The leash glowed faintly in Markus's hand, humming with Aetheric runes that pulsed in sync with the goddess's subdued breath. Bastet knelt beside him now, a living monument to his dominion. Her feline form curled at the base of his chair like a great panther at rest, eyes dimmed, pride reduced to obedience. She was still beautiful, still divine, but now her divinity served another name.
His.
With a whisper of will, he began the mental reconditioning. Her thoughts folded like silk under heat. Her allegiances, her pride, the very idea of independence, all severed and woven anew. Seraphiel had once endured the same; now, Bastet joined her in chains of purpose. No rebellion remained. Only function.
Markus seated himself on his throne like chair, posture regal, one hand still resting on the divine beast's leash while the other scratched idly beneath her chin. The once proud goddess leaned into the touch, bound by compulsion and command.
His turquoise gaze turned toward the Wakandan delegation.
"So," he said with a slow, courteous smile, "You were saying?"
Ramonda had not risen from her seat yet. Her expression, once polished with diplomatic civility, now bore a glint of genuine fear, not for herself, but for what Wakanda would become. She lowered herself without hesitation, one knee hitting the black stone floor.
"I am Ramonda of the Wakandan royal family," she said, voice composed yet reverent, "and I greet the Elder God in whose presence we stand."
She bowed her head fully.
Markus tilted his head with approval.
But not all shared her wisdom.
T'Chaka's fists were clenched. His eyes were locked onto Bastet's feline form, his goddess, now purring under the caress of another. Rage burned behind his pupils.
"How dare you disrespect the goddess," he growled, barely containing himself.
Markus's smile grew wider, eyes shining with the sadistic glint of a predator watching prey deliver itself.
He turned slowly to Bastet and spoke in Ancient Egyptian, the words like blades dipped in honey. "Recall your gift," he commanded.
The panther rose without hesitation. Her eyes locked onto T'Chaka. Without ceremony, the ancient divine tether that gave him the powers of the Black Panther, the strength, the agility, the spiritual link was revoked.
T'Chaka screamed.
A sound guttural and raw tore from his throat as divine energy ripped from every pore, every nerve ending alight with loss. His limbs convulsed, eyes rolling back, mouth foaming as the remnants of the panther's grace fled his unworthy flesh. Within seconds, he collapsed, a heaving wreck of a man barely clinging to life.
Markus didn't even blink.
He turned his gaze back to Bastet.
"Is this is what you deemed wise enough to present your mushrooms with?"
The goddess lowered her head, shamed and silent.
Markus snapped his fingers, and the broken form of the former king was dragged aside by two Guardian Angels with all the gentleness afforded to discarded refuse.
His eyes swept across the rest of the delegation. The generals were already kneeling. The bodyguards soon followed. Every one of them had seen death before, but never subjugation. Not like this. Not divine.
"Tell me, mortal," Markus said, voice low and laced with venomous charm as his gaze landed again on Ramonda. "Now that your husband's body is finally equal in effectiveness to his brain... what will you do with Wakanda?"
Ramonda did not hesitate.
"Whatever you command of us, Your Grace," she said, forehead pressed to the floor.
Markus gave a single, approving nod.
He turned again to Bastet and spoke calmly, as if giving instructions to a well trained servant.
"You will continue to rule Wakanda as you did before. They are used to your presence. Use that familiarity to announce a new truth: I am your deity now. Any who disobey this reality will be publicly executed, by you."
The panther bowed her head again in acknowledgment.
Markus leaned back.
"As for the Vibranium... it stays where it is. Eden will establish a branch in Wakanda. Controlled. Monitored. Efficient."
He turned back to Ramonda once more, smile sharpening slightly.
"And how old is your lovely daughter?"
Ramonda hesitated. Just a breath.
"She turned eighteen this year, my lord."
Markus nodded in satisfaction. "She will begin working for Eden Industries."
A portal shimmered open in the middle of the hall, revealing the main corridor of the Wakandan royal palace.
"You may go," Markus said, gesturing casually.
The envoys rose like supplicants from prayer. They did not bow again, they fled with dignity shattered, their thoughts no longer their own.
As the last of their number disappeared through the gate, the portal collapsed behind them like a glass lens melting into air.
Markus turned to Onyx, his smile gone.
"Deploy full scale subjugation. I want Wakanda under complete surveillance. Military, industrial, ideological. All of it."
"Yes, my lord," Onyx answered, already inputting commands into her slate.
Markus raised a hand, and the air thickened with summoned power.
In the span of a breath, the black stone floor was filled with silhouettes: Every second 100 WL1 units, their armors polished to darkest black brilliance were being summoned and dissolved to Onyx's shadow, this ceremony continued until their number reached fifty thousand. Same procedure occurred with Phantom Blade Masters, each silent, robed in silver veils, blades humming with compressed darkness.
After them, two ranks emerged: 500 Lich Overlords, cloaked in smog and scripture, and 500 Vampire Lords, elegant and terrible, eyes glowing with cold hunger.
He left five of each from the latter two. Ten of them kneeled before Onyx with his command.
"For the first time," Markus said, "I entrust command to one who was not summoned by me. Do not fail me my dear."
Onyx bowed with perfect grace, her eyes gleaming with the burden of command.
"Then I will not fail at all."
And with that, the engines of conquest turned once more, silent, divine, and inevitable.
Onyx's arrival at the Wakandan royal palace was a spectacle of calculated dominance. Flanked by five Lich Overlords and five Vampire Lords, each an epitome of dark power. Escorted by a cadre of Guardian Angels, she moved with an air of unassailable authority. The Guardian Angels, their radiant forms exuding an aura of divine vigilance, served as her personal sentinels, ensuring her safety and underscoring the gravity of her mission.
The palace guards, seasoned warriors of Wakanda, instinctively recognized the futility of resistance. Their king discarded, their queen subdued. There was no point in resistance. The overwhelming presence of Onyx's entourage left no room for doubt: Wakanda's sovereignty was now under the shadow of a greater power. With synchronized precision, the guards stepped aside, allowing Onyx and her formidable entourage to pass unchallenged into the heart of the palace.
Meanwhile, across the globe, Markus activated his Omniscient Awareness, extending his perception to the farthest reaches of the Earth. His consciousness brushed over a disturbance in New Mexico. A hammer of Asgardian origin, Mjölnir, embedded in the desert sands. This artifact's sudden appearance had not gone unnoticed; various organizations had swiftly mobilized, establishing a perimeter around the site. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken the lead, constructing a temporary facility to study and secure the enigmatic weapon.
Aware of the unfolding events and the potential they harbored, Markus turned his attention to the Ancient One. Their initial encounter had been marked by her attempt to confine him within the Mirror Dimension. A move that had proven futile. He knew she will not intervene in the current situation, Markus waited for a day, observing the developments. When no action from Yao materialized, he decided to confront her for the difference in attitude and intent that wove through the fabric of these events.
The Meditation Room of the Ancient One, Kamar Taj
The chamber was silent, save for the soft whisper of incense smoke curling through the air like a memory. Yao had been still for hours, suspended in a tranquil state of astral stillness, her mind wandering the veils of perception.
Then the ether stirred.
It wasn't an attack. It wasn't even forceful. Just a ripple, gentle, deliberate, impossibly polite. A touch along the threads of reality as if someone had tapped the edge of a spider's web.
On the floor before her, calligraphy began to etch itself into the stone. Neat, elegant strokes. An old form, not just written, but meant.
"A guest would never enter uninvited. May I?"
Yao opened her eyes slowly, the soft glow in her irises dimming as she returned to her body. Her heartbeat skipped, not from fear, but recognition. The sensation... it was him.
The nightmare she'd buried in meditation stirred. Even her centuries of control faltered for a breath.
But only for a breath.
She gave a single nod.
The message vanished.
And in its place, Markus appeared.
A figure taller than the doorframe, broader than any warrior she'd trained, dressed with immaculate precision, his long coat hanging like ceremonial robes, eyes that shimmered like starlight over still water. He bowed his head slightly, the gesture was sincere.
"Thank you," he said, his voice warm, almost friendly. "A gentleman never imposes, especially not on a lady's sanctum."
The civility only made it worse. The jab was a precise reminder to her attempt to enter his office uninvited.
Yao inclined her head in return, smoothing the folds of her robe with hands that remained steady ..barely.
She said nothing of their encounters. There was no need.
She had tried to trap him upon his entry to this world, mirror dimension, temporal lock, recursive binding.
It had lasted all for mere seconds.
"Tea?" she offered, already preparing the leaves.
Markus nodded with polite appreciation and lowered himself to the floor, the tatami mat groaning slightly under the weight of his monstrous frame. It was almost comical, this man, this god, sitting in such a humble way, knees tucked beneath him, fingers resting on his knees like some kind of warlord in a tea ceremony.
The table between them was small. The silence, vast.
Yao poured, the steam rising in quiet spirals.
Markus accepted the cup and took a sip before speaking. "I've noticed," he began casually, "that you didn't attempt to imprison Thor of Asgard as you did with me."
There was a glint in his eye, a smile wrapped in silk, edged in glass.
Yao met his gaze directly. "Correct," she said evenly.
"And why is that?" Markus asked, still smiling, still impossibly courteous.
Yao set her own cup down. "Because Thor is a prince of Asgard. A governor of the Nine Realms. His presence on Earth, though unusual, is not unexpected."
She paused, letting her words breathe.
"He is also powerless for the time being. Odin stripped him of his strength. I see no reason to act."
Markus chuckled softly, the sound low and musical. "Odin. Possibly the worst father of the last ten thousand years."
He leaned back just slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.
"I do wonder how dear Hela is faring these days."
Yao froze for a fraction of a second.
Her cup halted midair.
"That," she said carefully, "would be a catastrophe. For Asgard and all Nine Realms."
Markus's smile widened, amused by her concern. "Oh, come now. If I intended to shatter this charming little planet, which houses a Celestial at its core, I might add. I would've done so already."
The Ancient One's breath caught. Her composure cracked.
Her eyes, truly ancient, truly wise snapped to his.
"You... know about the Celestial?" she whispered.
Markus raised his cup again, savoring the aroma. "It's ironic, isn't it?" he said gently. "You call yourself this world's, this timeline's protector, yet you allow an extinction bomb to slumber beneath your feet."
He set the cup down and folded his hands neatly.
"Meanwhile, the moment I arrive, you try to bind me in a dimension and reflective traps."
His tone remained soft, but the weight behind it was crushing.
"Tell me, Yao... how does hypocrisy taste with this beautiful tea you've served me?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
And in that silence, Markus smiled again patient, polite, perfectly aware that every word he spoke had sunk deeper than any blade.
The Ancient One remained still, though the shadows beneath her eyes had deepened. She had not touched her tea since Markus's last remark. Instead, her gaze lingered on him, searching, calculating.
"Your actions about Wakanda," she said at last, voice low, even.
Markus raised an eyebrow, amused. "Of course."
Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. "Do you realize what you've done? The timeline, Markus. You've shifted it, irreversibly."
For a moment, silence. Then came the smile.
Slow. Patient. Cruel in its civility.
"I see no need for more hypocrisy," Markus said, his tone soft, words enunciated like a man delivering a toast. His gaze lingered on Yao just a breath too long. "And certainly no need for more hypocrites."
Yao didn't respond. She waited. Markus continued.
"As for the timeline..." He waved a gloved hand dismissively, as if brushing away the concept itself. "The purple man will fall. Not to thunder, not to stones, not to desperate gambits."
He leaned back slightly, the leather of his coat whispering against itself.
"But to me."
Yao's eyes narrowed.
"Wakanda," Markus went on, "will serve a higher purpose. A silent one. As we speak, my assistant is… refining it. Butchering every discordant note, every rotten root. You call it disruption. I call it… orchestration."
The way he said it made the word sound like a hymn.
He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "And really, what difference is there? The world never knew them before. And now… it never will. Forevermore."
His eyes twinkled with a private joke.
"I might do the same with the Savage Land," he added in a murmur. "Though it hasn't made its appearance here. And I haven't seen it in this version of your cinematic puppet show."
Yao inhaled slowly. Her voice was calm when she finally spoke. "You've seen the other timelines."
It wasn't a question.
Markus's smile widened.
"That," he said gently, "is not the important point."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands folded with quiet poise.
"The point, dear Yao, is this, my actions about Wakanda... and their effect on the so called timeline... no longer matter."
He let the words hang, like the final note of a requiem.
"Because they no longer matter to this world."
His eyes met hers. Unflinching. Glacial. Beautiful.
"I will replace their contribution alone."
Yao held his gaze for a moment longer, and then finally, slowly, she nodded.
Not in agreement.
In understanding.
Because even she could no longer deny it.
Markus had not simply bent the rules of this reality.
He was replacing the tiles of fate one by one.
The teacups sat between them in silence, the warmth fading as the air grew heavy with implication. Markus studied the Ancient One over the rim of his cup, eyes gleaming like twin cuts of turquoise ice.
"You've danced with Dormammu longer than you'd care to admit," he said, voice gentle, almost sympathetic. "A tether from here to the Dark Dimension, neatly hidden beneath centuries of denial."
Yao's expression didn't change, but her silence was answer enough.
"It's not judgment, dear Yao," he went on, swirling the remnants of his tea. "Just an observation. I've read the echoes in your soul. I know the cost you paid for longevity. Cleverly done, yes, but messy."
Still, she said nothing.
Markus leaned forward slightly, placing his cup down with a soft clink.
"I can sever the connection. Remove the corruption, the dependency. Return to you the portion of your soul Dormammu holds hostage."
Now she looked up. Calm, but not unaffected.
"In exchange?" she asked.
Markus smiled, slow, wide, and sharp. "A moment alone. With the Time Stone."
Yao studied him carefully, weighing his words like they were stones balanced on a scale.
"You can take it whenever you want, why ask? What are your intentions?"
"Oh," Markus said with a theatrical shrug. "You wound me Yao" he said chuckling darkly. "I'm a gentleman. I'll use it for a few calculations. A bit of synchronization. Perhaps a glance backwards to correct a few... technical irregularities."
He waved a gloved hand as if it were nothing at all.
"You'll have it back in minutes."
A pause, then a softer note entered his voice.
"And consider this a bonus: you won't die of old age."
She blinked, barely perceptible.
"I beg your pardon?"
Markus tilted his head, smile turning mischievous.
"I'll make a small... adjustment. You'll retain your vitality. A regenerative gift, hidden beneath. Modest. Elegant. You'll never even notice it, but you'll never fade either."
Yao looked at him for a long time. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was profound.
Finally, she gave the faintest of nods. "Do not harm the stone please, it is a legacy of the temple."
Markus's eyes danced with dark amusement. "That's the spirit."
He rose, towering above her once more. The room felt smaller as he stood, a mountain wrapped in charm.
The last sip of tea vanished between his fingers.
Yao stood as well, graceful, composed. Her palms touched together in a motion of welcome as she turned and led the way from her meditation chamber, her robes whispering across the stone floor.
The Time Stone awaited, resting atop its pedestal like the heart of the world.
In the dim, ever shifting expanse of the Dark Dimension, where reality itself seemed to writhe and twist, Dormammu loomed. A towering figure wreathed in ceaseless, otherworldly flames. His form was both majestic and terrifying, a fusion of humanoid shape and elemental fury, with a visage that burned like a perpetual inferno. As the primordial ruler of this chaotic realm, Dormammu's presence was a maelstrom of power and malevolence.
It was into this tumultuous domain that Markus arrived, his transition marked not by fanfare but by the simple imposition of his will upon the fabric of space. He materialized with an air of unassailable authority, his towering frame clad in an impeccably tailored suit that seemed impervious to the surrounding chaos. His eyes, cold and discerning, fixed upon Dormammu with a gaze that bespoke both curiosity and condescension.
"Dormammu," Markus began, his voice a smooth baritone that carried effortlessly through the cacophony of the Dark Dimension. "A pleasure to meet you. I have come to discuss a matter of restitution. You are in possession of a fragment of the Yao's soul. I require its immediate return."
Dormammu's fiery eyes narrowed, the flames of his form flaring with indignation. "And who are you to make such demands of me? Get lost!" his voice echoed, a deep, resonant growl that seemed to vibrate the very fabric of his realm.
Markus's lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile. "I am one who does not appreciate insolence," he replied smoothly. "But I must thank you for meeting my expectations."
Without further preamble, Markus extended his hand, fingers splayed as he invoked his dominion over reality itself. The Dark Dimension trembled as his power surged forth, tendrils of energy weaving through the ether, latching onto the very essence of Dormammu's being.
The dread lord's form convulsed as Markus began to strip him of his formidable abilities. First, the dominion over the Dark Dimension was wrested away, leaving Dormammu momentarily unmoored in his own realm. The interdimensional teleportation followed, severing his ability to traverse the myriad planes of existence. Each loss elicited a guttural roar of agony from Dormammu, the pain searing through his very essence.
Markus observed the spectacle with amusement. "Really, Dormammu, I expected more resilience from a being of your... stature," he remarked, his tone laced with mock sympathy.
Next, Markus targeted Dormammu's mastery over dark magic, unraveling the intricate weaves of his mystical prowess. The once formidable reality warping capabilities were dismantled, leaving Dormammu's attempts to manipulate his surroundings futile. Power bestowal, immortality, intangibility, all were methodically stripped away, each extraction eliciting a fresh wave of torment that wracked Dormammu's colossal form.
The Dark Dimension itself seemed to recoil from the onslaught, its chaotic nature destabilizing further as its master was systematically dismantled. Dormammu's roars had subsided into ragged growls, his once imposing presence reduced to a shadow of its former glory.
Markus adjusted his cufflinks with meticulous care, stepping closer to the now kneeling Dormammu. "You see," he began conversationally, "power is a most transient thing. One moment, you're the formidable ruler of a dimension; the next, you're little more than a footnote in the annals of those who overestimated their invincibility."
Dormammu's eyes, though dimmed, burned with a mixture of rage and desperation. "Enough," he rasped. "Take the fragment. Begone from my realm."
Markus chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Now, where would be the fun in that?" he mused. "I believe a lesson is in order."
With that, he delivered a swift, calculated strike to Dormammu's form, the impact resonating through the Dark Dimension. Each blow that followed was precise, pure unnecessary brutality, each carried the weight of Markus's unyielding dominance. As he administered this chastisement, he continued to speak, his tone never wavering from that of a patient tutor addressing a particularly slow pupil.
"Let this be a reminder," Markus intoned, punctuating his words with measured strikes, "that even entities of your supposed magnitude are not beyond reproach. Perhaps, in the future, you'll consider the ramifications of trifling with matters beyond your comprehension."
Finally, he ceased, stepping back to survey his handiwork. Dormammu remained kneeling, his form flickering unsteadily, the once unassailable dread lord now a testament to the perils of hubris.
Markus straightened his tie, his demeanor as composed as when he had arrived. "I trust we've reached an understanding," he stated, "a soul crystal hovering over his hand," though it was not phrased as a question.
He started to copy the abilities he liked, they merged with his own repertoire, returning them to the beaten form of Dormammu. Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel, the very fabric of the Dark Dimension bending to accommodate his departure. As he vanished from sight, his parting words lingered in the air.
"Do remember, Dormammu, that courtesy costs nothing. But the lack of it? Well, as you've experienced, that can be quite... taxing."
And with that, the Dark Dimension was left to its own tumultuous devices, its master chastened, and a fragment of a soul restored to its rightful owner.