"I've always had a question, Hela. Does Valhalla really call out to certain people?"
Su Ming sat cross-legged on the flying carpet, drinking soda as he watched Thor slaughter enemies in the distance. He even raised a pinky to pick at his ear, clearly finding the God of Thunder a little too loud. "I've seen the Hall of Heroes too. It looked like an oversized barn. It can talk?"
Hela, sitting beside him and eating Spicy Strips, chewed for a while before swallowing the large gluten strip in her mouth and making a face. "It's just a meaningless catchphrase, isn't it? Besides, asking me about Valhalla means you've asked the wrong person. Look at me—I haven't died even once. You'd be better off asking your Misty."
When Asgard fell, Deathstroke separated the Hall of Heroes and tossed it into the Underworld.
Yet Hela had little interest in it, as though she simply looked down on Odin's creation. Or rather, she could not even be bothered to look at it. After dumping the affairs of the Underworld on Tyr, she had slipped off to Earth to become a shut-in.
"I asked her. She said that back then, all she did was use winged horses to pull the souls of the dead to the entrance of the Hall of Heroes. Then the souls would rush inside on their own to pick opponents, fight, and drink. She didn't need to arrange anything. She'd never even eaten the Hall of Heroes' famous dish—that roasted pig that healed itself every day."
Deathstroke shook his head as he recounted the information he had gathered in the past.
"Maybe the rules changed. The first generation of Valkyries—the ones who are now the Fallen Handmaidens—were allowed into the Hall of Heroes."
Hela took a small breath, stuck out