black filled every view, the undead army made even souls tremble.
They were an army, undead whom souls could never hope to match.
Once the mightiest army under Asgard's eldest princess, they had been banished by Odin along with their mistress.
The Valkyries, riding their winged horses, had made them beings who would never rest in the Underworld.
At the head of this undead army stood a black-haired woman.
In Niflheim, she would have been the most exalted person there.
In Asgard, she was also an invincible goddess of war.
But this was the Land of the Dead, and in death's name, she had consigned millions of lives to their graves.
In this realm, she was the goddess of death.
She embodied dominion over death, and likewise commanded this army.
The Grim Reaper would not interfere with her, because no one wanted to provoke such a being.
Not even the Grim Reaper could afford to.
Hela seemed to sense something, and she smiled.
For the first time, this undead army saw their mistress smile in the Underworld.
"Tell me, this time, have you come as a conqueror or a failure?"
Hela spoke with her back to John.
John slowly approached, carrying the fond nostalgia of seeing a friend after a long absence.
"No, neither." John walked up beside Hela.
Only the Wizard King, her equal in standing, could stand beside the goddess of death.
Hela was not unattractive. On the contrary, she was beautiful.
It was simply her sinister air and smoky makeup that gave her a vicious edge.
Hela turned to look at John. In that face, as unchanged as