Marvel's Strongest Mage

The morning air in Albuquerque bit sharper than expected. As the terminal doors of the airport slid open and a cold gust swept across Daniel's face, he paused.

And in that still moment, a quiet question rose inside him—

Why am I here?

He already knew what this place would become. New Mexico, in all its sun-bleached emptiness, would soon play host to a god's humiliation, a scientist's love story, and a cosmic power play that, to most, looked like chance.

But it wasn't.

Thor's exile, his fated meeting with Jane Foster, his eventual battle with Loki and reclaiming of Mjolnir… all of it had already been written in the stars.

And behind it all, Odin had pulled the strings.

To outsiders, it might seem like chaos—a god stripped of power, a realm plunged into crisis, and an unstoppable weapon, the Destroyer, unleashed on Earth.

But Daniel had studied the myths. He understood what most did not.

The Destroyer wasn't some wild artifact stolen in Loki's coup. It was Odin's own armor, once wielded in the war to unite the Nine Realms. And Odin had allowed it to descend.

None of it was an accident.

So then… why had Daniel come?

He already knew that making contact with Thor would be fruitless. Sooner or later, Thor would rejoin the Avengers. And Daniel—whatever mask he wore today—would one day stand on the other side of that line.

Sif, the Warriors Three… they wouldn't even glance his way. Their loyalty was absolute.

Perhaps Jane Foster was the only variable worth noting. After all, she was destined to become the Mighty Thor, wielder of a power that echoed the gods.

She was also the key to the Aether, one of the fabled Infinity Stones.

Still, there was one thing Daniel hoped to gain. One very specific reason for this trip:

The Destroyer.

If he could study the armor's design—even from afar—or if he could retrieve a fragment from the aftermath… he might unlock runes long buried by Asgard's oldest bloodlines.

Not all strength came from brute force. Some of it came from understanding.

And Daniel understood magic.

Sitting in the back of a taxi, he closed his eyes, assembling the puzzle of motives and risks. When he opened them again, the desert sun was already beginning to rise. He had landed in Albuquerque, the largest city in New Mexico, but the true event—Thor's fall—had taken place far north.

Out there, in the heart of the wasteland, was the small town of Kassam.

Finding it wasn't difficult.

While locals and bar patrons speculated wildly and sold rumors, Daniel knew better. The local journalists, not the drunks, were the fastest way to the truth. They always had their ears to the ground.

By noon, Daniel had reached Kassam.

The desert town was baking under the sun, a blur of beige and rust. But the air crackled with tension. Word had spread: a hammer had fallen from the sky.

He asked around, gathering details until he narrowed down the crash site's location. Then, without wasting a second, he climbed into a dusty rental pickup and tore off down a dirt road.

He needed to be faster than S.H.I.E.L.D. Once they showed up, access would vanish.

Daniel didn't care about lifting the hammer. He couldn't, even if he tried. Mjolnir would never be his. It was bonded—body, soul, and story—to Thor. That weapon was as much a part of him as breath or blood. Odin had forged it not just with divine metals, but with intent.

Even Hela, the Goddess of Death, hadn't claimed it when she had the chance. When the hammer finally broke, it wasn't truly destroyed—only reshaped, reborn.

But Daniel wasn't here to wield. He was here to learn.

If he could glimpse the runes, the enchantments, the inlaid arrays Odin had carved into the weapon—perhaps even the one that judged worthiness itself—he might leave with power greater than any soldier could carry.

As the pickup rumbled to a stop near the impact crater, Daniel took a moment to assess the crowd.

Locals, mostly. Dusty boots. Baseball caps. Phones in hand. The curious. The hopeful. The bored.

A stranger arriving in a big truck would have drawn suspicion—

—if he hadn't brought two full boxes of beer.

He climbed down with a casual grin, handed out bottles like a desert saint, and joined the crowd's idle chatter. Within moments, he was just another face in the crowd.

But beneath that easy smile, he moved with purpose.

Step by step, unnoticed, he drifted toward the edge of the crater.

And there it was.

Mjolnir.

The hammer stood atop a jagged stone pillar, as if nature itself had lifted it in reverence. Around it, the ground was warped and hardened. What had once been soft sand had transformed into a crust of compressed stone and desert glass—crystallized by the sheer force of divine thunder.

Some had tried to dig it up. Others had tried chains, tools, even levers.

Nothing worked.

But Daniel saw what they could not.

This wasn't just a hammer crash. This was a containment ritual. The pillar had fused with the desert floor, its structure resonating with divine energy. At its base, the earth still shimmered faintly—runes etched deep into the bedrock, hidden from mortal eyes.

Mjolnir wasn't just embedded. It was anchored.

Daniel didn't dare touch it.

Coulson and the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were already surveying the scene from a nearby hilltop. He recognized them by posture, by silhouette, by rhythm. At the first sign of interference, they'd close in like wolves.

And Daniel wasn't here to trigger alarms.

He knelt.

Silent. Reverent.

His eyes scanned the hammer's surface, tracing each ancient rune.

Fehu. Uruz. Thurisaz. Ansuz. Raidho. Kenaz. Gebo. Wunjo…

He counted twenty-four Elder Futhark runes, arranged in a spiraling pattern that converged around the core. And yet, those weren't what held his attention.

One mark—one strange rune, nestled between the others—stood out.

He had never seen it before.

It pulsed faintly. Not with light—but with intention. Like a lock, forged by a god whose understanding of runes surpassed even Daniel's.

This symbol… it wasn't Odin's alone. It was Mjolnir's will.

The hammer didn't obey its wielder. It chose them.

Daniel drew a slow breath. This was no ordinary magical circuit. The runic matrix etched into Mjolnir wasn't just decorative or functional—it was sentient.

He reached out mentally. Not to lift but to listen.

And the hammer whispered back… not in words, but in weight. In the unshakable gravity of its design. This was legacy.

And Thor… was not yet worthy. Not fully.

Odin had sealed the hammer from his son. Stripped him of the right to wield it. Cast him down to earn it again, to walk among mortals and find the humility that power had stolen.

Until he did, Mjolnir would remain right here.

Daniel's lips tightened.

Thor was nowhere near ready for the throne.

And this hammer was waiting for him to change.

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