Marvel's Strongest Mage

Smoke curled upward in slow, choking spirals as flames painted the metal rafters in a hellish orange glow. From his perch high above the chaos, Daniel crouched silently on a cold steel beam inside one of Osborn Industries' suburban research labs.

Below, a battle raged.

The scene unfolding beneath him looked like something out of a nightmare—two Spider-Men, armed gunmen, malfunctioning drones, and a towering mechanical spider called Black Widow—all clashing in a deadly storm of smoke, fire, and screams.

It was pandemonium.

And the ones watching from the floor were Norman Osborn. Dr. Spencer, Alistair Spencer, Eddie Brock, and a handful of Kingpin's hired killers.

None of them had expected two Spider-Men to show up tonight. The illusion was unraveling—and panic followed.

Eddie Brock's face had already lost color. He was supposed to deliver a controlled spectacle to the public: a Spider-Man captured, unmasked, humiliated on live television. But things had gone wildly off-script.

Kingpin's men weren't supposed to be here.

They'd stormed in with submachine guns, attempting to kill Spider-Man outright—on camera. If the people of New York saw that, it would be Eddie's face they remembered. Not Osborn's. Not Kingpin's. His.

He would be the man who killed Spider-Man.

Even Jameson wouldn't protect him from the fallout.

And that terrified him.

Across the room, Dr. Spencer had finally put the pieces together. He turned slowly, his gaze cold and sharp as steel, and looked at Osborn.

"So… you're working with Fisk now?"

Osborn didn't blink. "I don't know what you're talking about, Doctor."

Liar.

Daniel could see the deception in Osborn's posture, his tone, the flicker of his fingers near the console. This entire fiasco—the capture, the fake reveal, even the lab location had all been set up.

Spider-Man was meant to die here.

But not at Osborn's hands.

No… he needed a scapegoat. And that's why Kingpin's mercenaries were here. If Spider-Man died, the cops would blame the hitmen, not Osborn Industries.

Clean hands. Dirty soul.

The firefight escalated. Bullets ricocheted off reinforced walls. Spider-Man—the real one, Daniel could feel it—moved with acrobatic grace through the gunfire, disarming foes faster than they could reload.

But the mechanical spider was another matter entirely.

Black Widow.

An obsidian-colored monstrosity with crimson accents and a reinforced exoskeleton. Its movements were eerie—almost insectile. Its limbs hissed hydraulically as it stalked Parker across the lab floor.

Peter fought like hell. Steel beams clashed against armor plating. Webbing snapped through the air.

But even when Parker hurled a steel beam with all his might, it bounced off Black Widow's shell like a twig against stone.

And then Osborn made his move.

He approached the main control panel.

Daniel tensed.

Osborn activated two remaining drones. They shot into the air with a shrill mechanical whine, diving toward Spider-Man with lethal intent.

Parker was forced to dodge, and the second he did, one of the drones exploded mid-air. A cascade of sparks and oil ignited a pile of toppled equipment.

The fire spread fast.

Too fast.

Daniel inhaled sharply, his senses flaring. Something in the air... accelerants. His nostrils burned.

Chemical agents. Flammable gases.

Parker realized it, too.

He darted to a large stone vat near the center of the lab which was filled with a viscous, glowing green liquid. Acid. Corrosive to everything except the reinforced stone containing it.

That same acid, Daniel realized, must've been used to forge the armor plating on Black Widow. It wasn't just a weapon—it was a crucible.

Peter scaled the spider's back in one agile leap, webbed its sensory array, and—boom—launched a pressurized burst of webbing into one of its exhaust ports.

The resulting chain reaction rocked the spider from the inside out.

A flash of internal fire.

And then the behemoth fell.

Right into the vat.

The resulting reaction was immediate. The acid boiled. The spider shrieked. The lab ignited.

The fire roared upward like a dragon uncaged.

Daniel shielded himself instinctively as a shockwave blew past his perch. Below, the inferno swallowed everything.

In seconds… it was all gone.

At the edge of the parking lot, Alistair Spencer watched the flames rise.

"Where's my father?" he demanded, turning to Osborn, panic bleeding through every syllable.

Norman didn't answer at first. He looked haunted. Furious.

Then, with a tight grimace: "I'm sorry, Alistair."

He moved to push Alistair's wheelchair toward the waiting car.

But Alistair slammed his hand against a hidden panel on the side of the chair. A whirring lock engaged beneath the wheels. The chair wouldn't move.

He stared at the burning wreckage.

Eyes hollow. Face set like stone.

"No," Alistair whispered. "I'm not leaving him behind. I'm not giving up."

Osborn scowled. "Fine. Do whatever the hell you want."

He waved his men away.

He was done.

This night had cost him everything.

If the authorities traced the lab disaster back to him, he could lose Osborn Industries. His empire. His legacy. All because of Spencer and his idealistic brat.

Osborn stormed into the car. Eddie Brock followed with a pale face. He had delivered the scoop. Pulled off the mask.

But it had been Flash Thompson.

A fake.

Now the public would laugh. Jameson would rage. The Bugle would become a punchline.

Eddie knew how bad it would get. He felt it in his gut. This wasn't just professional failure. This was career death.

And worse—if anyone tied him to Fisk's operation, it could be actual death.

Outside the burning ruins, a shadow approached Alistair.

Massive.

Imposing.

The cane tapping against the pavement was unmistakable.

"Hello, Alistair," said the Kingpin.

The boy turned, eyes red. "Who are you?"

"A friend of your father's," Kingpin said smoothly. "And a man who is… deeply sorry for what happened tonight."

He had been watching. Waiting. Hoping for an opening to kill Spider-Man. The moment never came.

But a new opportunity had.

"You want justice," Kingpin said. "I can give it to you. I can help you rebuild what was lost."

Alistair hesitated.

"I can fund a new Black Widow," Fisk whispered. "A better one. Stronger. Faster. One that can end the man who took your father from you."

The pain. The rage. It all surged forward.

Alistair nodded.

Kingpin smiled like the devil.

And together… they vanished into the night.

Above them, unseen, Daniel ended his invisibility spell.

He stood over the unconscious body of Dr. Spencer.

He had pulled the man from the lab seconds before the explosion. Carried him into the shadows. Saved his life.

Because Spencer wasn't just a scientist.

He was the source.

The knowledge locked in this man's mind—the schematics for Black Widow, the composition of the acid, the threads of an evolving war, was now Daniel's to control.

He didn't care about Alistair joining the Kingpin since he now had a backdoor into the heart of their alliance.

A piece on the board no one saw coming.

He stepped back into the shadows, Spencer slung over his shoulder.

Daniel wasn't worried about Parker.

The kid had likely landed in SHIELD's radar by now. Maybe even Stark's. He was destined for something larger.

Meanwhile...

In a quiet Manhattan office, far from the chaos and sirens, Kingpin returned.

He poured himself a drink.

On the wall hung a massive oil painting—an abstract, monstrous rendition of Spider-Man's silhouette, surrounded by shadows.

But it wasn't the painting that drew his eye.

It was the photographs mounted above it.

Three faces.

Felicia Hardy.

Lydia Hardy.

And a man in a prison uniform with cold eyes.

Kingpin stared at them long and hard.

His interest in Spider-Man had always been personal.

But they… they were something else.

"Super soldier serum…" he muttered.

His fingers tightened on the glass.

"How do I get to you?"