Marvel's Strongest Mage

Newark.

Under the cloak of night, a yellow cab cut through the misted streets like a bullet chasing silence. Inside, a man in a low-brimmed hat sat alone in the backseat, his gaze hidden, his presence barely more than a shadow.

Daniel.

While the world focused its gaze on Manhattan's glittering towers, Daniel's path took him to the less glamorous side of the New York metropolitan area.

Newark, technically not part of New York City or even the state of New York, sat across the Hudson in New Jersey, a place where rust met rivets and ports hummed with the machinery of midnight trade. It was home to Newark Liberty International, one of the three great arteries of air travel feeding the city. And more importantly, it was where containers moved, where shadows thrived, where no one looked twice if something… or someone disappeared.

Newark's port handled nearly a third of all sea freight in the area. Its coastline buzzed with cranes, cargo, and quiet deals. Industries here—leather, plastics, electronics, chemicals—didn't operate under glamour. They ran on grit, sweat, and the hush of untraceable transactions.

Big corporations priced out of Manhattan had relocated here, only 16 kilometers from the heart of the financial world, but spiritually—and legally—a world apart.

It was everything Daniel needed.

This was why he'd built his secret base here. A city bustling enough to hide in, but peripheral enough to avoid federal scrutiny. The FBI, CIA, and S.H.I.E.L.D. were thick in Manhattan. In Newark? The surveillance grid was thinner, fractured. Gangs squabbled over turf. Italians, Russians, Koreans, Irish, Yakuza, Mafioso—none of them bowed to Kingpin entirely. The underground was a mosaic of fractured allegiances.

In a city where no one could truly dominate… chaos became camouflage.

The cab slowed before an aging hospital.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. Cracked windows. Faded signage. Vines curling around rusted fences. It had once been a rescue clinic for veterans and the homeless. But now it was just a hollow shell, rotting under the weight of bankruptcy.

And beneath it… Something far more alive.

Daniel slipped out of the cab without a word and approached a locked passage tucked behind the building. With a subtle rune sketched across his palm, the door groaned open, revealing a narrow, descending tunnel of stone and steel.

Down he went.

Deep beneath the hospital, through reinforced passageways and concealed hatches, lay his true domain.

The lab.

The air buzzed faintly with arcane residue and static electricity. Bio-chambers, vats, reactors, and containment fields lined the subterranean walls like organs in a body built for invention, and danger.

At the center of it stood Dr. Stewart.

Or at least… what remained of him.

Once a mild-mannered scientist who had aided Bruce Banner, Stewart had suffered a brutal mutation. A wound exposed to Hulk's irradiated blood. Excess gamma exposure caused him a transformation of mind.

Now, his skull had ballooned grotesquely, swollen like a tumor toward the sky. His eyes were too large, his limbs too thin. His brain had evolved, but at the cost of his humanity.

And yet... the mind that emerged was brilliant.

No longer limited by conventional cognition, Dr. Stewart had developed telepathy, mental amplification, and a host of cognitive mutations bordering on magic.

Unfortunately for him, he was also deeply afraid.

And Daniel used that.

He never laid a finger on the man. He didn't need to. Just showing Stewart what S.H.I.E.L.D. and military black sites did to gifted mutants like him was enough to reduce the man to paranoia and compliance.

If they got their hands on Stewart, he'd become a test subject. A scalpels-and-cages story.

So he remained here. Hidden. Obedient.

And occasionally… brilliant.

Above them, the empty hospital served as camouflage. Stewart had freedom to roam a little—to walk the halls, clear his head—but he always returned. The fear was stronger than the yearning for freedom.

Sunil Bakshi, Daniel's loyal tactician, had taken up residence above as well, watching Stewart like a shadow watches flame. Bakshi understood men like Stewart. Knew how to press their fears, how to whisper just loud enough.

And now… there was another addition.

Dr. Spencer.

Formerly of Osborn Industries. Architect of the drone warfare systems and the Black Widow mechanical spider.

Daniel had pulled him from the inferno of the lab mere moments before detonation. Now, Spencer stood stiffly in the underground chamber, eyes narrowed, hands behind his back, surveying the room with distaste.

"I need a separate lab," Spencer said coldly, barely acknowledging Stewart.

It wasn't just Stewart's grotesque form that repelled him.

It was the experiments. The twitching biological masses. The vats of mutating cells. Spencer may have worked with Norman Osborn—but he was still a scientist, not a butcher.

And he had a line.

He hadn't designed Black Widow to kill Spider-Man. That was Osborn's escalation, not his.

Even now, knowing his son Alistair had fallen under Kingpin's influence in a misguided quest for vengeance, Spencer couldn't bring himself to blame anyone but himself.

He thought about contacting Alistair—secretly. Feeding him intelligence. Maybe using him to pit Kingpin against Daniel in some complex gambit.

But that was a fantasy.

Daniel was too cautious. Kingpin was too ruthless. Alistair was too young and too honest.

So Spencer made a quiet calculation: Play the game. Survive long enough to escape.

Nearby, Bakshi stepped forward. "There's a spare basement next door—"

"No," Stewart interrupted quickly. "Let him use the top floor. It's vacant. More space. More air."

He didn't want Spencer anywhere near his work.

Daniel let them settle the division. He didn't care where they worked for as long as they produced results.

"Sunil," Daniel said softly, "Get Dr. Spencer what he needs."

Bakshi nodded, then led Spencer away. As their footsteps vanished, Daniel turned to Stewart.

"How are we progressing?"

Stewart straightened. His tone shifted. Calm. Clinical.

"We've developed three serums."

He led Daniel to a steel table, where three vials sat, softly glowing in containment tubes.

"First," Stewart said, pointing to a green vial, "is the most stable. It creates enhanced soldiers with reliable performance, but limited strength. Think of it as the low-risk version. Perfect for bulk production."

He motioned to the second vial, deep blue.

"Second is unstable, but explosive. Enhanced strength during combat. Adrenaline-fueled surges. But the aftermath causes complete physical collapse."

And finally, the third vial—deep crimson, swirling like blood under fire.

"This one… grants immense power. A monstrous boost. But the cost is life itself. Burnout in hours, days at most."

Daniel stared at the vials.

Power. Risk. Sacrifice.

The choices were clear.

His fingers hovered near the crimson vial.

Then he smiled.