Markus reappeared beside Yao in a whisper of displaced air, as if reality itself adjusted to accommodate his return. He stood tall and composed, the flickering shadows of Kamar Taj's chamber bending subtly around him. Hovering above his open palm was a soul crystal, luminous, pale gold with filaments of twilight blue swirling within. It pulsed gently, in tune with a rhythm long forgotten.
Yao's eyes widened the moment she saw it.
The resonance struck her like lightning of a memory. Old, deep, buried. The kind of connection that exists in her mind, soul and very marrow. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't need to ask, she knew. That piece of her… the part she had lost to the Dark Dimension so many lifetimes ago… it was home.
Markus stepped forward with calm precision. Without speaking a word, his eyes held hers, clear, regal, unhurried. And with ceremonial grace, he pressed the crystal against the center of her chest.
There was no flash. No thunder. Just a quiet sinking, as if the crystal had always belonged there. And then it vanished beneath her skin in a shimmer of light.
Yao inhaled sharply, stumbling back a step, clutching the front of her robe.
She felt it instantly.
A scream that had echoed inside her for centuries now fell silent.
A thousand subtle aches, spiritual fatigue she had long mistaken for age or wisdom, faded like mist under sun. Her heart raced with life. A rush of wholeness swept through her like wind through ancient trees, stirring long dormant branches.
Tears threatened the edges of her eyes.
Markus's hand rose once more, his fingers tracing a slow pattern through the air as soft green light enveloped her. Reality bent to his will, like a master composer tuning an ancient instrument.
He reached into the fabric of her soul and began to burn away the corruption.
No fire. No agony. Just a sublime unraveling of rot that had hidden in the corners of her being for too long.
Yao opened her eyes with a shuddering breath. For the first time in centuries, they were truly clear.
She looked at him, really looked and lowered herself to a respectful bow. Her voice was softer now. Honest.
"Thank you," she said, and meant it. "I did not expect... to feel whole again."
Markus gave a small, measured bow of his head in return. "The honor was mine," he replied smoothly. "There are too few things worth restoring in this world. Your soul, dear Yao, happened to be one of them."
She studied him for a moment, searching his face for any trace of mockery. But his expression was unreadable. Elegant, composed, layered with sincerity that still felt like performance.
Still, she asked, "May I inquire… how you convinced Dormammu to relinquish it?"
Markus's lips curled faintly into a smile. It was not cruel or cold. Merely… amused.
"I educated him," he said simply, "on the importance of courtesy."
Yao blinked, then exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. And for a fleeting second, the Sorcerer Supreme nearly laughed.
Markus turned to the pedestal.
There it was, the Eye of Agamotto. Unassuming in its stillness, yet heavy with the weight of a billion temporal threads. Suspended in its open casing like a relic of myth, the Time Stone glimmered softly, pulsing with the rhythm of the universe itself. It was calling him, wanting to reunite with it's brethren.
He glanced back at Yao, his voice dipped in velvety civility.
"Shall we complete our transaction?"
Yao, silently offered a graceful motion with her hand. A single, fluid gesture inviting him to proceed.
Markus stepped into the chamber. The sanctum's wards recognized him not as an intruder, but as something altogether more significant. The atmosphere bent subtly around him as if in submission, in reluctant acknowledgment.
He reached out, fingers gliding over the surface of the Eye before lifting it with the reverence of a curator handling a masterpiece.
The moment it touched his hand, time itself paused in deference.
Markus closed his eyes, scanning every inch of the artifact. Threads of divinity unspooled from his fingers like silk, wrapping around the Eye, interpreting every rune, every spell, every metaphysical anchor tethered to the Stone.
And then, with a mere thought, he poured ten million divinity points into the process.
A construct, identical in form, function, and energy signature bloomed into existence in the palm of his other hand. A perfect duplicate. One that would remain fully functional for at least a thousand years, bound by his will and divinity, sealed by his dominion.
He had planned the same for each of the Infinity Stones. The universe, after all, was brittle. Markus had already seen the warning signs, concepts like Time, Space, Power and others were not just powerful, they were foundational. When removed, the universe didn't simply lose balance.
It fractured.
And he, being the responsible god that he was, had no intention of letting it collapse while he was having his fun in this universe. After he left, well that's a whole other story. Which he did not care in the least.
He placed the replica gently onto the pedestal.
The original vanished into a private subdimension he had forged just moments prior. A vault beyond any known plane, a sanctuary that even the Celestials would not breach without losing themselves.
"It's done, my dear," Markus said as he stepped back from the pedestal, voice calm and exacting.
Yao approached, eyes narrowed with quiet focus. She reached for the Eye, now sitting exactly where she left it… or so it seemed.
She held it in her hand, examined the artifact with all her centuries of training and instinct, searching for inconsistencies.
But there were none.
The weight was right. The energy flowed as expected. The very weave of time around it responded exactly as before. Her brows furrowed, she could find no difference at all.
And that, Markus noted with private satisfaction, was the true test.
His smile spread, slow and razor thin.
"A pleasure to do business with you, Yao," he said lightly. "Let us hope our future engagements remain on this refined level of mutual benefit, rather than... adorable confrontations."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but silent.
"Oh," Markus added, almost as an afterthought. "One last thing."
He stepped forward, and with a single fingertip, touched the center of her forehead.
A pulse of energy rippled through her.
It was not violent or invasive. It felt like breath. New, deep, and clean.
Within seconds, color returned to her cheeks. Her skin, long pale with the weariness of age and burden, began to glow with the soft vibrancy of health. Her posture straightened as fatigue lifted, bones no longer weighed by time. She felt warmth in her limbs, strength in her breath.
Youth, not restored, but... rewritten.
Moderate regeneration. Discreet, refined, and perpetual.
Markus's hand fell away.
"Try to grow some hair," he said, smirking faintly. "And put on a bit of weight. It'll look good on you."
Before she could muster a retort, he was gone.
No sound. No light. Just absence. As if he had never been there at all.
Yao stood still for several moments, unsure whether to be grateful or furious. A woman was a woman after all.
Finally, she conjured a mirror with a flick of her hand.
And for the first time in centuries… she saw herself alive.
Not an ancient relic sustained by borrowed magic, but a woman with blood in her face, light in her eyes, and time once again on her side.
Before departing, Markus informed Onyx of his plans in a brief, unhurried transmission.
"I will be unreachable for a week," he said, seated in his study with one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming softly on the hilt of his chair. "The Time Stone requires full integration. No distractions. You know what to do, my dear."
Onyx gave a slight bow over the holographic channel, her expression as unreadable as ever.
"Understood, my lord. Wakanda will remain... compliant."
With a final glance at the mortal realm, Markus vanished, slipping through reality itself into the sanctified boundaries of Noctorrius Primus. His divine dominion of black spires at the edge of a Blackhole, where time obeyed no linearity, and space bent in deference to his presence.
He brought Bastet with him.
After all, it would be unfair to let Seraphiel carry the burdens of devotion alone.
For seven days of Marvel universe, the world outside faded into irrelevance. The Time Stone pulsed endlessly in his grasp, radiant with layered infinities. Absorbing it was unlike anything he'd experienced before. Not merely power, but concept, not just energy, but narrative. It was not an object. It was law, draped in emerald light.
During the intervals of rest between the waves of integration, Markus indulged.
Seraphiel, pale as moonlight, and Bastet, as dark as starless midnight. Goddesses in contrast, divine in origin, loyal in service. They adorned his court like twin embodiments of opposing celestial truths: one crafted from sanctity, the other born from primal grace. Their moans echoed through the chambers, soft and private. Their devotion, absolute.
He shared moments of pleasure and whispered philosophy between them. Long silences in starlit baths beneath the arches of a reality he wove like silk, and nights drawn out in intention. They were not just ornaments; they were instruments in his symphony of power, and he tuned them to perfection.
When the final thread of the Time Stone's essence surrendered to him, nearly twenty seven years passed in Noctorrius Primus while only seven days passed in Marvel universe. The reward was beyond even his considerable expectations.
The skill manifested in a surge of emerald brilliance, etched into his soul as a right to rule.
Time Dominion:
Passive Effects:
Absolute Immunity to all temporal influences, including paradoxes, rewinds, time stops, and recursive loops.
Temporal Awareness: Immediate perception of all timelines, divergences, loops, and potential futures within planetary scale.
Resistance Nullification: Even beings immune or resistant to time manipulation may now be fully affected.
Temporal Memory: Retains knowledge and experience from erased or overwritten timelines.
Active Effects
Cost varies in Divinity and MP, scaling with scope
Temporal Arrest: Stop, slow, or accelerate time within a selected zone, from a meter wide chamber to a planetary envelope.
Chrono Condensation: Compress centuries of training, thought, or healing into moments.
Temporal Isolation: Lock an object, person, or place outside the flow of time, untouchable, unreachable.
Anachronic Banishment: Banish targets into collapsed timelines, or loop them in eternal paradox.
Dominant Override: Time cannot be altered by external means while Time Dominion is active. Only a superior conceptual domain may interfere.
Markus stood in the center of his throne hall, the light of the newly absorbed concept shimmering around him like layered glass. His breath came slow, steady, but his mind raced with precision.
"Magnificent," he murmured to himself.
Power had always been a means to an end.
But this? This was authorship.
He turned, his gaze finding the two figures at the edge of the room. Seraphiel seated with poise of an angel, Bastet lounging like a shadow beside her, both wrapped in fabrics that left so little to imagination.
Markus descended the dais, steps silent across the obsidian floor.
"It is done," he said, voice low, satisfied.
And as the echoes faded into the vaulted ceilings, all of Noctorrius Primus seemed to hold its breath, for its master had just conquered time itself.
Upon his return from Noctorrius Primus, Markus wasted no time. He sent Bastet to Wakanda to see to the executions. He did not wasted any time and first enhanced the Space and Power stones with the same amount of divinity he spent creating the duplicate of the Time Stone.
Ten million points for each.
The result was not duplication, but enhancement.
When his work was complete, Markus emerged once more into the firmament of the mortal world, descending upon Wakanda like the shadow of an eclipse.
The changes were... visible.
Onyx had executed his command with chilling precision. The skies over Wakanda hung heavier now, dimmed by spells of surveillance and suppression. The air itself bore the imprint of obedience.
Thousands were waiting their que to be publicly executed in the capital by their revered Goddess. Each death sentence a demonstration, another nail to the psyche of the people of Wakanda. The message was clear 'resistance is futile'. The Lich Overlords had raised additional forces, primarily Dread Knights, their spectral armor a permanent reminder that death no longer meant liberation. The people, once cloaked in a hubris born of isolation, now whispered of escape. Some even dared to dream of exile in to the broken lands like Somalia. Anything, they thought, might be better than life beneath an iron sky and an unflinching gaze.
And Bastet? She said nothing.
Not one word in defense of her people.
She was busy slaughtering the death row prisoners. A divine figure now ruled by higher will.
When Markus arrived at the royal palace, he found it still in transformation.
The sleek curves of Wakandan architecture had been swallowed by Gothic majesty. Vaulted towers, iron tracery, solemn statues of angels and warriors now loomed over city squares. Where Wakandan tech once pulsed discreetly beneath the surface, now arcane sigils glowed with imperial clarity. The elegance of his taste had fused with the dread authority.
Markus chuckled softly, the sound cultured and amused.
He took a seat upon the throne Onyx had installed, black marble, backlit by veins of molten starlight and summoned her with a glance.
"Bring me the girl," he said.
Shuri was escorted into the throne hall by two Dread Knights, their armored forms radiating menace. She moved with rigid poise, hiding fear behind a facade of defiance. But her eyes, too intelligent to lie betrayed uncertainty.
Markus studied her in silence.
There was brilliance in her, certainly. A mind that could one day serve a purpose. But as he observed her form, her awkwardness, her unrefined posture, he found himself mildly disappointed. In another timeline, in ink and paper, she had been portrayed with the elegance and poise fitting royalty. Her beauty was something to inspire. Here, she was the same as the actress from the movie. He was planning to gift her to his Vampire Lords as hi gifted Philippa Eilhart for 'education' yet after seeing her he was not sure. It would be a punishment to his innocent Vampires.
Still, purpose remained.
He waved his hand lazily. "Tell me Shuri" he said. "Was it amusing, I wonder, to prod at my company's defenses, trying to steal blueprints of my products from behind the veil of your so called sovereignty?" Shuri's eyes widened. She never thought she will be held responsible for a direct action of hers. She wanted to defend herself as it was in the name of Wakanda's defense. Yet she couldn't. She cursed herself for the moment they decided to approach this monster. Markus continued, "You will work, you will use that brilliant mind of yours. Diligently. Obediently. If you wish to ensure your family's and people continued survival, he glanced to the execution square.. or whatever left of it. you will apply your talents toward Eden's infrastructure. That is your sole role now."
Shuri's lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. She bowed instead. Markus used subjugation to implement the idea that the harder she work, the safer her family will be. It was enough. Her brother was in the prison with other rebels, he was waiting his trial. A trial that will never come he mused to himself.
Markus leaned back.
"This will do."
As she was dismissed, he thought briefly of other uses. A political asset? Not likely. A research pawn? Definitely. But in the end, she was Wakandan, a people who once believed that hiding behind illusions made them wise.
Now?
Now they served.
And the world would never know the sound of their silence.
Markus returned to his estate near New York, the city's lights twinkling like forgotten stars beneath his dominion. The mansion itself, a seamless blend of timeless elegance and post singularity architecture, stood quiet as he stepped into its vast courtyard. The cool night air stirred slightly, responding to his presence rather than the wind.
He walked along the colonnade, fingers brushing over a shard of raw Vibranium embedded in a marble display pedestal. This metal, once the pride of Wakanda, now felt quaint. With Reality Domination, he could conjure mountains of it. It held no true weight or value to him anymore.
What he awaited, however, was far more rare.
The Destroyer.
Crafted from Uru, like the famed Mjolnir itself. A metal not native to this realm. A substance born from the dying heart of a star and tempered by divine purpose. And now that Loki's game had begun, Markus wished to test something… personal.
He vanished without ceremony.
And reappeared in the deserts of New Mexico. The hammer stood in the crater, exactly as expected. Pristine. Untouched. Silent. He descended slowly, boots landing soundlessly on the cracked earth.
Mjolnir.
It was smaller than one might expect. Understated. But its presence rippled outward like a still lake disturbed by a single pebble. The enchantment carved into it sang in a language older than most realities. A spell woven by Odin's will. A test.
Markus approached.
He reached for the hilt, not in hesitation, but with deliberate poise. His fingers curled around the handle, cold metal beneath his palm. And then, with one smooth motion, he lifted it.
There was no resistance. No thunder. No divine fury.
Mjolnir rose in his hand like it had been waiting for him.
For a moment, the desert held its breath.
Markus studied the hammer closely. Turning it, rotating it with the slow reverence of a man inspecting a sacred artifact he fully intended to master. With Reality Domination, he unraveled the metal's story. The structure of Uru revealed itself, crystalline lattice wrapped in dimensional elasticity. Dense, ancient, and yet perfectly receptive to divine manipulation.
But the runes… they were the true prize.
Not just writing, but architecture, runes layered in recursive logic, divine clauses knotted into cascading conditions of self worth. Odin had sealed this weapon with a concept. A belief.
And now that belief bent in his grip.
Markus smiled faintly.
He placed the hammer back exactly where he found it. Then he erased every trace of his presence, digital, chemical, thermal. Reality itself forgot he had ever stood there.
A wisp of shadow stirred beside the crater as he became a Wraith.
No light, no presence, no weight. Just silence where a god had once stood.
With no sound or light to herald his travel, he phased through layers of air and circuitry until he arrived at the fortified interior of SHIELD's holding facility. Beneath concrete and steel, beyond surveillance and protocol, Thor of Asgard sat within his cell.
He was... diminished. Stripped of power. And yet there was still the frame of a warrior about him. The arrogance remained, though dulled by confusion. A lion without his roar, pacing a cage he didn't yet understand.
From the shadows, Markus observed.
He would watch. Measure. Compare.
Not just to study Asgardian physiology, though that too had its intrigue.
But to better understand the kind of legacy Odin had truly left behind.
Markus activated his Insight skill and examined Thor. He started to examine the details with an amused smirk;
Full Name: Thor OdinsonTitles: God of Thunder, Prince of AsgardRace: Asgardian GodDomains: Thunder, Lightning, Storms, StrengthAge: Approximately 1,500 yearsOrigin: AsgardCurrent Status: Exiled on Earth, Powers Sealed by Odin
Core Attributes
Strength: 200 (Sealed: [20])
Agility: 80 (Sealed: [8])
Endurance: 300 (Sealed: [30])
Intelligence: 20
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 90
Willpower: 95
Divinity: 100 (Sealed: [0])
Luck: 100 (Sealed: [10])
Powers and Abilities
Innate Asgardian Traits:
Superhuman Longevity: Possesses an extended lifespan far beyond that of humans, appearing youthful despite being over a millennium old.
Enhanced Durability: Naturally resilient to physical injuries, extreme temperatures, and most terrestrial diseases.
Combat Proficiency: Retains extensive training in Asgardian martial arts and weaponry, making him a formidable hand to hand combatant even without his divine powers.
Basic Strength and Endurance: Exhibits physical capabilities superior to average humans but significantly diminished compared to his full Asgardian potential.
Sealed Abilities:
Electrokinesis: Command over thunder and lightning, able to summon and channel electrical energy for offensive and defensive purposes.
Weather Manipulation: Control over storm elements, including wind and rain, often used to augment combat abilities.
Flight: Capable of propelling himself through the air, primarily when wielding Mjolnir.
Energy Projection: Able to emit powerful blasts of energy, particularly lightning, from his weaponry.
To call Markus disappointed would be the understatement of the century.
He stood invisible in the corner of the containment cell, cloaked in his Wraith form, gazing down at the so called God of Thunder with a faint tilt of the head, equal parts curiosity and contempt. Thor Odinson, exiled and stripped of power, slumped on the cot with the restlessness of a lion in a cage, but the resemblance ended there.
Markus's Insight slid over him like a scalpel. Every sealed stat, every dormant ability, every flicker of soul signature was cataloged and filed away within microseconds.
"Intelligence barely above a smart human," Markus mused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Wisdom lower than my discarded underwear. How charming."
He sighed through his nose, the sound regal, almost pitying.
There was brute strength, certainly. Potential, yes. But refinement? Nuance? Not a trace. Even sealed, an Asgardian should have exhibited fragments of higher divine mastery. Especially a prince. And yet... not a single skill aligned with rune craft. Not a whisper of the ancient scripts that flowed through Odin's veins.
"Pathetic," he murmured. "A god... and yet not even literate in his own legacy."
He had known from the beginning. This was the Marvel Cinematic Universe, not the Comics. In the comics, Thor wielded cosmic storms and shattered dimensions with prose. Still, the reality of it was worse than expected. He could almost feel his respect for the character from his former world wither into second hand embarrassment.
The only redeeming trait was the data. At the very least, Markus had now constructed a complete physical and divine, profile of an Asgardian deity: soul structure, energy circuits, divine anchors, lifeforce resilience, enchantment seals. All of it. That was worth something.
And yet...
He glanced once more at Thor, who muttered something in his sleep and scratched his chest like a drunk Norse farmer.
Markus's lips twitched.
"In love with a mortal, no less," he said, voice silk over ice. "As if diluting millennia of godhood for a momentary thrill were noble. As if divine blood needed thinning."
He shook his head and turned away, passing through the wall like mist.
The visit had run its course.
Returning to his estate near New York felt like stepping into a world that understood him again, where elegance and power were expressed through design, not discarded in the name of humility. The city glittered in the distance.
He arrived in his private chamber, letting the shadows peel off him like a coat. The silence welcomed him. His throne, his silence.
A sigh escaped him, this time sincere.
"Time for something more rewarding," he said to himself, pouring a glass of dark amber liquor and settling into his seat.
The disappointment of the day dissolved into velvet quiet. He had seen what he needed to see. And now, he would wait.
The Destroyer was coming.
And that, at least, promised entertainment.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, Strategic Meeting Room
Nick Fury sat alone, elbows on the steel desk, hands steepled under his chin, a hard glare fixed on the manila folder before him. It was thick, Howard Stark's compiled legacy. All promising. All insufficient.
He leaned back slowly, one eye tracking the muted screen on the wall. News anchors were still dissecting Eden Industries' abrupt relocation. Officially, it was a "strategic restructuring." Off the record, it was a silent declaration of independence. The White House had pushed too hard, demanded too much, and Markus Tenebris had responded. Not with diplomacy, with sovereign secession. Eden was moving to Greenland, constructing Arx Seraphim, a city built on frozen tundra and autonomy.
They had four months.
Four months before Markus was beyond the last thread of earthly jurisdiction.
Fury exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping the folder.
The Avengers Initiative had been born out of desperation. Earth needed a counterweight, someone, anyone who could operate in the same league as the monsters, gods, and unknowable threats that kept showing up.
Every time he tried to observe Tenebris, the surveillance burned out. Literally. Drones fried in the air. Agents returned with failed results or worse got captured. He had once sent a specialized agent, an enhanced bio sensor, someone who could detect mutant genomes at a glance. The verdict? "Normal. Human. Not even dormant."
Bullshit.
Everything in Fury screamed otherwise.
Mutant? No. Enhanced? Doubtful. Something else? Undeniably.
And now, Eden was moving. A sovereign corporation under UN recognition. Backed by legal victories, military dominance, and technological superiority that world needs as it needed water.
He opened another file: candidates.
Banner? Unstable. Stark? Egotistical but viable. Rogers? Whereabouts unknown.
And then there were the mutants, he scoffed Enhanced Individuals he murmured mokingly.
Fury tapped a name. Scott Summers. Reliable. Tactical. Follows orders. Another, Ororo Munroe. Strategic and fierce, with public goodwill, moved to Brotherhood camp. And maybe, just maybe Rogue, if Xavier could be convinced.
But they were contingency.
The problem remained Tenebris.
Fury stood and turned to the wide window overlooking the clouds.
He hated being outplayed.
But he hated being predictable even more.
He walked to the secure comm terminal and keyed in a special contact line.
"Romanoff."
Her face appeared a moment later, sharp and focused. No questions. She'd been expecting something.
"I'm sending you in," Fury said. "No stealth. No surveillance. No games. You deliver a message. Directly."
"To Tenebris?" she asked calmly.
He nodded.
"You sure? You remember what happened the last time we tried?"
"I do. SHIELD is still not working right." He gave a thin smile, then it vanished. "This isn't about spying. I want him in a room. Talking. Negotiating. Hell, posturing. But not... above us. Not beyond reach."
"And if he refuses?"
"Then he refuses." He paused, voice low. "But if you feel something, anything in his reaction, report it. We're running out of time."
She nodded.
"And Natasha…"
"Yes?"
"Be respectful. No testing, no teasing, no pretending he's just another ego in a suit. Consider it as if you're going to a god's door. Knock, don't kick."
"Understood."
The feed cut.
Fury looked once more at the globe rotating slowly on the table projection.
Markus Tenebris wasn't a name anymore.
He was a weight. A force.
And if Earth had any hope of staying its own master, someone had to talk to him before the gates of Arx Seraphim closed forever.
Fury picked up the Stark file, tucked it under his arm, and walked out without a word.