The air itself seemed to scream as Marcus unleashed his power. A brilliant beam of pure destructive energy erupted from his position, tearing through space with the fury of a collapsing star. The very fabric of reality warped around the devastating ray, creating ripples that made the surrounding void shimmer like water disturbed by a stone.
Bzzzzzzt—THRUMMMM
The sound wasn't quite a roar or a whistle, but something in between—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through every atom in the vicinity. It was the song of annihilation itself.
"What the hell..." Tony's voice cracked through the comms, his usual confidence shaken.
The moment Marcus's beam manifested, every sensor in Tony's suit went haywire. Warning lights flashed across his HUD as the Iron Man armor's systems struggled to process the energy readings they were detecting.
"JARVIS, tell me you're getting this," Tony muttered, his eyes wide behind his faceplate.
"Energy output is... Boss, I can't even calculate it properly. It's like he's channeling the core of a sun," JARVIS's voice carried an unusual note of uncertainty.
Tony had seen a lot since becoming Iron Man. He'd faced down alien invasions, battled gods, and witnessed technologies that put Earth's greatest achievements to shame. But this—this was different. Marcus wasn't just using advanced technology or tapping into some cosmic force. He was wielding something that seemed to bend the very laws of physics to his will.
"Is he actually using stellar fusion as a weapon?" Tony whispered, watching the space around the beam distort and ripple. Even from this distance, he could feel the raw heat washing over his armor's shields.
The crimson laser cannon of the Dark Elf battleship—a weapon capable of punching through Asgard's legendary defenses—met Marcus's beam head-on. For a split second, the two forces clashed, red against brilliant white-gold. Then Marcus's attack simply consumed the enemy fire, swallowing it like a ravenous beast before continuing its inexorable path toward the warship.
Marcus had been careful with his targeting. He needed that ship intact if he was going to claim it for himself. The engine and primary weapons needed to go, but the hull, the technology, the secrets it contained—those were too valuable to simply vaporize.
The beam struck the battleship's main gun with surgical precision, and the results were immediate and catastrophic. The massive weapon, forged from materials unknown to Earth science, began to melt. Not burn or explode—melt, like ice under a blowtorch. Streams of liquefied metal poured from the impact point as the destructive energy carved through the ship's hull like it was made of paper.
"Damn it, that's too much!" Marcus cursed, immediately cutting off the beam.
He'd underestimated just how potent his attack would be against the alien ship. In his mind, Dark Elf technology should have been more resilient, more capable of withstanding his assault. Instead, his relatively restrained strike had punched clean through the ship, leaving a gaping wound that glowed like molten lava.
The warship listed to one side, atmosphere and debris streaming from the breach. For a moment, Marcus thought he might have accidentally destroyed his prize entirely.
Then the shadows moved.
A tide of inky blackness erupted from the wounded ship, not flowing like liquid but writhing like a living thing. The darkness engulfed the entire battleship in seconds, and when it cleared, both the shadows and the ship were gone—vanished as if they had never existed at all.
Inside the fleeing warship, Malekith's fist connected with a support pillar hard enough to leave a dent in the reinforced metal. His usually composed demeanor had cracked, revealing the fury burning beneath.
"Impossible," he snarled, dark eyes blazing with frustration. "How can one warrior possess such power?"
The other Dark Elves in the command chamber kept their distance, recognizing the signs of their leader's barely contained rage. Malekith had ruled them for millennia, had led them through the first war against Asgard, had survived the near-extinction of their race. But this... this was different. This was a threat unlike any they had faced before.
"The Aether," Malekith growled, struggling to center himself. "I can feel it calling from within Asgard's walls. It knows its time approaches."
He struck the pillar again, harder this time. What good did it do to sense the Reality Stone's presence when they couldn't even get past a single guardian? The Dark Elf fleet had been built to challenge Asgard itself, and this one armored figure had turned them back with contemptuous ease.
"Soon," Malekith murmured, forcing his breathing to steady. "When the Convergence reaches its peak, when the Nine Realms align perfectly, our power will be absolute. The barriers between dimensions will weaken, and the Aether will have no choice but to answer my call."
The thought of ultimate victory helped cool his rage, but questions still burned in his mind. Their plan had been flawless, every contingency accounted for. So why had it failed so completely?
"My lord," a soldier approached hesitantly, carrying a crimson data crystal. "The Cursed Warrior's mission recorder."
Malekith snatched the crystal and activated it immediately. A holographic display materialized before him, showing the transformation chamber deep within Asgard's dungeons. He watched his greatest warrior undergo the agonizing metamorphosis that would grant him power beyond measure—skin cracking to reveal inner fire, strength increasing tenfold, durability becoming legendary.
The recording showed everything unfolding according to plan. The Cursed Warrior had broken free of his cell, carved through the prison's defenses like they were nothing, left a trail of defeated Asgardian guards in his wake. Every barrier had fallen before him, every obstacle overcome.
Until he reached the core of Asgard's shield generator.
Malekith watched his warrior locate the massive crystalline structure that powered the realm's defenses. The plan was simple—destroy it from within while the fleet attacked from without. Asgard's legendary barriers would collapse, leaving them vulnerable to invasion.
But then the beams struck.
Multiple lances of energy hammered into the Cursed Warrior, each one carrying enough force to level a building. Malekith leaned forward, studying the attacker. It was some kind of mechanical construct, humanoid but clearly artificial. Its weapons were impressive, certainly, but nothing that should have threatened his champion.
Indeed, the beams barely seemed to affect the Cursed Warrior at all. His fire-touched skin absorbed the impacts without visible damage, and he began to advance on his mechanical foe with murderous intent.
Then the red blur struck.
The impact was tremendous—a crimson figure moving with impossible speed, hitting the Cursed Warrior with enough force to send the nearly indestructible Dark Elf flying across the chamber. Malekith's eyes widened as he recognized the attacker.
"That armor..." he breathed. "The same one who destroyed our ship."
The recording continued, showing a battle that defied belief. The Cursed Warrior, strongest of all Dark Elf champions, was being systematically dismantled by this mysterious red-armored figure. Every attack was countered, every charge met with greater force. It wasn't even close—it was a massacre.
Malekith watched his warrior's final, desperate gambit: a self-destructive explosion that should have leveled half the palace. The blast was tremendous, a pillar of fire that reached toward the heavens themselves. But when the flames cleared, the red-armored figure stood unharmed, not even his paint scratched.
"Curse him," Malekith whispered, crushing the data crystal in his grip. "Curse that monster to the depths of the void."
Everything made sense now. It wasn't that the Cursed Warrior had failed in his mission—he'd been prevented from completing it by this same armored devil who had just humiliated their fleet. Both prongs of their assault had been thwarted by a single opponent.
But who was he? Where had such a being come from? The Dark Elves had been imprisoned for ages, but the universe they remembered hadn't contained anything like this creature.
"No matter," Malekith finally said, his voice regaining its usual cold confidence. "Let him revel in this victory. When the Convergence reaches its crescendo, when reality itself bends to my will, we shall see how long his defiance lasts."
Meanwhile, in the golden halls of Asgard's palace, a very different scene was unfolding.
The great feast hall buzzed with celebration and relief. Long tables groaned under the weight of Asgardian delicacies, while warriors and nobles alike raised their voices in songs of victory. The Dark Elf threat had been repelled, their realm was safe, and there was much to celebrate.
"To Asgard!" Thor boomed from the high table, his voice carrying easily across the vast chamber. "To the All-Father Odin, protector of the Nine Realms!"
The golden-haired prince lifted his ornate drinking horn high above his head, the mead within sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Around him, hundreds of other Asgardians mirrored his gesture, their own cups and horns raised in salute.
"To victory!" the crowd roared back.
Thor drained his horn in one long pull, then hurled it to the floor with tremendous force. It shattered against the marble with a satisfying crash, its fragments scattering across the polished stone.
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Every other Asgardian in the hall followed suit, creating a thunderous cacophony as hundreds of drinking glass met their end against the floor. For a moment, the sound was deafening, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling like the rumble of distant thunder.
Tony Stark, still wearing his Iron Man armor but with his faceplate retracted, watched this display with barely concealed disbelief. He'd attended his share of parties over the years—charity galas, military ceremonies, celebrations that cost more than most people made in a lifetime. But this was something else entirely.
"Is this normal for them?" he asked, leaning toward Marcus. "Because I've got to say, my cleaning lady would quit on the spot if I started doing this at home."
Marcus shrugged. "Traditional Asgardian victory celebration. Thor did the same thing at a diner in New Mexico when he got his powers back. Nearly gave the waitress a heart attack."
Jane Foster, seated nearby and looking somewhat overwhelmed by the grandeur around her, nodded in agreement. "I was there for that one. The poor woman thought he was having some kind of breakdown. We had to explain that it was a cultural thing."
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