Marvel's Strongest Mage

The chaos that had erupted at the University came to an abrupt halt. Daniel didn't even have to call in Coulson—Nick Fury had already dispatched S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to clean up the mess before Daniel could lift a finger. Someone had taken a photo of the incident, but cleanup teams were already in motion, swiftly restoring order and scrubbing away evidence.

News of the event reverberated through the right channels almost immediately. J. Jonah Jameson, uncharacteristically aware of his civic duties—or perhaps just worried for ratings—sent reporters to cover the incident and reached out to Eddie Brock, whose name had also appeared on the same ominous list of targets.

Norman Osborn, of course, learned about the attack within minutes. His son Harry, who had manual protection assigned to him around the clock, had relayed the information, and Norman, ever watchful, had his sources watching the university from afar. He picked up his phone calmly.

"Another Spider-Slsyer? Understood," he muttered before placing a call. "Get me the Security Department. I need eyes on every asset."

What Osborn didn't realize was that activating his dormant surveillance networks inadvertently revealed his current location—deep within one of Oscorp's manufacturing plants.

Alistair, watching from the shadows, grinned wickedly. Of the names on his revenge list, Spider-Man was flashy and elusive—but Norman Osborn was the real prize. Harder to find, harder to kill, and far more dangerous. But now, he'd slipped.

Osborn had once struck a shady deal with Wilson Fisk—Kingpin. A wager of power, reputation, and wealth: kill Spider-Man, and Osborn would gain untouchable favor. Fail, and not only would he owe Fisk everything borrowed, but Oscorp itself would be swallowed whole by Fisk's empire. Osborn failed, of course, but he weaseled out of the fallout. Because their deal was informal—illegal and untraceable—Fisk couldn't force repayment without exposing himself to the authorities.

Norman claimed ignorance. Fisk fumed quietly.

His assassins couldn't find Osborn. And even if they did, Oscorp's personal guards—veterans and mercenaries—made any hit near impossible.

So Fisk waited.

But Alistair didn't. He tracked. He listened. And now, he had found Norman Osborn.

And then there was Bullseye.

Daniel recognized him instantly, though the assassin hadn't attacked Flash Thompson or pursued Spider-Man. Instead, he'd tailed Felicia Hardy—quietly, expertly—through the city and to her family's sprawling estate on the Upper East Side.

Daniel had abandoned Spider-Man's trail. Peter would be fine—too many people watched over him. But Felicia? She was now a target.

The Hardy estate was enormous. Not quite Stark-level opulent, but formidable nonetheless. Security was tight: armed guards, well-trained staff, motion sensors—it was a fortress disguised as luxury. Still, Bullseye infiltrated it with unsettling ease.

He moved like a phantom through the manor, eventually slipping into Lydia Hardy's private study and hiding in wait.

Daniel arrived moments later, cloaked in invisibility. He hovered in a quiet corner of the study, unseen, sensing something was off. Bullseye wasn't here to kill—if he was, Lydia would already be dead. No, the man had a purpose. A mission.

More curiously, Bullseye seemed familiar with the estate—as if he'd been here before. He knew Lydia's study. He moved with practiced confidence. Daniel narrowed his eyes behind the shimmer of his invisibility.

Lydia Hardy, Felicia's mother, entered minutes later. The resemblance to her daughter was uncanny: tall, graceful, and stern-eyed. Today she wore a sleek black coat over a blue cashmere sweater, her black-rimmed glasses perched neatly on her nose.

She was deep in thought, unaware of the two predators hidden in her sanctuary.

She sat behind her desk, head bowed slightly, fingers absently brushing her lips as her mind raced.

Daniel watched her carefully.

The events at Imperial University had spooked her. Not because she was surprised—but because they confirmed her worst suspicions. Someone was targeting Felicia. Someone from the past.

In the early '90s, Lydia and her now-incarcerated ex-husband had been entangled in a dangerous game over something far more volatile than business or politics. Blood had been spilled, alliances shattered. Lydia had spent the last two decades burying those secrets.

But some things refused to stay buried.

Lately, she'd noticed a troubling trend: materials commonly used in super-soldier serum research were vanishing from the black market. Scarcity. Competition. Quiet bidding wars. It wasn't just one buyer—multiple factions were scrambling to stockpile components.

That meant only one thing: war was coming. A war over power. And behind the curtain, Lydia felt the cold gaze of an old acquaintance—Nick Fury. S.H.I.E.L.D. had its fingerprints all over this.

Fury never played fair.

She picked up the phone and dialed a series of private numbers—executives, senators, military contacts—all people with children enrolled at Imperial University. Within minutes, pressure would descend on the NYPD and school administrators. Someone would answer for today.

When she finished, she hesitated with the receiver still in hand. Her eyes drifted to the window, lost in memories. Finally, she set the phone down.

Bullseye tensed.

Daniel noticed.

The assassin's body language had shifted. That phone call had meant something to him. Something critical. And when Lydia lowered the receiver, Bullseye exhaled softly—in disappointment.

Why? Daniel leaned closer.

Then—

A quiet click echoed behind the bookcase. Lydia's instincts kicked in like lightning. She reached into the desk, pulled out a sleek black pistol, and shouted:

"Who's there?! Come out, now!"

A second later, the gunshot rang through the manor.

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