Obadiah Stane was furious.
Not the performative kind of anger reserved for boardrooms and press statements, this was the quiet, seething rage of a man watching his empire slip through his fingers. Every stock dip of Stark Industries felt like a slap, and every rise in Eden Armaments' valuation was another nail driven into the legacy he'd spent years trying to control.
Worse yet, his supposed solution, the Ten Rings wasn't cooperating.
He had contacted them multiple times over the past month through back channels, demanding they execute Tony Stark and dispose of the body. But the messages were met with silence or vague replies. The warlord leading the group, Raza, had no intention of killing Stark. The moment they realized the level of technical knowledge they were dealing with, their goals shifted. Stark wasn't just a prisoner now, he was a resource.
Their engineers couldn't build what Stark could. And the idea of having their own private weapons genius, even under duress, was too tempting to waste on a ransom or corpse.
But time was up.
Markus had waited a month, as promised. He gave the order.
Ezekiel Division was unleashed.
The cave had grown colder as night fell across the Afghan desert. The weak overhead bulb buzzed like a dying insect, casting long shadows over the crude workshop. Oil stained scrap metal littered the floor. Jagged stone walls pressed inward like the ribs of some sleeping beast. There was no air flow. No time. No real hope.
Tony Stark was on the ground, sleeves rolled up, forearms covered in sweat and metal shavings. A harsh rasp echoed as he filed down a joint on the Mark I suit, a walking furnace cobbled together from missile parts, smuggled alloys, and pure spite. Nearby, Ho Yinsen quietly sorted wiring by the flicker of a small oil lamp. They both looked exhausted. Not from labor alone, but from carrying the silent weight of uncertainty.
Then the gunfire came.
Not the erratic, sloppy fire of panicked mercenaries, this was short, deliberate, surgical.
Controlled bursts.
Tony dropped the metal part he was working on. Yinsen froze mid motion.
"What is that?" Tony whispered.
Yinsen's eyes were already on the cave entrance. "That's… not them."
The firefight lasted less than a minute. A single scream. Then silence.
Dead silence.
Footsteps echoed against the stone. Four figures emerged into the flickering light.
They moved like shadows with purpose. Their uniform was matte black, segmented, tailored to their bodies with almost anatomical precision. No emblems, just silver wing insignia. An angel's silhouette, etched in steel, gleaming faintly over their hearts.
One stepped forward. His helmet was smooth, Night Vision googles already uplifted. His voice cut through the tension like a blade through his mask, deep and precise.
"Mr. Stark. Dr. Yinsen."
They didn't move.
"We are Ezekiel Division, Guardian Angels. Mission authorization Omega Three, under direct order from Mr. Markus Tenebris."
Tony blinked, dazed. "… Tenebris?"
"You're compromised. Our team neutralized hostiles in a five hundred meter radius. Air evac is inbound. Extraction zone secured. We move in two minutes."
Yinsen stepped forward, cautiously. "Why would this… Markus want to rescue us?"
The soldier didn't hesitate. "Because Mr. Tenebris doesn't leave assets to rot in caves."
Another Guardian stepped forward, tossing Tony a black canvas duffel. "Bring only what matters. We torch the site after exfil."
Tony stared at the Mark I. "I need at least.."
"No time," the leader interrupted. "You want to live, you follow. That scrap stays."
He turned sharply, a flick of two fingers toward the entrance. "Sting One, hold perimeter. Sting Two, get our guests moving. We've got birds in the air. Thirteen minutes to blackout departure."
The men moved like clockwork, fanning out with practiced efficiency.
Tony glanced once more at the Mark I, then at Yinsen.
Yinsen gave a single nod. "We can build another."
Tony slung the duffel over his shoulder.
Outside, the desert night was alive with the hum of inbound rotorcraft. And above it all, in the sky, void of satellites or surveillance, Guardian Angels moved like myths in the darkness, planting explosives all over the camp. Especially in the cave it self, nothing should remain was the clear order from their savior. Wings of vengeance, sent by a man who had rewritten the laws of silence, strategy, and salvation.
And far from there, Markus simply watched.
One more thread tightened.
Tony Stark returned to American soil aboard a black Guardian Angels transport jet, escorted quietly through private runways and Homeland clearances arranged with the kind of efficiency that money and fear usually couldn't buy.
His eyes were sharper now.
The month of captivity had burned something old out of him, and in its place was a flame of uncertainty, guilt, and focus. The carefree billionaire who boarded a plane to Afghanistan was not the man who stepped off this one. Markus had ensured that.
Not through coercion.
But through suggestion.
A small brush of Subjugation here, a quiet mental nudge there. Just enough to strengthen the part of Tony already questioning himself. Just enough to make the internal conflict heavier. And when the time came, Markus knew exactly what Stark would do.
And he did.
Tony stood before the world at his press conference, blinking under the lights like a man freshly awoken from a fever dream. He wore no tie. No polish. Just purpose. And he opened with words no one expected:
"Before I say anything else," Tony said, glancing at the dozens of reporters, "I want to publicly thank Markus Tenebris and the Guardian Angels for my rescue. Without them, I wouldn't be standing here right now."
The room shifted.
Reporters scribbled. Heads turned. Cameras zoomed.
Then he dropped the real bomb.
"Effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries."
Gasps. Chaos. Obadiah's face went rigid. Pepper stared like she'd just heard a ghost walk through the door.
The rest unfolded as it had in the Iron Man movie.
Markus, watching from a private lounge miles away, sipped his wine and smiled faintly. Tony was right where he needed to be. Soon, the Mark II prototype would take shape. Then the Mark III. The armor would become iconic. But Eden Armaments had already patented dozens of suit based weapon systems under various categories. From exo frame infantry units to enhanced EVA suits.
Tony would eventually find out.
And Markus was very curious to see his face when he did.
In the meantime, the press conference served as a perfect transition.
Markus launched two new branches under the Eden corporate tree within the week.
Eden Electronics Division and Eden Automotive and Aerial Division.
Each came with full branding campaigns, teaser trailers, and product showcases rolled out like divine revelations.
The Prayer Series didn't arrive with a press event. It arrived like scripture.
Eden's official channels released a 90 second video at 3:33 AM EST, without a caption or announcement. Black screen. A whispered voice, female, ethereal murmured a single line.
"Whisper your prayer."
Then the screen bloomed to life: wrists clasping sleek bands. Gemstone colored, matte gently unfolding into softly glowing interfaces. A translucent arc of light hovered above each band, projected seamlessly from its inner curve. No buttons. No activation sequences. Just intent. Marcus was inspired by the Omni Tools from Mass Effect for this product.
The flagship, Prayer One, was a wearable that fused elegance with precision. It projected interfaces within a thirty centimeter radius. Maps, messages, biometric scans. All drifting in the air like holographic scripture. The band sat flush against the skin, warm to the touch, adapting to body temperature. Models were named: Onyx, Ruby, Pearl, Sapphire.
A more modest sibling followed, Prayer Light. Its reduced functions targeted at students, travelers, and low resource environments. It bore fewer sensors, but the same Eden signature: smooth, soft lit brilliance wrapped in surgical utility. For the first time, the line between sacred ornament and smart device was erased.
The world didn't ask how it worked.
They only asked when they could have one.
Next came the vehicles.
Eden didn't roll them out through dealerships. It rolled them into prophecy.
On the morning of the launch, the world awoke to a single cinematic trailer. Moody skies, scorched roads, silhouettes emerging from mist and dust. Sedans. Crawlers. Behemoths. Their names spoken like scripture:
Abraham. Elijah. Azazel.
Abraham, the Urban Pilgrim, glided through neon lit cityscapes in silence. Its drive systems were advanced AIs. Interior sensors adjusted temperature, light, and even sound based on passenger vitals. Its trims, Daylight, Tabor, Judah and Zion weren't classes. They were declarations.
Elijah, the Wandering Prophet, moved through desert and snow like it was born there. Terrain adaptive suspension. Full biometric sync. The Cedar model looked civilian. The Sinai variant did not. Off grid endurance, hardened shells, satellite guided GPS independence. It wasn't a car. It was a statement of survival.
And then came Azazel.
Military use only. Shown only in shadows. Tactical mobility redefined. Models like Shofar and Cherub bore names from ancient war hymns. One, the Moriah, was rumored to contain a mobile command interface with autonomous war room intelligence and drone deployment bays.
No specs were published. No interviews granted.
Just the tagline, spoken like a warning:
"And the wheels within wheels moved with purpose." Ezekiel 1:20
Then the drones appeared.
The Eden Aerial Division dropped into view quietly. No fanfare, just footage.
Uriel, the first, was no bigger than a man's hand. It unfolded from a belt pouch, took to the air, and hovered in place like an angel on sentry duty. Its AI was adaptive, its lenses sensitive to thermal signatures and light shifts. Journalists, hikers, and first responders were the target audience, but no one missed its surveillance potential.
Gabriel, its courier sibling, carried parcels up to 25 kilograms, navigating storms and power lines with uncanny grace. Hospitals pre ordered them en masse. So did tech corporations. And governments.
Zebulun, the largest, was built for farmland. Soil analysis. Moisture detection. Crop diagnostics. Quietly, Eden claimed rural skies before most cities had finished digesting the launch.
And then… Ezekiel.
Teased only once, a frame in the upper atmosphere. Its form barely visible, its presence undeniable. It drifted in silence, far above clouds and contrails. No details were released. Only a line in white text across black screen:
"Above, he saw the wheel… and the wheel was alive."
By the end of that week, the global tech sector was in full collapse.
Apple went quiet.
Motorola issued a delayed statement.
Stark Industries, still limping from its manufacturing shutdown, scrambled for relevance. Tony watched the news from his hospital bed, fingers motionless over the TV remote, breath shallow against the bandages on his chest.
A headline scrolled beneath: "Eden Automotive entering the sector. Deliveries estimated late 2009."
Pepper entered the room with paperwork. "Tony?"
He didn't answer.
Because in that moment, he finally understood.
This wasn't innovation.
This was occupation.
The night wind curled around the rooftops of Kamar Taj, slipping past the open terraces like a whisper trying not to be heard. Yao stood still beneath the stars, her eyes half lidded, the air around her humming softly with the weight of tension. Beneath her calm expression was something taut. Not fear, no, not yet but the discomfort of a woman who knew too much to sleep easily.
She had watched him for three years.
Markus Tenebris.
She had seen gods bend slower than him. Kingdoms fall quieter. And mortals ordinary, arrogant mortals, scrambling to comprehend the shape of the world he was carving beneath their feet.
She remembered the first time they met.
She had acted fast, too fast. Reflexive instinct masquerading as caution. The Mirror Dimension had been her trial ground, a sacred space where geometry bent to her will, where confrontation could happen without consequence.
She had pulled him in with practiced ease.
And watched it disintegrate around him in a single breath.
He hadn't even looked around.
No gesture. No chant. Just a thought.
The Mirror Dimension had collapsed like wet parchment, the illusion of control evaporating under something older, heavier. Something that wasn't bound by the elegance of sorcery or the threads of universal balance.
It was the moment she realized he didn't walk into their world. He had stepped over it.
Still, she had watched. An observer. A witness. Waiting. Hoping, perhaps foolishly, that his path could be redirected. Contained.
And now, as Eden's influence spread like a quiet infection across industries and borders, as whispers of Guardian Angels and vanishing enemies became daily constants, Yao finally accepted the truth: there would be no stopping him.
But maybe, just maybe there could still be dialogue.
Something less… catastrophic.
She raised her hands and began to weave the ring of sparks, forming a portal aimed at the Markus's inner sanctum. Not a battlefield. Not a confrontation.
A conversation.
A portal flared to life. Bright. Stable.
And then it wasn't.
It didn't collapse.
It didn't destabilize.
It simply… ceased.
Unmade.
As if the universe had blinked and forgotten what she'd tried to do.
Yao froze.
Not from the magic, but from the absence of it.
She reformed the sigils, this time slower, more deliberate. Another portal arced into formation and vanished again.
The breath left her lungs, not in panic, but in realization.
Then it came, no sound, no warning. Just presence.
His voice didn't echo in her ears. It didn't even ripple through her mind. It arrived, perfect, composed, and devastating in its simplicity.
"Would you dare open a portal into Odin's private quarters… uninvited?"
Her knees almost buckled.
Not from the name, but from the implication.
This was not a man she was addressing.
Her lips parted. But there was no apology she could summon that didn't feel absurd.
Because somewhere in the void between words and regret, she realized…
She had just made her second mistake.
And Markus Tenebris didn't forgive twice.
She felt the shift before she saw it.
Not the wind. Not the light. Something deeper, spatial weight. Like gravity exhaling in reverse. Her fingers curled, already reaching for the spell to stabilize the environment, but it was too late.
Kamar Taj was no longer in the world.
The stars outside were glass. The mountains warped, bending like reflections in a broken mirror. Even the air tasted wrong.
The Mirror Dimension.
She hadn't cast the spell.
She hadn't given permission.
And yet, here they were.
Yao turned sharply, voice ready to summon the senior masters..
And then the growl came.
It was low and inhuman. It vibrated through the stone beneath her sandals before it reached her ears. She spun toward the source, and the hallway answered her with a scream.
The first wolf burst from the wall like smoke given shape. Then another. Then twenty more.
Abyssal Wolves.
Massive. Twisted. Three meters tall, shadow tendrils dancing on their bodies like black flames. Eyes like dying stars. And in them, only hunger.
The temple erupted in chaos.
Initiates ran. Guards shouted. Wards failed before they could ignite.
Yao raised her hands, shouting incantations.
Nothing. No sparks. No light. Just silence.
She tried again. A shield. A portal. Even a displacement spells.
Nothing.
Her magic wasn't being blocked.
It was being ignored.
The wolves tore through the halls. Students were dragged, dismembered, erased in sprays of blood. Limbs slammed against walls. A head bounced down the stone staircase like a child's toy. Every scream felt like it landed beneath her ribs.
She ran, past the library, past the shattered relic vault until she reached the sanctum.
And there it was.
The message.
Written in bodies. Spelled in limbs and bones red.
"You have been warned, Yao."
She dropped to her knees, air leaving her lungs in a rasp.
She had.
She had been warned.
And she hadn't listened.
Then..
Everything blinked.
And she was standing alone.
The hallway was intact. No blood. No screams. The walls were quiet. The wind, once again, felt like wind.
Yao looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
She turned.
There, written gently across the stone floor, traced in harmless golden letters
"You have been warned, Yao."
No wolves. No screams.
But the memory remained. Not like a dream.
Like something lived.
Like something earned. In all the centuries she lived, Yao felt… small for the first time.
She clenched her jaw and looked toward the Eye of Agamotto on the high shelf.
"You saw nothing," she whispered.
And for the first time in her life, she meant it as an accusation.
The moment dissolved behind him like a fog finally choosing to lift.
Yao wouldn't try again.
She had been given a glimpse, just a glimpse of what transgression meant when aimed upward. Markus had no interest in killing her.
Her mind would replay that vision for weeks. Maybe longer.
But Markus had other things to do.
He turned from the mental link and let his gaze return to the stars, more specifically, to what they concealed. Not poetry. Not potential. But power.
The Infinity Stones.
He was no MCU fanatic. Never campaigned online for a director's cut or memorized the post credit scenes. But he remembered the basics. And now, standing in the folds of a universe that once flickered on a theater screen, he found that the trivia mattered.
The Mind Stone, trapped within the scepter. That one was still in motion, floating from one gloved hand to another on its way to Earth. Thanos would have it soon, if he didn't already.
The Aether, or more precisely, the Reality Stone, was dormant in its liquid form on Svartalfheim. Markus could already feel it like a slow pulse beneath the void. Unrefined chaos, humming in red.
The Power Stone rested on Morag, locked inside a long dead temple vault. A deserted planet, long before Peter Quill ever tapped his Walkman to its soil. That would be easy.
The Time Stone, though... that one was interesting.
It sat not far from him now. Tucked away within Kamar Taj, behind layers of geometry and self righteous philosophy. But Markus wouldn't touch it.
Not yet.
No, there were stories to let unfold. Strings to be plucked, not snapped. The plot was moving. And this time, he wouldn't watch it from the safety of a screen, bag of popcorn in hand. He would be in it. Shaping it. Rewriting it.
Let the Sorcerer Supreme recruit her chosen successor.
Let Strange fall into the abyss of purpose.
Markus would be waiting.
The Soul Stone, though... that one was a problem.
Vormir.
A tomb at the edge of nothing. A relic that required the kind of offering he didn't possess.
A soul, for a soul.
Something loved. Someone… deeply loved.
His eyes narrowed at the thought.
Maybe Onyx, he considered. But it wasn't love. Not really. She was loyal, crafted to be so. Perfect in her function. Elegant in her execution. But not something his soul longed for. He admired her. Trusted her. Not Seraphiel, even in her new form and mindset she was a perfect administrator and a lovely favored pass time activity. Not the Lodge. Each one was perfected versions of themselves in his vision of course. But not deeply loved for sure. Not even loved to be honest. TOAA made the perfect safe for the soul stone with this simple trick.
He chuckled to himself.
No matter.
Let the Purple Titan throw his tantrum. Let him weep on that cliff if he had to.
Markus would take the stone from his cooling corpse.
Eventually.
Everything in its time.
And this time… it was his.
Markus decided to claim the Power Stone.
There was no need for stealth or ceremony. He moved with a thought, instantaneous and absolute. Standing before the altar on Morag, deep within the ruins of a civilization long erased by time.
The temple was dead.
Dust choked the air, and ancient stone groaned beneath the weight of its own silence. But the Power Stone was very much alive.
It pulsed within its containment field, veins of violet lightning surging against an unbreakable shell crafted by hands now forgotten. The pedestal around it was scorched, fractured in places, as though the very idea of proximity had begun to buckle under the strain. It didn't hum. It growled.
This was not a relic.
It was a weapon that wanted to be used.
A source of infinite force, tuned not for precision, but for domination. It amplified strength, shattered barriers, reduced worlds to ash. It could level cities, tear mountains in half, rip open the crust of planets like fruit. No limiter. No filter. Just raw, boiling power.
Markus could feel it reaching for him. Not physically, but intimately. It recognized the presence of the Space Stone already etched into his soul and surged in response, hungry to merge.
He stretched out his hand.
The containment field shattered like glass dipped in thunder. The stone leapt into his palm in a violent burst of violet energy, crackling against his skin, howling to be unchained.
Markus didn't flinch.
His soul accepted it like a second heartbeat.
And in that moment, he reached inward summoning a fragment of his will and burning 500,000 Divinity Points to craft a perfect replica. Visually identical. Energetically stable. Built to last long enough for the timeline to follow its prescribed path.
He placed it gently in the original's spot.
A perfect lie.
Then he vanished.
He returned to Onyx, if only for a moment.
Something in her had changed since the talk show. She still fulfilled her duties flawlessly, timing, logistics, security. But there was softness now. Not weakness. Something subtler. She lingered in rooms longer. Her glances held quiet warmth, not calculation. The perfection remained, but now it shimmered with something else.
She didn't ask where he'd gone.
She already knew.
When they indulged in each other's company, it wasn't mechanical. Not programmed. It was earned. Claimed. And she gave herself completely, not because she was told, but because she wanted to.
Afterward, her head rested on his chest in silence. His fingers moved idly across her back as he whispered, "The Power Stone is mine."
She didn't answer. She just smiled.
He returned to Vizima, to the heart of the world he had already conquered. His castle stood above the city like a black crown. Twisting spires, gothic windows, perpetual twilight. Inside, reality bent to his will. In this subdomain, Markus altered time's very flow:
One day in the Marvel universe became 500 in the Witcher world.
He had time now.
Time to absorb the Power Stone bit by bit. It wasn't something to swallow whole. No, its ferocity demanded patience. Every fragment consumed expanded his divinity. Augmented the production of power within him. With both the Space and Power Stones integrated into his essence, he no longer collected divinity.
He generated it.
No worshippers. No temples. No offerings. His godhood was self sustaining.
He is the God of Creation and Death and the universe.. no, the multiverse knew it.
The days passed between absorption, he moved through his court, the eternal Lodge, whose members now radiated youth and reverence. Ciri remained close, her talents flourishing under the dual instruction of Ida and Yennefer, both reshaped in body and mind to serve his will and aesthetic alike. The world bent around him with quiet obedience.
When he returned to the Marvel universe, only a month had passed.
But everything felt… smaller.
The sky didn't shift, but the world did.
In Kamar Taj, Yao opened her eyes mid meditation. There was no tremor. No flash of power. But the air felt thicker. More precise. The type of pressure that bent realities without disturbing leaves.
She didn't need to look to know.
He was back.
And somehow, impossibly, stronger.
She said nothing.
But deep within her chest, where old instincts coiled like scrolls unread, she felt it:
The story was no longer unfolding around Markus.
It was unfolding because of him.