Marvel's Strongest Mage

"Calm down, Alistair. There's no need to explain it to me."

Dr. Spencer's voice was gentle, almost paternal, as he slowly pushed his son's wheelchair away from the flickering wall of surveillance screens. His lab coat rustled with each step, the polished floor beneath them echoing faintly. Behind them, the soft hum of cooling fans and quieted machines filled the silence left behind.

But Spencer's voice still reached Norman Osborn, clear and deliberate, almost casual:

"Don't worry, Mr. Osborn. This was only a drill."

"A drill?" Norman's voice cracked through the room like a whip. His eyes narrowed with disbelief.

Those aircraft—the high-performance drone units with adaptive combat modules—they weren't cheap toys. Osborn knew their value better than anyone. And Spencer had just used them… as test pieces?

Practically all of them destroyed.

Spencer, however, didn't even flinch.

"These Spider-Finders validated my targeting algorithms," he said, pausing to glance over his shoulder. "The system can locate Spider-Man. That alone was worth the cost."

He stopped walking, his tone shifting—sharper, colder:

"But let's be clear, Norman… I never intended those drones to kill him."

Norman Osborn's expression shifted. Anger cooled into something more calculating. Spencer was right. He knew that better than anyone.

If Spider-Man could be taken down with cheap artillery, Norman would've done it years ago.

No.

The wall-crawling freak was too fast. Too adaptive. Too lucky. A straight fight would always favor him. They needed something more. Something ruthless. Something designed to do what bullets and bots couldn't.

"How do you plan to kill him, then?" Norman asked tightly, following behind them now. His voice carried the sharp edge of business. "All these machines? They're on my dime. I won't keep bleeding funds without results, Dr. Spencer."

"You won't have to."

Spencer's hand pressed against a section of steel wall—no visible seams, no buttons. A soft click sounded. The panels hissed and split apart, revealing a massive underground vault beyond.

As the doors parted, the light spilled over something monstrous.

Something designed to kill.

It stood in the center of the hidden chamber—eight limbs gleaming with polished, segmented metal, each one curved and predatory. Black and crimson plating adorned its body like armor forged in a furnace of hatred. Its eyes—clusters of glowing red sensors—blinked to life with eerie intelligence. Sharp mandibles clicked once, almost hungrily.

A mechanical spider.

Sleek. Lethal. Magnificent.

"I present to you," Spencer announced with a calm pride, "My masterpiece: The Spider Killer—Black Widow."

Osborn's breath hitched.

The design was… astonishing. Its body had the elegance of nature, but none of the fragility. Pure steel. Pure hate. A weaponized arachnid with cutting-edge AI, predictive combat analysis, adaptive agility, and a suite of hidden surprises Osborn couldn't yet imagine.

This was no drone.

This was an executioner.

He didn't need to see it move to believe in it.

Spencer continued, arms folded behind his back like a surgeon unveiling his final creation:

"The Widow is fully autonomous. It can track and counter every recorded movement pattern Spider-Man has ever displayed. Its carapace is reinforced with vibranium alloy mesh. And the venom systems…" He smiled faintly. "Let's just say they're not synthetic."

Osborn was momentarily speechless.

But he knew the truth. Even the Widow wouldn't succeed without precision. Without planning.

And that responsibility wouldn't fall on the scientists.

Spencer would provide the tool. The targeting system. The mechanism of death.

But the hand that wielded it had to be his.

Later that evening, in the heart of Manhattan, Norman slipped past cameras, agents, and half a dozen surveillance tails. He entered a private elevator tucked inside a pristine building wrapped in layers of legal invisibility.

The outside world thought it was a financial firm but the inside belonged to one man.

Wilson Fisk.

The Kingpin of Crime.

A myth whispered between cartel meetings. A name spoken in panic in the darkened alleys of New York. The man who controlled the underworld like a chessboard.

Fisk sat motionless in the shadows of a vast office chamber. A white tailored suit draped across his massive frame. A solid gold cane rested between his fingers. A small coin rolled over his knuckles, silent and menacing.

Norman didn't flinch as he approached.

"The Black Widow's ready, Mr. Fisk," he said smoothly. There was a subtle confidence in his voice—measured, deliberate. Like a man who finally held the sharpest blade.

Fisk didn't rise.

His voice came low, like gravel crushed beneath a tank tread: "Anyone trace it back to me?"

"Not even close," Osborn said. "Clean as a whistle."

The light above shifted, revealing more of Fisk's face. Scarred. Hardened. His jaw clenched, the rage always simmering just beneath the surface.

"Good," he muttered. "Because Spider-Man's been a cancer to this city. I built my empire from the sewers upward. Blood. Bricks. Bribes. And this little bug keeps wrecking it."

Osborn nodded. He understood. More than that—he sympathized.

Spider-Man had cost him more than a few profit margins. Osborn Industries had seen contracts dissolved, experimental weapons seized, and entire operations collapsed—all because of one man in red and blue tights.

And sure, maybe they were toeing the legal line to begin with, but Spider-Man always shoved them off the cliff.

And yet, compared to Fisk?

Fisk's empire had bled billions.

Each year.

All because of that damn kid.

Criminal organizations around the world mocked Fisk now, using Spider-Man as the punchline to every joke. At the International Crime Assembly, Kingpin had become a walking humiliation.

He couldn't expand. He couldn't buy loyalty. His grip on New York—the crown jewel of his dominion—was slipping.

And all roads led back to one name.

"You're sure Black Widow can finish this?" Fisk growled.

Osborn straightened, nodding. "She'll make sure the bug never crawls again."

Fisk's gaze slid to the massive wall of TV monitors above. Each one showed a different scene—Spider-Man darting across rooftops, interrupting drug deals, yanking weapons out of gangsters' hands.

Fisk bared his teeth.

"We're ending this," he snarled.

Osborn smirked. "You won't have to worry anymore."

But then, Fisk leaned forward.

A cold shadow crossed his face.

"You might want to worry, though."

Osborn blinked. "Excuse me?"

"If you fail…" Fisk's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "…everything you own—your labs, your stock, your company—becomes mine. I'll take it as payment. Fair, isn't it?"

Norman froze. But only for a second.

He gave a tight nod. "You'll get your outcome. Tomorrow, the debt will be paid."

He turned to leave. But something made him pause.

He looked back, eyes narrowing. "You know… whether Spider-Man dies or I default, you win either way. That was your angle all along, wasn't it?"

Fisk's lips curled into a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"That's why I'm the King."

He chuckled. The sound echoed like thunder through the chamber.

Osborn's jaw tensed. "Maybe I should've listened to Hammer. Maybe I shouldn't have trusted you."

"If you had, you'd be just like him now," Fisk replied, voice heavy with mockery. "Bankrupt. Disgraced. Dead."

He chuckled again.

And in the silence that followed, his eyes glinted.

He was already plotting the next step.

Hammer Industries.

Norman thought of Justin Hammer.

The arrogant tech mogul. The man who once had military contracts lined up like dominoes—before Spider-Man, SHIELD, and Stark tore his world apart.

Fisk had tried to buy Hammer out once.

Hammer refused. The government intervened. The military pulled strings.

Fisk had to back off.

But now… maybe that refusal was a mistake.

Norman clenched his fist.

There was still a standing order from Hammer for one of the armored suits—a forgotten transaction buried in paperwork.

Fisk would find it. Exploit it. Weaponize it.

If Hammer Industries survived this latest scandal, they'd be next.

And if not?

Well…

As Fisk liked to say:

"Debts get paid."