Since Christmas Eve, the training grounds had smelled of ozone, sweat, and fractured concrete. Every Fraternity member who had received a coaching slot had shown up at Smith's door—cap in hand, muscles coiled, and ready to bleed if that was what it took. He had met with each of them, pushing them through grueling sparring sessions until their lungs burned, leaving them with heavy, concrete truths about their own limitations.
Wanda was the exception, and deliberately so.
Smith raised his hand, his gaze distant. A flicker of dark, violet energy sparked at his fingertips. He knew some demon magic from Piccolo's inherited abilities. It crackled there, dense and vicious, trying to bite the air around it. He analyzed its architecture, feeling the chaotic, pulsing malice held together by an unnatural, rigid structure. But theoretical familiarity wasn't the same as practical mastery, and there was no point running her through drills he couldn't properly correct.
He closed his fist, snuffing the spark out into nothingness. Babidi had been a gifted theorist. His father had been capable of constructing demon puppets of real sophistication. But neither of them had been fighters worth emulating. Their magic was a cage, limited by the very malice that powered it. Smith rubbed his palm, frustrated by the memory of their magical ceilings. That wasn't the ceiling he wanted for Wanda.
Which was why he found himself sitting in the Ancient One's office in Kamar-Taj. Outside the carved wooden windows, the biting winds of Nepal howled, driving snow across the jagged peaks. But inside, the air was warm, thick with the serene, heavy scent of burning sandalwood and centuries of undisturbed silence.
The Ancient One listened to his proposal, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She considered the request, the rhythmic ticking of a distant clock the only sound in the room, before her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Of course."
Smith inclined his head, feeling the warmth of the brazier near his boots. "Thank you, Sorcerer Supreme."
A sharp, disciplined knock echoed through the room. Kaecilius stepped through the doorway. His posture was impeccably straight, his breathing slow and measured—the very picture of a studious, earnest scholar. "Teacher. You sent for me?"
"Mr. Smith did," the Ancient One said gently.
Smith evaluated the man across from him and kept his expression a mask of absolute neutrality. "Kaecilius. I'm here for the Dragon Ball Tournament. I have your invitation, and I need to run through a few things with you."
Kaecilius absorbed the word. Instantly, Smith allowed the dampeners on his aura to slip, just a fraction. A heavy, suffocating pressure filled the room, carrying the distinct, terrifying weight of a GOD. Kaecilius visibly recalibrated, his shoulders tensing as his eyes widened slightly. Wireless internet had spread the rumors, but standing in the presence of that power was entirely different. Reaching carefully, almost reverently, inside his robes, Kaecilius withdrew the Dragon Ball. He cradled the glowing orange sphere as if it were made of spun glass. "I've kept it with me. What needs to be verified?"
"First: are you personally committing to compete? To enter the tournament and fight for the championship and the wish?"
"Yes." The answer was instantaneous, leaving no room for doubt.
Smith reached into his heavy coat, pulling out a solid gold coin. He set it on the polished mahogany desk with a dull, heavy thud. "This is your entry token. It identifies you as an official competitor." He walked the sorcerer through the rigid structure of the event—the brutal format, the off-world venue, the rapidly approaching timeline. "As a contestant, you're entitled to bring spectators. The cap is ten. They'll be transported along with you when the time comes." He paused, letting the logistical weight settle before leaning forward. "One more item. If you win and your wish is granted, what are you asking for?"
Kaecilius's grip on the Dragon Ball tightened infinitesimally. He looked at Smith carefully, his gaze searching. "Can it be anything?"
"We review every wish before it's granted," Smith said, his voice flat. "Anything aimed at mass destruction or designed to cause widespread harm gets rejected regardless of who wins. Outside of that, the scope is broad."
The silence that followed stretched out, thick and heavy. Kaecilius stared at the golden coin, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching. When he finally looked up, the studious calm was gone, replaced by a raw, bleeding, unfinished grief that seemed to age him a decade in seconds.
"I want to resurrect my wife."
Smith had known. He had known before he even walked through the heavy wooden door. He pulled out his notebook and wrote it down anyway, a deep, internal weariness settling into his bones. Three people. Three different names written in this same book. The exact same suffocating grief. He closed the leather cover with a quiet snap, hoping Kaecilius's combat skills matched the depth of his desperation.
"Recorded." Smith stood, pocketing the notebook, and lifted the Dragon Ball from the desk, its glow dimming slightly in his grasp. "Hold onto the coin. Someone will come for you and your group before the match begins." He turned to the Ancient One, the crushing divine pressure rolling back into a calm stillness. "I'm finished here. Thank you for your time, Sorcerer Supreme."
"When are you sending the girl?" she asked.
Smith watched the snow lashing against the window for a moment. "After the tournament concludes."
The Ancient One nodded. Smith raised his hand, the blue, crystalline energy of the Cosmic Cube flaring to life. Space folded in on itself, tearing open a swirling wormhole, and he stepped through, vanishing from the sanctuary.
After the spatial tear sealed itself shut, the Ancient One sat alone with the quiet for a long moment. She raised a hand, her fingers glowing with golden, geometric sparks, and traced a shimmering mandala in the air. Through its multifaceted, fractal reflections, she peered down the long river of time.
She watched Wanda. She saw a girl teaching herself to bend reality through pure instinct, possessing no framework, no vocabulary for the impossible things she was doing. The magic that moved through the Sokovian girl was wild and untamed—a violent, red, unstructured chaos that clashed entirely with the rigid, perfectly symmetrical spells of Kamar-Taj. The mystic arts were a discipline built on geometry and borrowed dimensional energy. Chaos magic was older, deeper, and profoundly dangerous.
The Ancient One had considered, once, stepping through a portal and intervening directly. Watching the red flashes in the mirror dimension, she decided against it. Library access was the right answer. It would give Wanda historical context without forcing her into a structural mold she wasn't built to survive. It was also the exact reason why, when the inevitable time came, the Ancient One would choose Strange over her. Not because Wanda was a lesser magic user—far from it—but because the heavy mantle of Sorcerer Supreme required an architectural mind capable of holding up the sky. Wanda's mind was a storm, built to reshape the sky entirely.
Kaecilius, still standing rigid, watched the empty space where the wormhole had just been. He turned slowly toward his teacher. "He's the guardian."
"Yes."
A beat passed, the only sound the rattling of the windowpanes. "He came here for you. The invitation was secondary."
The Ancient One said nothing, taking a slow sip of her cooling tea, which was confirmation enough.
Kaecilius straightened his spine. "I won't waste it." He hesitated, his fingers brushing the cold metal of his entry coin, then asked, "Are we getting a junior sister?"
"She's borrowing books." The Ancient One's tone was incredibly patient, projecting an aura of absolute calm. "You know what Kamar-Taj is for. Sharing knowledge is the purpose, not gatekeeping it. The same reason you have access to everything you've learned."
Kaecilius accepted the subtle rebuke and said nothing more. He bowed deeply, excused himself, and walked down the stone corridors to the restricted library. He pulled the first heavy, leather-bound text on offensive applications of dimensional energy from the shelf. He had a tournament to prepare for. His jaw set in grim determination. He would not lose this time.
The Ancient One watched the doorway long after he had gone. She folded her hands back into her lap, still hoping he would find a different road than the dark, inevitable one she could see laid out ahead of him in the mirror's reflections. But if her best apprentice had managed to rewrite his fate with a golden coin and a tournament, then she supposed she had to rewrite her own exit as well.
That part, she admitted privately to the empty, incense-filled room, was going to be considerably more complicated.