Markus returned to the NYPD sidewalk with the same casual finality one might display after paying a parking fine. A subtle ripple distorted the air as he vanished from view, space warping around him like a sigh. One blink, and he was no longer in Manhattan.
He rematerialized inside the vast obsidian chambers of Voidwatch Castle in Noctorrius Primus. The throne room, cold and silent, welcomed its lord with obedient gravity. Crossing the chamber, he stopped before the towering window that framed the realm's greatest monument, the black hole.
"Raven," he called softly.
From the subspace tethered to his will, his flagship emerged. The void tore open with elegant precision as Raven descended silently through layers of reality. Its colossal form hung effortlessly just outside the massive viewing window, sleek, predatory, majestic. Dozens of laser arrays and Reaper enhanced plating shimmered with potential destruction.
Markus smiled faintly.
"Beautiful as ever" he murmured.
He teleported directly to his private quarters, leaving behind the quiet gravitas of the throne. At its heart was a terminal, circular and waiting. He approached it and spoke calmly.
"Onyx," he said, "I'm in a new world. Primitive, compared to your cradle. These people build missiles and call them miracles. They wield magic and treat it like mystery. Their best AI wouldn't pass diagnostics in the Reaper archives."
The screen shimmered. Onyx responded instantly, voice as ever cool, female, and composed.
"Analysis confirmed. Technological regression is… severe. Strategic posture?"
Markus raised a brow. "Relax, Onyx. I don't need orbital supremacy just yet."
He reached forward, beginning to mold subspace into material. Half Synthetic half flesh, tailored bone structure, microservos beneath artificial muscle. A humanoid form sculpted with divine grace. Petite, refined, and deceptively delicate. Her skin was pale, her steel gray eyes cold as logic. Blonde hair flowed in braids down her back, reaching the elegant curve of her bottom.
"Settle in this platform, my dear," Markus said softly, voice like velvet wrapped around command. "This world is not ready for your grandeur. But I want you with me all the same. You will be my personal assistant, my aide, my maid…" gazing the body he created "..and perhaps more."
A pause.
The synthetic body opened its eyes.
"I am ready," Onyx replied.
Markus nodded, his smile sharpening. "Good. Work on speech patterns my dear, we'll return shortly. First, I have dessert waiting in the form of Seraphiel."
And with that, he turned, the shadows folding behind him, power humming through every step.
The hum of computer servers and the soft clatter of keyboards filled the S.H.I.E.L.D. Intelligence Analysis Division nestled beneath Washington, D.C. A room built for precision, not comfort. Dozens of screens displayed profiles, behavioral graphs, flagged anomalies, stretching back decades.
At the center of the room, Nick Fury stood like a thundercloud about to break.
In his hand was a matte black dossier marked CLASSIFIED - LEVEL 5 ACCESS REQUIRED. On its cover: Tenebris, Markus.
He didn't look at the file, he'd already memorized it. Instead, his single eye was fixed on the trembling analyst across the desk.
"Tell me again," Fury said, voice low and sharp, each word cutting like a scalpel, "why a twenty eight year old MIT alumnus with six engineering degrees and two hundred million dollars in clean capital never once triggered our Enhanced Talent Acquisition Net."
The analyst, mid thirties, nervously adjusted his glasses, sweat forming at the hairline. "Sir, per protocol, all high yield intellectuals are subject to the Tier One Surveillance Index. That includes deep background scans, neural behavior pattern analysis, digital footprint correlation, and predictive loyalty modeling. Mr. Tenebris passed every tier."
"Passed?" Fury echoed, slowly circling the desk. "He passed?"
"Yes, Director. The system flagged him as low volatility, non threat. The psychometric indices were clean. No ideological extremism. No deviant behavior flags. And ..uh no paranormal markers."
Fury dropped the file onto the table with a loud slap. The projector flickered to life, showing Markus's profile: calm expression, sharp features, eyes that stared back like they knew the analyst's blood type.
"No paranormal markers…" Fury muttered. "The guy looks like a damned fallen angel carved outta obsidian, stands eight foot two, and walks into NYPD claiming he got mugged like a college freshman. And we missed him?"
The analyst flinched. "We've re run the temporal data logs and core file lineage. All the records check out, sir. Birth certificates, IRS filings, academic records, even social security issuance. Everything is authentic. No signs of tampering."
"Tampering we can detect," Fury snapped. "Get Cyber Division on it. I want a full level chrono sync check. If someone slipped through the Net, they either hacked time itself, or they came from somewhere outside of it."
He turned back to the hologram, eyes narrowing.
"Cross reference his banking activity with Stark Industries, the Baxter Foundation, Xavier's School, and every black budget we've hidden since the Cold War. I want triple verification."
The analyst nodded, scrambling to forward the commands.
"And get Agent Hill," Fury added, voice dropping to something dark. "We may have just found a ghost. Or worse…"
He tapped the folder with one finger.
"…something that taught ghosts how to hide."
Meanwhile, the man himself was far too occupied to care.
He returned to the NYPD substation shortly after noon, the light catching on his tailored suit and calm, regal expression. But it was the woman beside him who nearly caused the receptionist to swallow his gum.
Onyx now walked with measured grace beside her master, clad in a fitted blouse of glistening white silk and a charcoal skirt slit high enough to cause minor disruptions in public decorum. Her features were an exquisite symphony of delicate symmetry: steel gray eyes, glossy blonde hair braided into a flawless cascade that stopped just above her lower back. Every movement was polished. Engineered. Designed.
"Here to pick up my documents," Markus said with a faint smile, tone polite but carrying the weight of something… unignorable.
The officer who had processed him the previous day blinked twice, caught between suspicion and awe. He handed over an envelope containing Markus's ID, driver's license, and freshly minted passport. All registered, processed, and now state certified. A fabricated life rendered tangible. He was officially part of the system.
"Thank you, officer," Markus said with practiced charm, gently guiding Onyx toward the door.
As they exited the station and stepped into the early afternoon light, Markus gave a quiet order.
"Onyx. Link yourself to my accounts. Set up an independent identity, nothing too flashy, just untouchable. Purchase land far enough from city centers to avoid the stench of idiocy, but close enough for occasional influence. Something castle worthy."
"Of course, sir," came her gentle reply. A hint of warmth, a whisper of loyalty. "I've already short listed five candidate regions with favorable zoning and minimal oversight. Construction will begin immediately upon your confirmation of the site."
They made their way through the city with elegant indifference, stopping by five separate banks. Within two hours, Markus had his platinum and black tier cards printed, validated, and activated. Not a single red flag was raised.
The final stop for the day was The Ritz Carlton. Markus rented the presidential suite for a full year with a single transaction. Onyx oversaw the booking with practiced efficiency. It wasn't comfort he sought, it was convenience, legitimacy, and a hub from which to extend influence.
As the suite door closed behind them and the bustle of Midtown faded into the distance, Markus stood by the window, gazing out over the skyline.
"Begin investing," he said. "And manipulating. I want full market penetration by end of week. No scandals. Just precision, and be subtle."
"Understood, sir."
He finally allowed himself to sit on the edge of the silk sheeted bed. For a moment, there was only silence, punctuated by the hum of the city's ignorance below.
Then he activated Omniscient Awareness.
Information surged through him in waves, databases, surveillance, live streams, political chatter, classified documents. Combined with Subjugation, he didn't just see data. He saw the hidden thoughts behind reports, the unspoken agendas in boardrooms, the corrupted intentions of world leaders.
And through it all, a pattern emerged.
This was the Marvel Cinematic Universe. A close match, though there were deviations.
Tony Stark had yet to build the arc reactor in a cave.
Mutants were known and documented. Public awareness was mixed, feared by some, cautiously accepted by others. Xavier's School existed, Brotherhood as well, though not publicly advertised.
Asgard had not yet made open contact.
HYDRA was still festering deep within S.H.I.E.L.D., like a tumor within a tumor that hadn't been diagnosed.
The Eye of Agamotto was in use, but the Time Stone had not yet drawn attention from the cosmos.
The Avengers Initiative was not even a folder name.
In other words, this was a world standing on the edge of its awakening. Markus had arrived in the calm before the storm. The pieces were scattered, unaligned, unaware of the hurricane that would soon find them.
Perfect.
He stood once more, a thin smile curling across his lips.
Markus applied for the master's degree qualification exams in all six of his disciplines. With a little digital sleight of hand from Onyx, every application passed without delay. MIT responded promptly, and all exam dates were scheduled for the following week. In the meantime, Markus chose the plot of land where his castle would stand. Far from the urban sprawl, surrounded by old growth forest and nestled against a long forgotten lake. A quiet place. Private. Remote.
Onyx took care of the logistics: zoning permissions, land transfer, materials procurement, and a shell construction company to handle legal visibility. All under assumed corporate ownership, of course.
The days blurred together in tranquil efficiency.
By week's end, Onyx had turned his accounts into an ascending fortune. Sixty million dollars in profit, accrued solely through precise stock acquisitions and leveraged fluctuations in tech and energy markets. The gains were impressive for most, but the real highlight came in the form of a formal notice.
Markus received a phone call from the Internal Revenue Service.
He had been expecting it.
The next afternoon, punctual as federal law demanded, twelve agents arrived at the presidential suite. They were greeted not by Markus, but by Onyx, now in her half synthetic form, elegance distilled into a figure of soft spoken authority. She ushered them to a private lounge, complete with surveillance blackout measures, chilled refreshments, and reinforced soundproofing woven into the very walls.
Markus entered not long after, clad in a charcoal black suit, his presence alone enough to quiet the murmurs of the gathered agents. Gently probing with Subjugation, he identified them all. Some were only wearing the IRS credentials.
Two were CIA.
One FBI.
One SHIELD operative.
And the other... Hydra.
A slow smirk tugged at the corners of Markus's mouth.
So the masquerade begins.
He welcomed them with polite professionalism and opened his personal ledgers for inspection. Onyx streamed full documentation on a high resolution display, complete with tax returns, wire logs, market timestamps, and every cent accounted for. When they reached the end, Markus's voice grew colder.
"If everything checks out, and we made sure it does, then I would like to know," he said, turquoise eyes narrowing slightly, "what, precisely, prompted this investigation. If there's a reason beyond due process, do enlighten me."
The IRS agents, visibly uncomfortable, made polite excuses, thanked him for his cooperation, and quietly departed. The atmosphere changed as soon as they left. The remaining five agents lingered, standing stiffly, exchanging glances.
One stepped forward. "Mr. Tenebris, would you be willing to continue this discussion in private?"
Markus tilted his head.
"With all of you?" he asked, voice edged with the faintest mockery. "I'm afraid my time is limited. I'll speak with two of you."
He pointed to two agents without any visible rationale.
The SHIELD operative stiffened, while the Hydra agent betrayed the faintest glint of surprise behind a mask of calm.
Markus smiled. "The rest, may talk to my lovely assistance. This is not a conference, after all. Just a conversation."
He gestured toward the door without waiting for protest. His voice, calm and final, brooked no argument. The game had officially begun.
The two selected agents exchanged a brief glance, neither giving away the swirl of calculations behind their practiced expressions. Slowly, they reached into their coats and take out identification wallets, each flipping them open to reveal the insignia of the same organization.
The first one started. "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
The second nodded in echo. "We operate under a global security mandate, Mr. Tenebris. Tasked with identifying and addressing advanced threats to planetary stability."
Markus's turquoise eyes flicked from one ID to the other, then back to their bearers. His smile curled upward, elegant, mocking.
"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," he repeated slowly, each syllable drawn out with aristocratic disdain. "Forgive me, but isn't that… a bit much for a name? Sounds like a committee trying to impress its own reflection."
The first agent cleared his throat, clearly used to handling eccentric personalities. "We're aware it's a mouthful, sir. But the agency's reach and capabilities are considerable. Which brings me to the point of this meeting."
He stepped forward slightly, hands clasped professionally. "S.H.I.E.L.D." he said, looking at Markus to see if he will comment. "Has been tracking exceptional individuals for decades. People with talents, some natural, some enhanced, who operate beyond conventional systems. You, Mr. Tenebris, fit that profile. We'd like to offer you a position. Consulting, advisory, tactical research. Your background speaks for itself."
Markus allowed the agent to speak uninterrupted, his expression unreadable. When the pitch concluded, he let a beat of silence pass before replying.
"I appreciate the offer," he said, tone cool and gracious. "But I must decline. Bureaucracies aren't to my taste. I tend to eat what I hunt, and I prefer not to ask permission first."
He turned his gaze to the second agent, who had remained silent so far.
"And you?" Markus asked, his voice still pleasant, though his eyes gleamed with subtle power. "Anything to add?"
The Hydra agent shook his head. "No, sir. Just observing."
But even as the words left his lips, Markus's attention was already elsewhere.
Subjugation worked beneath the surface of his calm expression. Within seconds, he had unraveled every fragment of encoded loyalty, mapped the operative's connections, internal codes, fallback positions, handler identities, and encrypted communication protocols. Every network and personnel this operator belongs to. Their embedded assets. Even safehouse coordinates. All absorbed.
"Pity," Markus murmured under his breath. "I expected at least a little flair."
He rose from his seat with smooth elegance, hands folded behind his back.
"Gentlemen," he said, offering a shallow nod, "thank you for the offer. But I believe our meeting ends here."
The agents stood, hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave, escorted once again by Onyx, whose expression remained unchanged throughout the entire encounter.
As the heavy door closed behind them, Markus was alone once more in his suite.
Two days remained before the scheduled exams. Two days in which to unwind.
He turned toward the window, the New York skyline gleaming with lights and promise. Down there, the city pulsed with mortal ambition, desire, and chaos. Clubs. Rooftops. Secrets in glass towers and shadows in back alleys.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Time to taste the nightlife.
The week passed in a blur of polished floors, echoing lecture halls, and examination centers filled with unsuspecting professors who had no idea they were testing a god in mortal flesh.
Markus, of course, passed every exam with ease. He answered every question with casual precision, often improving upon the theories he was tested on. He didn't just meet expectations, he rewrote them. By the end of the week, his name had become a whispered curiosity among academic circles, a prodigy with six degrees applying directly for doctoral candidacy in all of them.
Onyx handled the paperwork with surgical perfection. The moment results were published, she submitted the applications for PhD examinations. His legend, artificial as it may have been, was growing.
It was during a mundane stroll through Midtown, jacket unbuttoned, hands tucked in his pockets, Markus noticed something peculiar. As he passed a large hospital, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled. Not in warning, but in recognition.
The souls.
They were gathering.
Faint, shimmering silhouettes. Like mist woven from memory, drifted from the upper floors of the building. They floated above the ambulance entrance, glowing ever so slightly, invisible to all but the divine. They hovered uncertainly… until they noticed him.
Then, like embers caught in a sudden breeze, they surged toward him.
They did not cry out. They did not beg.
They simply dissolved gracefully, silently, into radiant particles of light that merged with his form like dew absorbed into sun warmed stone. With each fusion, a soft pulse echoed through his soul. Faint. Subtle. Yet undeniably there.
Divinity.
It was small. Insignificant even, compared to the wellspring he carried. But it was constant. Consistent. He exhaled slowly, eyeing the hospital's roof as though expecting some hidden entity to reveal itself.
"Hela," he murmured. "Odin's bloodstained firstborn and Asgard's forgotten executioner."
He recalled her history, imprisoned by Odin, erased from Asgardian memory, then unleashed when the old fool died. She was supposed to rule over death, to shepherd the departed through Hel and Niflheim. A goddess of finality, bound by ancient war and will. Yet she was under house arrest by her father.
And here he was.
Souls drifting toward him, not her.
"I suppose that makes me either her proxy, successor or competition," he mused with a smirk.
No herald. No divine envoy. No spectral resistance.
Earth, it seemed, had no active god of death. No steward of souls. No judge at the gates.
And Markus had no intention of applying for the position.
"I've had enough employers for one lifetime," he muttered.
Still, the souls kept coming. Drifting. Dissolving. Merging with him in quiet recognition.
It wasn't allegiance. It wasn't worship. It was inevitability.
He accepted them and will continue to do so. But he would not look for them.
"I'm not Hela," he said, brushing away a ribbon of ethereal light. "And I'm certainly not offering pensions."
He turned away from the hospital with measured steps. The city swallowed him once more, but in his wake, the air remained faintly charged.
He didn't need a title.
With his administrative matters settled and his presence anchored in the world's systems, Markus finally turned his attention to something more... constructive.
"It's high time these mortals upgraded their toys," he murmured while sipping a glass of dark red wine, seated near the vast windows of his suite. His gaze drifted toward the city skyline, filled with glittering lights and human mediocrity. "Let them kill one another with efficiency and elegance. I am, after all, a benevolent god."
He called for Onyx.
"I want a company," he began, voice velvet smooth and laced with cold amusement. "A legitimate one. Proper licenses, permits, taxes, and every scrap of legal nonsense these people worship like sacred rites."
"Industry?" Onyx asked, her tone perfectly professional.
"Weapons," Markus replied without hesitation. "Small arms, rifles, battlefield equipment. Inspired by the tools of war I've seen in other realities. Refined. Balanced. Lethal."
"Name?"
"Eden Armaments," he said, his lips curling. "Give humanity another bite of the forbidden fruit, only this time, make it armor piercing."
Onyx nodded once and got to work.
In less than forty eight hours, Eden Armaments was fully incorporated. Legal paperwork filed. Licensing acquired. Patent attorneys lined up. A carefully crafted backstory presented Markus Tenebris as a reclusive genius entrepreneur with multiple degrees and enough investment capital to make any bureaucrat look the other way.
Markus personally selected the land: a vast, secluded stretch just outside the city's limits, near the same property where his future castle would rise. Far from suburban noise, close to transport routes. Everything was above board. Clean, neat, legal.
Construction began the following day.
Teams of legitimate workers, engineers, contractors, and architects were hired through established firms. Every permit and inspection scheduled. The building process proceeded with startling speed, subtly nudged along by Markus's Reality Domination. Not enough to raise suspicion, just enough to ensure no delays, no setbacks, no accidents.
The factory itself was a sleek structure of steel, reinforced concrete, and smart glass. Its design was modern yet unassuming. A fortress of industry dressed as a research lab. Within its walls, Markus began developing his vision.
He drew from what he had seen in other universes: the sleek design of Mass Effect's weaponry, the modular versatility of sci-fi arsenals, the tactical efficiency of Reaper drones, and even Earth's own prototype military tech. But he did not replicate. He reinvented.
Using regular materials he subtly "discovered" and patented light metals under Eden Armaments name, lighter than titanium, more durable than carbon composites, he began designing firearms that were elegant, deadly, and unlike anything on the modern market.
Rifles that weighed half as much as an M4 yet doubled its effective range and power.
Sidearms with recoil so perfectly balanced.
Body armor that dispersed kinetic force like water hitting silk.
Nothing supernatural. No magic, no absurd energy beams. Just advanced human engineering... decades ahead of schedule.
"Let them believe it's innovation," Markus said one evening, standing at the edge of the main floor as machines began assembling prototypes.
Onyx, standing beside him, tilted her head. "Projected operational timeline?"
"Two months," he replied. "Then we go public. Start small. Police forces. Private security. Eventually, armies."
He smiled as the hum of automated lines echoed through the chamber.
"I'm going to make so much money," he said dryly, "and not even to spend it. Just to watch the world tear itself apart with a little more class."
He paused, looking toward the construction site of his future castle beyond the glass.
"Let's call it... civilization through superior firepower."