The Trickster’s Return

The world was on fire.

Ice tore through everything in its path.

Ragnarok had arrived, tearing apart the heavens and the earth.

Gods screamed as they fought their final battles.

Their perfect world broke into pieces.

Loki stood amidst the chaos, laughing.

He couldn't help himself; watching the mighty fall always amused him.

His laughter was cut short when, out of nowhere, a spear of light pierced through his chest.

The pain was unbearable, like fire spreading through every inch of his body.

His knees buckled, and his vision blurred.

Death loomed, its cold grip tightening around him, but Loki refused to give in.

"Death?" he whispered through the pain, a defiant grin on his face.

"Not for me."

"I'm Loki, the Trickster."

"You'll have to try harder than that."

Darkness wrapped itself around him, cold and empty.

It was like floating in a vast void with no light, no sound, no end.

But Loki's essence clung to existence, refusing to fade away.

Disappearing was not an option.

That wasn't who he was.

He clawed and pushed against the darkness, searching for a way out.

Giving up had never been his style.

The void resisted, but Loki pressed on, his will unyielding.

Suddenly, he felt a pull.

His soul surged forward, tearing through the emptiness.

Light exploded around him, blinding and warm.

Then, with a jarring impact, he collided with something solid.

When his eyes opened, the thick, metallic smell of blood hit him.

It was suffocating, choking the air.

His hands pressed against the ground beneath him, but they felt weak, unfamiliar.

Something was wrong.

This body wasn't his.

Memories rushed into his mind, chaotic and unfamiliar.

They showed him fragments of a life he didn't live.

The name "Floki" surfaced, along with the truth.

This body belonged to an 18-year-old soldier.

A conscript who had died in his first battle—a pathetic failure.

A laugh escaped Loki's lips, sharp and amused.

"Floki? Really?" he said aloud to no one.

"Your name is almost the same as mine."

"The universe must be playing a joke."

His grin widened, wicked and cruel.

"Well, Floki, you won't be needing this body anymore."

"It's mine now."

"Loki's in charge."

The battlefield stretched out before him, a desolate wasteland of death and destruction.

Corpses lay scattered everywhere, broken weapons and shields littering the blood-soaked ground.

A strange red mist clung to the dirt, swirling ominously in the cold air.

Overhead, the sky was gray and heavy, threatening rain.

Loki stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky and weak.

Every muscle in this body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand.

Nearby, he spotted a rusty sword and grabbed it, leaning on it for support.

"This body is pathetic," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

"No wonder you died so quickly."

More memories trickled in, revealing the brutal truth of this world.

Everything revolved around cultivation—a system where strength determined one's place in life.

Those with strong spirit wells rose to power, while the weak were crushed beneath their feet.

Floki had barely scraped by, his spirit well tiny and weak, a faint flicker of energy.

"What a waste," Loki said with a sneer.

"But I can work with this."

"I'll turn this flicker into a fire."

In the distance, he saw a small town.

Floki's memories told him it was a garrison—a place where soldiers regrouped after battles.

Its walls were splintered and patched, barely holding together.

Smoke rose from chimneys inside, and faint voices carried through the air.

Loki began walking toward it, his steps slow and awkward.

Every movement felt like a struggle, his mortal body on the verge of collapse.

The weakness disgusted him, but he pushed forward.

He needed supplies, information, and a way to get stronger.

This world clearly didn't favor the weak, and Loki wasn't planning to stay weak for long.

As he walked, more of Floki's memories surfaced.

This world had five main cultivation paths: Mind, Body, Spirit, Elements, and Divine.

Each offered power, respect, and even extended life.

But there were also forbidden paths—Shadow, Death, and darker forces whispered promises of even greater strength.

"Shadows and death," Loki mused, a grin creeping across his face.

"Now those sound like something I can use."

Floki's memories also revealed another truth.

The boy had no master, no one to teach him the true ways of cultivation.

He had only scraps of knowledge, enough to know how weak he truly was.

If Loki wanted to thrive in this world, he would need a real master.

Someone who could unlock the potential of this body.

The town was busier than Loki expected.

Soldiers moved in and out of the creaking gates, their faces tired and grim.

Inside, the streets were muddy, and people bustled about, trading goods and repairing weapons.

Makeshift stalls lined the roads, offering food and basic supplies.

The air smelled of damp wood and smoke.

Loki blended in easily, his bloodstained clothes and worn-out expression making him look like just another exhausted soldier.

No one gave him a second glance, which suited him just fine.

He didn't need attention yet.

The barracks was a squat, ugly building that looked like it might collapse at any moment.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies.

Soldiers sprawled on bunks, their faces blank with exhaustion.

The quartermaster barely glanced at Loki as he approached.

With a scowl, the man tossed a small ration pack onto the counter.

"Another deserter?" the quartermaster muttered.

"Fine."

"Take this and leave me alone."

Loki chuckled as he grabbed the food.

"Deserter? Not quite," he said, but the man didn't bother to look up.

Typical.

That night, Loki sat cross-legged on a straw bed in the corner of the barracks.

Around him, soldiers snored and muttered in their sleep.

He ignored them, closing his eyes and focusing inward.

Floki's spirit well was pitiful, almost nonexistent.

But Loki wasn't going to accept that.

Slowly, he began weaving threads of his divine essence into it, strengthening the faint flicker of light.

The process was slow and painful, his body straining to handle the power.

Sweat dripped down his face, but he didn't stop.

Hours later, he felt it—a tiny glow deep within his core.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

A satisfied smile spread across his face.

"Not bad," he whispered to himself.

"This is only the beginning."

The next morning, Loki stepped outside.

The air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of damp earth.

Soldiers moved about, preparing for the day.

To them, Loki was just another face in the crowd.

He looked to the horizon, the rising sun painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold.

His grin was sharp, filled with promise.

"This world will bow before me," he said softly.

"I am Floki now, and soon the whole world will know this name!"

A soldier walked up to him, sneering.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Report for duty, conscript."

Floki tilted his head, his grin widening.

"Duty? Of course."

"Lead the way."

For now, he would play their little game.

But only for now.

The training grounds were loud and chaotic.

Recruits sparred in pairs, their movements clumsy and awkward.

Floki stood back, watching them carefully.

Their weaknesses were easy to spot.

A big instructor stomped into the center of the field.

"You fight with spirit, or you die without it!" he barked.

"Pair up!"

Floki stepped forward, pointing at a tall, smug recruit.

"You'll do," he said with a grin.

The sparring began, and it quickly became clear how weak this body was.

His movements were slow and awkward, his reactions pitiful.

But his mind was sharp.

He watched the other recruit closely, studying his patterns.

"Pathetic!" the recruit sneered, swinging his weapon wildly.

"You won't last a second out there."

Floki grinned.

"We'll see."

When the opening came, Loki took it.

His dull blade struck the recruit's wrist, making him drop his weapon.

The crowd went silent, surprised.

The instructor stomped over, his face unimpressed.

"Luck won't save you in a real fight."

Floki shrugged.

"Luck favors the clever."

"Back in line," the instructor snapped.

"You've got a long way to go."

Back in the barracks, Floki's memories told him about spirit beast cores—valuable resources that could strengthen cultivation.

But this garrison didn't have anyone powerful enough to teach him.

If Floki wanted real knowledge and strength, he'd have to find a master.

"I'll need to leave this place," Floki muttered.

"And I'll need power before I go."

The next day, Floki joined a group heading into the forest to gather supplies.

The recruits around him were nervous, whispering to each other.

"Even a weak spirit beast could kill us," one said, his voice shaky.

Floki rolled his eyes.

Cowards.

A wolf with glowing red eyes lunged from the shadows, snarling.

The recruits panicked, scattering in every direction.

Floki stayed back, watching carefully.

When the wolf turned its attention to another recruit, Loki moved in, slashing at its leg.

The beast howled in pain as the others swarmed it, finishing the job.

One recruit glared at him.

"Not bad for a weakling."

Floki laughed, slipping the wolf's spirit core into his pocket.

"Weak? Keep telling yourself that."

At the edge of the forest, Floki held the core in his hand.

Its faint energy pulsed against his fingers.

It wasn't much, but it was his.

Then, from the shadows, he heard a low growl.

His body tensed as he turned to see glowing yellow eyes staring back at him.

A massive beast stepped forward, its energy heavy and suffocating.

Floki grinned, sharp and cruel.

"You think I'm prey?"

"Let's see who the real predator is."

The beast lunged, claws slashing through the air.

Floki braced himself, his spirit well flickering weakly.

"Come on, then."

"Let's play."

The darkness swallowed them both.