Marvel's Strongest Mage

"We're not chasing brute strength," Daniel said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the warped form of Dr. Stewart. "What we need is stability. A soldier who can survive in environments even Earth's strongest can't endure… outer space."

Dr. Stewart blinked, and for a moment, the magnitude of that idea registered.

"You mean... space?" he asked slowly.

Daniel gave the faintest nod. "Look beyond Earth, Doctor. The true frontier isn't here. It's out there. And out there… we won't have governments breathing down our necks."

On Earth, no matter how advanced your tech, no matter how invincible your body, there was always the threat of nuclear weapons. A single detonation, and it was over.

Dr. Stewart understood that better than most. For all his intelligence—his enhanced cognition and telepathic power—he knew the crushing weight of being under surveillance. Intelligence made you valuable… but also dangerous. And danger attracted control.

Even if he bent the knee to the government, to some shadowy cabal or secret boardroom of corporate overlords, he'd never truly be free. The more powerful his mind, the more chains they'd forge to bind it.

But if the lab, the research, the whole operation… could be moved to the moon, to Mars, or even just the orbit?

That changed everything.

Stewart swallowed. For the first time in weeks, ambition stirred under his skin. With Daniel's resources… with Dr. Spencer's expertise… and with time…

"I see," Stewart murmured. "I'll begin adjusting the direction of our R&D…"

But he never finished the sentence.

A low, bone-rattling thunderclap cracked across the skies above Newark—so deep it made the lab lights flicker. Stewart flinched, looking up.

Just thunder, he thought.

But Daniel had gone pale.

In the span of a breath, he masked it. The tension in his jaw eased. His voice came calm and measured. "Doctor, from now on, everything here is in your hands. Sunil will be leaving shortly. Don't disappoint me."

With that, he turned and strode out.

At the stairwell, Daniel met Sunil Bakshi, just descending from the upper floors. The man held a tablet in one hand, worry plain on his face.

"Boss," Sunil said. "Dr. Spencer's submitted a list of equipment he says he needs. It's not small. We're talking major capital."

Daniel barely glanced at the tablet. "Buy it. Everything he asks for. No exceptions."

Sunil hesitated. "If we do that, it'll cut deep into our Hammer Industries acquisition. You told me—"

"Hammer can wait," Daniel cut in, voice quiet but final. "Our timeline's shifted. I'm not sure we'll even need to buy them out anymore."

That made Sunil pause.

Daniel continued, his voice low and sharp. "Justin Hammer's assets are still locked up. The court cases are ongoing. Their liquidity is frozen. We've already made enough gains off their stock. If we move too soon, we'll draw unwanted eyes."

Daniel's gaze locked with Sunil's. "We don't need attention right now. What we need is freedom."

Sunil nodded slowly. He was beginning to understand the weight behind Daniel's choices. And the secrets buried beneath them.

As they parted, Daniel gave a few last-minute instructions, then headed for Newark Airport. He didn't return to Manhattan. He couldn't afford to.

New Mexico was calling.

By the time his private flight took off, Daniel was scrolling through local news feeds on his phone. Dozens of reports spoke of a rainbow-colored fireball streaking through the sky, crashing deep into the desert. Amateur photos. Blurry videos. Fragments of energy.

Daniel's pulse quickened.

The phenomenon wasn't natural. It wasn't a meteor.

It was the Bifrost.

The Rainbow Bridge—the cosmic pathway between realms. There was only one conclusion.

Thor had come to Earth.

The hammer. The storm. The magic he felt earlier wasn't a hallucination. It was a disturbance large enough to ripple across the continent. Even from the East Coast, he had sensed the tremor.

And it wasn't just him.

High above the crash site in New Mexico, space itself tore apart. A dimensional rift opened silently, and from its swirling maw, the Ancient One emerged.

She hovered silently in the desert sky, robes billowing, eyes sharp. Below her, the crater that held Mjölnir glowed faintly, sunk deep into the earth.

Then her eyes flicked sideways. She felt it.

A mental signature. Immense. Familiar.

She didn't need to guess.

Merlin had been here.

The old archmage. As old as the myths. As powerful as the stars. Only a handful of beings could feel him, and even fewer could stand in his presence.

The Ancient One said nothing. She simply frowned.

Another portal snapped open beside her. Master Drum, guardian of the New York Sanctum, stepped through.

He stared at the hammer below. "Teacher… is that really what I think it is?"

The Ancient One's voice was hushed. "Yes. Mjölnir. Thor's Hammer."

She turned her gaze upward—toward the heavens.

"Asgard is moving. The storm is coming. For them… and for us."

Without another word, the two vanished through a new rift, leaving only the dust swirling in their wake.

But they weren't the only ones drawn to the hammer.

As night crept over the desert, another figure arrived—a man cloaked in forest green, his face hidden behind a sleek, dark metal mask. Cold, calculating eyes stared out from behind polished glass.

He approached the crater slowly.

Mjölnir rested at its center, quiet and noble. Its rune-carved surface shimmered under the moonlight.

The masked man knelt.

He whispered aloud the ancient words inscribed along the hammer's side: "Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor."

He chuckled softly.

"So… Odin abandoned you. Left his son's legacy buried in the dirt. What are you playing at, old man?"

He knew the legends. Knew the weapon. And he also knew Odin never did anything by accident.

Was this punishment? An exile? Or… something worse?

He shook the questions from his mind. Now wasn't the time.

He raised his hand.

Magical glyphs bloomed around his body—layers of protection, shields of all colors and intensities. He didn't know what would happen. Mjölnir might resist him. Might unleash a torrent of lightning that would vaporize his body.

Still… he reached for the handle.

And grasped it.

Nothing.

No energy backlash. No thunder. No rejection.

His heart surged with anticipation. Could it be…?

He pulled.

And nearly stumbled forward.

Mjölnir didn't budge.

It hadn't even twitched.

It was as if the hammer weighed millions of tons—or as if it wasn't a question of weight at all.

It was worthiness.

He tried again. Braced his feet. Pushed with everything he had.

Still nothing.

His breath turned ragged. Sweat broke across his masked brow.

Still… he refused to give up.

He kept trying.

For hours.

And as dawn approached, the roar of engines echoed across the plain. Locals. Spectators. Military scouts. The perimeter grew thicker.

On the nearby hillside, a sleek black SUV came to a stop. The door opened, and a man in a sharp suit and dark sunglasses stepped out, scanning the crater with clinical detachment.

Agent Phil Coulson had arrived.

And the game… had officially begun.