Marvel's Strongest Mage

Daniel ended the encrypted call and tucked the device away, his gaze returning to the brutal showdown ahead.

Across the ruined field, Ivan Vanko—clad in his custom steel armor—fought savagely against Iron Man and War Machine. Sparks danced in the air like fireflies, energy whips cracking and screeching like lightning chains as they coiled through the smoke-choked night.

Daniel wanted to stay. He wanted to see how this ended. But the call from the White House had changed everything.

The situation at the Stark Industries Expo had spiraled out of control. Dozens of Iron Soldiers, left behind intentionally by Vanko, were still active—slaughtering civilians, reporters, and government officials alike. It was a diversion. Vanko's crude yet effective way of ensuring no one interrupted his personal vendetta with Tony Stark.

Daniel had taken out a good number of the Iron Soldiers already, but there were too many, and time was running out. The National Guard had been mobilized. And the White House, despite its silence on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s probable involvement, had called in him.

He glanced once more at Vanko, admiring—grudgingly—the man's craftsmanship. Whatever metal he'd hoarded from Justin Hammer's collapsed empire, it was damn good. The Iron Soldiers fell easily to Stark and Rhodes' laser cannon barrage, but Vanko's armor had survived multiple direct hits. It hadn't even cracked.

Unlike Stark's nimble, aerial finesse, Vanko's suit was built for brutal, close-range combat. And those electrified whips of his? Stark had no answer for them in tight quarters.

As Daniel vanished into the shadows, Vanko had both Iron Men wrapped—bound by arcs of plasma like chained prey. They were helpless.

Not that they noticed Daniel. His quiet departure went unmarked. No eyes turned his way. No minds sensed his withdrawal.

It was a shame, really. Daniel wouldn't get to witness how Vanko died. He remembered how it played out on the original timeline—how Stark struck the final blow. But here, history had already shifted. The White House had robbed him of that small entertainment.

He had work to do.

Within minutes, Daniel arrived at the Stark Industries Expo.

Gone was his usual robe. Now, he wore the crisp uniform of a U.S. Army Major—borrowed, forged, tailored to grant him the clearance he needed. He moved through the chaos like a shadow, unseen but not unarmed.

Screams echoed.

Flames licked the walls of nearby exhibits.

And in the center of it all—a boy. Barely ten. Wearing a plastic Iron Man helmet, utterly lost.

The child stood frozen, toy laser blaster clutched in both trembling hands, staring up at the towering Iron Soldier before him. The drone's targeting system, fooled by the toy's flash, had locked on. Its cannon began to lower.

A kill sequence had begun.

Daniel appeared between them in a blur.

A breath of frost exhaled from his palm—instantaneous. The Iron Soldier stopped mid-motion, frozen solid. A glistening block of shimmering blue encased it, frost racing across its shell like lightning veins. The lubricants, the hydraulics, the circuitry—all seized. The machine groaned, then fell still.

But then—click. Beep. Dididi…

The telltale signal of a timed explosive.

Daniel didn't flinch. "Your parents are over there," he said, pointing across the plaza.

The boy, wide-eyed, looked once, then bolted—sprinting across the chaos toward a crying couple. Relief and sobs collided as they embraced him.

But Daniel's mind had already moved on.

Something was wrong.

The self-destruct countdown meant the Iron Soldiers were still under Vanko's control. Which meant neither Pepper Potts nor Natasha Romanoff had successfully overridden the command systems yet.

They were supposed to use Justin Hammer's master credentials at Hammer Industries to seize back control of the drones. That was the original sequence. But here? Something had gone off-script.

And time was up.

Daniel's eyes narrowed. His hand moved. And then—he soared.

A streak of motion. A blur across the air. Military drones and news cameras all caught it—the cloaked mage ascending to the sky like a silent comet.

He rose hundreds of meters in seconds.

From this vantage, the entire Expo stretched beneath him in terrifying clarity. Dozens of Iron Soldiers. Civilians fleeing in every direction. Sparks, fire, panic.

He pulled his wand free.

Oak, once reddish-brown, now pale and silver-veined from decades of exposure to Jotunheim's frigid energies. It hummed softly in his hand. A partner, a relic, a part of him.

His grip tightened. His expression turned grim.

The wand glowed—and a vast circle of sigils expanded around him.

Ten meters. Then twenty. Then more.

Air crackled. Magic hummed.

The sky above darkened slightly as if the world itself held its breath.

And then—it began.

Massive walls of ice shot down from the air like falling gates. Thick, glacial slabs slammed into the ground around each Iron Soldier, encasing them, separating them from the panicked civilians nearby. Each wall fell precisely where it was needed—no more, no less.

Within moments, all hostiles had been isolated.

And then—detonation.

The first explosion thundered through the night, followed by another, and another.

Twelve. Fourteen. Seventeen Iron Soldiers erupted into fireballs within their icy cages. The sky turned orange and black. The shockwaves rolled outward—but the civilians were safe. Daniel's magic had held.

From afar, military personnel and reporters alike finally understood what he had done.

He'd saved them.

Even with the destruction, the casualties were minimal. The ice walls had contained the force of the blasts, redirecting them skyward. The people were safe.

The buildings, however, were not.

Stark Industries' structures—sleek and modern—suffered under the explosive force. Windows shattered. Supports buckled. Fire bloomed.

And as the last shards of his ice walls shattered and collapsed into steaming puddles, a wave of screams and coughing rose from the ground.

But it was over.

The National Guard finally rolled in—armored transports, medics, riot control. Soldiers quickly began evacuating survivors and securing the area.

Daniel descended.

He reappeared silently on the rooftop of a nearby building, overlooking the ruins. His gaze lingered on the flames, unmoved.

He raised his phone and dialed again.

"The drones are down," he said coldly. "Area secured. Moving to Central Park."

He hung up without waiting for a response.

The White House had gotten what it wanted.

But Daniel had gotten more.

The blueprint of Howard Stark's new element—erased. Any chance of someone else reconstructing the Tesseract-like energy lattice had been incinerated in that explosion.

As he left the rooftop, Daniel couldn't help but wonder.

The White House had used him more than once, but never sent a direct envoy. No meeting. No face-to-face with the President. No classified intel—nothing. Only calls. Only Ross.

And General Ross? Though technically retired, he still pulled strings in more places than anyone acknowledged. Especially after S.H.I.E.L.D. began losing its grip on powered individuals.

Daniel had drawn attention tonight.

He wanted to.

When the Avengers finally formed, there would be room for only a few superpowered assets truly aligned with the government. Daniel intended to be one of them. Not for loyalty—but for leverage.

Let them think they had a leash around his neck.

The more valuable they believed he was, the more freedom he would gain.

By the time Daniel arrived at Central Park, the battle was already over.

The trees still smoldered. Steel limbs were strewn across the soil. Bits of circuitry sparked weakly. Among them—what little remained of Ivan Vanko's armor.

Charred.

Twisted.

Gone.

Daniel stepped into the wreckage without hesitation, boots crunching over blackened earth. He waved a hand, and the remaining embers died around him. Ash danced in the air.

No body.

Just pieces.

Shredded limbs. A bit of torso. And what might have once been Vanko's skull, now melted beyond recognition.

But the armor remained. Broken—but salvageable.

Daniel crouched, collecting fragments.

Gold-titanium alloy. Composite plating. Reinforced servos. Raw material.

Exactly what he needed.

He didn't intend to wear the suit. Mages had no place on the front lines. But he needed a shield. A guard. A companion—one he could trust.

And to build it, he would need metal.

Vanko's whips, too, were intact. Singed, but usable.

Whiplash was dead.