Marvel: AS A PRINCE IN ASGARD

"The fallen angels have seized the throne of Heaven!"

"They wear the faces of angels but carry the hearts of devils!"

"They claim the world is in peril!"

"They seek to merge Heaven with Hell, making angels stand beside demons!"

"But behold—the new Lord has arrived!"

"We are the new hosts of Heaven!"

"We walk the Earth as if treading within His kingdom!"

"We are here to spread the gospel of the new Lord!"

"A Lord who will cast Hell into oblivion and purge the fallen from existence!"

"The fallen must perish!"

A high-ranking angel, his golden armor gleaming with ethereal fire, raised a blade forged in the White Hot Room itself—the Sword of Righteous Flames. With a single, unerring stroke, he severed Gabriel's head before the eyes of the world. The archangel's celestial blood burned as it touched the ground, turning to radiant embers that vanished into the wind.

"The new Lord reigns!"

"The old covenant is void, and the new cannot be bound!"

"A new oath shall be forged!"

"All who sign the contract will be granted divine blessings!"

"They shall be protected from all demonic afflictions, and the new Lord shall welcome them into a new paradise!"

The proclamation rang out like a celestial commandment, broadcast across the globe. A new order was rising, doctrine rewritten in real time, the faithful forced to kneel before an unseen ruler.

Keisha stood at the edge of the carnage, her radiant wings flickering with a concealed fire, her expression impassive beneath the veil of celestial light. She was no priestess. She was a warrior.

Nearby, Ragna conjured a golden flame in his palm, effortlessly incinerating the severed hand of Heaven's fallen champion. He watched the high-ranking angels declare their 'new covenant' with mild amusement. These were not divine words passed down by the One Above All—no, they were hastily assembled scripture, cobbled together from fragmented Earth religions, a rebranding of faith under a new celestial dominion.

Much like the Old and New Testaments, divinity was a title—passed down, usurped, rewritten.

Even the Pope, a man who had sworn himself to the Holy Father, understood the shift. His aged eyes lingered on the shattered statues of Christ and His angels one last time before issuing a simple decree: remove them. Either dispose of them or pass them to collectors. Soon, the holy sanctuaries would bear the image of a new ruler.

Faith had always belonged to the powerful.

Across the world, the newly anointed angels soared over cities, their luminous wings casting ethereal light upon the streets. With their arrival came undeniable miracles—wounds healed, blindness lifted, even the corruption left behind by Mephisto's minions burned away under their radiance.

But belief was not so easily erased.

The absence of the old god did not mean His faith would vanish overnight. Without Heaven's voice, without its angels, without its miracles, the old faith would erode slowly, lingering like the dying echoes of a forgotten song.

But time devoured all things.

New believers would rise, and the heretics of yesterday would be cast aside.

Because God was dead.

The Age of Gods and Monsters

Tony Stark sat in his penthouse, watching the chaos unfold across every global news station. Celestial invasions were not something he had accounted for.

"What the hell is even happening anymore?" he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Aliens, gods, demons, angels… what's next?"

J.A.R.V.I.S. remained silent.

Stark exhaled. "Do you think I can build anti-god armor?" Then he frowned. "Oh, wait—God might actually be dead. That complicates things."

Los Angeles had barely recovered from the Hellgate incident. Thousands had died. And in the shadows, America's top officials had gathered behind closed doors.

A nuclear strike had been their first consideration. The Hellgate had been a threat too great to risk containment. Civilian casualties? A secondary concern. But before they could execute their plan, the angels had descended.

Now, things had changed.

The demons had been monstrous, but the angels—these unknown warriors—had obliterated them with surgical precision.

Superhuman warfare was no longer a hypothetical. It was the future.

In the corners of the war room, disguised Skrulls exchanged glances. Earth had proven to be far more complicated than anticipated. The invasion could no longer be rushed. Their infiltration had to be perfect.

For now, they would let their "partners" act first.

Let the Avengers—Earth's so-called defenders—be drawn into the conflict.

Soon, they would all be under Skrull control.

And so, in secret, agents were deployed.

The remains of the demons—flesh, bones, organs—were cataloged and transported for research.

But the celestial warriors?

They were untouchable.

The Skrulls swallowed their ambition. Even with all the power they had amassed, they were nowhere near ready to challenge an entire legion of angels. They had seen what Carol Danvers had done to the Kree armada.

This was worse.

The War in Heaven

In the dimension of Heaven, Ragna's forces surged forward, tearing through the celestial defenders.

Unlike Hell, which required suffering to fuel its existence, Heaven drew its power from faith itself. Every soul who had ever prayed, every voice who had ever sung hymns, fed its eternal fire.

Yet faith alone was not enough to win a war.

Heaven's army was vast—countless angels born from mortal souls. But the majority were weak, barely beyond first-tier power. Even the archangels—Uriel, Raphael, and the others—hovered only at the fourth tier.

Against Ragna's legions, they were nothing.

Halos shattered. Wings were torn from backs.

Heaven burned.

And at its center, two figures stood against Ragna—Michael, the Prince of Heaven, and beside him, a figure draped in darkness, his vast obsidian wings stretching like a shadow across the battlefield.

Lucifer.

The Morningstar. Heaven's greatest traitor.

"Fitting," Ragna mused, lounging upon the throne of the Heavenly Palace. "You both feast on human faith. So tell me—what's the real difference between you and the demons?"

Lucifer's golden eyes gleamed.

"Does it really matter?"

Michael and Lucifer exchanged a glance.

Then, in unison, they began to merge.

The battlefield trembled. A new power was taking shape—an entity neither wholly Heaven nor Hell, but something beyond.

But before their transformation could complete—

Space itself fractured.

A rift of endless void tore between them.

Ragna rose from his throne, blue energy crackling in his palm.

"Did you really think I'd let you finish?"

His voice was calm. Almost amused.

"Sorry," he said, "but I don't feel like dying today."

He snapped his fingers.

Space collapsed.

The pressure of his divine will bore down upon them like an unrelenting sun.

"Today, not only does God die…"

A slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"But Satan dies too."

Lucifer's smirk vanished.

Michael's hands clenched into fists.

And then—

Ragna struck.

Because no one could save them.

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