Marvel's Strongest Mage

"Wooooooooooooooooooooooo..."

The sharp, piercing cry of sirens tore through the chaos of Broadway, echoing over shattered glass and smoke-drenched skies. Chief Stacy gripped the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, weaving his cruiser through the tangle of panicked traffic, eyes locked on the carnage ahead. Seven of his officers were already dead. Several more—unaccounted for.

He had no time to think about it. Not now.

Swerving past a fleeing civilian car by mere inches, the legendary street-hardened cop looked more like the young patrol sergeant he once was, rather than the crisp official behind a desk.

Unbeknownst to Chief Stacy, far above him, a military helicopter sliced through the clouds. Its rotors thundered like war drums as it hovered over the chaos. Inside: General Thaddeus Ross. His target? The monstrous Bronski below, now mutated into something nearly unrecognizable.

But the cabin's air was heavy with more than just mission tension.

Bruce Banner sat quietly, an unnatural stiffness locked into his posture. His gaze never left Daniel—who now sat across from him in full calm, untouched by the brewing emotional storm. General Ross had made a pointed remark earlier—casual, calculated—about how Daniel had been staying at Betty's place these past days.

Betty, as always, didn't notice. Despite her brilliant mind, she had never been the best at reading emotional subtext. With her usual clinical concern, she fussed over Banner, asking about his condition post-serum, unaware of the awkward silence left in her wake.

Daniel broke it first.

"General," he said flatly, "I need to change into military attire. It'll save us some explanation... and avoid unnecessary attention."

Ross, after a pause, understood. Daniel wanted to blend in—use the camouflage as both literal and symbolic protection. The general reached beneath his seat and pulled out a folded set of fatigues.

"This is what I've got. No guarantees you won't get shot at anyway." He smirked, handing it over.

Daniel accepted it and began changing without shame. "I always admired the way American generals look so pristine on the news. I guess this'll have to do."

As he laced the boots, he added, "If anyone comes asking about me—journalists, agents, whoever—I need you to intercept it. I'm not spending four years dodging bureaucratic headaches."

Ross gave him a hard look. "Don't worry. Aside from me, only a few know who you are. Not even S.H.I.E.L.D. gets clearance. Fury tried to pull you into their ranks. I shut that down."

Daniel gave a nod. The tension between the military and S.H.I.E.L.D. had not gone unnoticed by him, and he was deft at navigating cracks in alliances.

"I'll handle what comes next."

With that, he pulled the helicopter door open—no hesitation, no safety rope—and leapt out into the sky.

"Daniel!" Betty gasped instinctively, clutching her chest.

Even Ross blinked. But then, with a faint smile, he muttered, "Relax. He wouldn't have jumped if he didn't have something to land with."

Bruce Banner, still seated, leaned forward suddenly. "General... Let me go. I can help."

Ross turned slowly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "So you can still transform?"

The soldiers inside tensed. Fingers hovered near triggers. No one wanted a second Hulk breaking loose—especially not at 300 meters altitude.

Bruce didn't flinch. "I have a feeling... he won't let me die."

Ross didn't speak for a moment. His history with Bruce Banner had been built on near-misses and failed control attempts. And yet—Hulk always appeared when Banner needed saving. Always.

"Can you control him?" the general finally asked.

"I think I can," Banner replied after a beat. But his voice lacked certainty.

Ross turned to his daughter. "Betty?"

Bruce's eyes went to her too, searching her face. Seeking validation. Hope.

Betty hesitated only a moment. "He probably can... But only if no one provokes him." Her eyes darkened. "And how can you guarantee that?"

Ross said nothing more, and the smile Bruce tried to wear faltered into silence. Betty gently placed a hand on his arm.

"Bruce... This isn't your moment. Not yet."

She wasn't wrong. Bruce's antidote dulled the Hulk. Better to wait. To watch.

And below—Manhattan burned.

Bronski, now grotesquely mutated, towered like some demonic triceratops, his bony spines slick with blood and grime. He moved fast—faster than anyone expected—smashing through cars and walls, roaring at the sky. The screams of civilians blurred into the rattle of automatic fire.

From the streets, the military responded. Rows of soldiers crouched behind armored vehicles, lifting high-caliber launchers onto their shoulders. Rockets screamed toward Bronski's massive form.

But he was too fast.

He twisted, vaulted, slammed his claws into the street and launched himself sideways. One rocket hit him—barely—and the blast staggered him. But when the smoke cleared, there was no damage. Not even a scratch.

Someone screamed. A soldier, caught in panic. Bronski grinned.

He grabbed a nearby sedan and hurled it across the intersection like a toy. It smashed into a Humvee, flipping it with a fiery explosion. Soldiers dove to avoid the inferno.

"BRUCE!" Bronski bellowed into the chaos. "WHERE ARE YOU? COME OUT!"

But it wasn't Bruce who answered.

Suddenly—without warning—twin jets of water exploded from the street. Two broken hydrants gushed a torrential spray that soaked Bronski in seconds.

He roared in confusion.

Again, he ran. But at every turn, more hydrants burst, more water drenched him. The street began to flood around him. Still, no enemy appeared.

Then—a chill.

Bronski flinched. The air dropped suddenly, unnaturally. The wind cut into him, and his massive body trembled.

He leapt, slamming both feet into the ground and propelling himself upward, landing atop a half-crumbled skyscraper.

That's when he saw it.

A shadow in the clouds above. And then—impact.

Daniel.

He landed directly on Bronski's chest, driving the creature down like a hammer slamming steel.

CRASH.

Bronski cratered into the concrete. Rubble flew in every direction. Smoke, sparks, broken earth.

And standing over him—boot pressed to his chest—was Daniel.

Clad in U.S. military fatigues, helmet gleaming under the city's shattered lights, Daniel stood unmoving. The image was broadcast instantly—CNN, ABC, Fox, social media. A lone soldier subduing a monster in the heart of Manhattan.

To most, it was a miracle. To Daniel, it was just camouflage.

In this world, the strongest power wasn't ancient magic or British legends—it was the American military. Even Hydra feared them.

But Bronski wasn't done yet.

His eyes snapped open.

Before he could move, water surged—like a living entity—swallowing him into a sphere. A massive orb of writhing pressure. Liquid wrapped around him, crushing, drowning.

He thrashed. Clawed. Screamed.

Then choked.

The water wasn't just water. It slid into his mouth, ears, nose—eyes wide in panic as it invaded every crevice.