The realm of Hel was shrouded in an eerie silence, a silence that seemed to swallow all sounds and echoed the desolation of the world around. Lif, the general of Hel, stood amidst this quietude, his red eyes gazing into the nothingness before him. The silence was almost comforting, matching the cold emptiness that had taken root within him over his long, undead existence.

His blue hair, now a ghostly hue, was stirred slightly by the non-existent wind, an oddity in a place where even the elements seemed to hold their breath. The cursed sword 'Sökkvabekkr' was securely in his grasp, its ominous aura a grim reminder of the contract he had made with the god Thórr.

His mind was a fortress of solitude, his thoughts a rare visitor in the silence that was his existence. Yet, in the quiet moments, memories of his past life as the first king of Askr would surface, like phantoms from a forgotten time. They were painful reminders of what he had lost, what he had become.

The silence was his companion, his confidante. It was in these moments of quiet that he allowed himself to reflect, to feel the weight of the decisions he had made. He had made a pact with Hel to save his kingdom, and now, he was bound to destroy all worlds.

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of determination burning brightly amidst the endless cold. He was Lif, the undead general of Hel, a servant of the realm of the dead. His path was set, his duty clear.