At 10880 Malibu Point, the Pacific Ocean was currently having a very loud argument with the cliffs below, a percussive roar of liquid thunder that vibrated through the foundation of the house. Inside the glass-and-steel sanctuary of his workshop, Tony Stark was having a similar argument with the rebellious fuel pump of a classic red Ferrari 250 GT.
"JARVIS," Tony said, his voice slightly muffled as he leaned deep into the engine bay, the greasy perfume of motor oil and hot metal clinging to him. "If this glorified Italian sprinkler decides to redecorate my face with gasoline again, I'm donating you to a community college. And I'll make sure it's one with a terrible IT department."
"An interesting threat, sir," JARVIS's disembodied voice replied. "However, statistically speaking, you are solely responsible for eighty-seven percent of the unplanned pyrotechnic events within this facility."
Tony snorted, a smudge of black grease appearing on his cheek as he blindly reached for a wrench. "Innovation requires sacrifice, JARVIS. Preferably sacrifices that cost more than a small country's GDP and have a tendency to explode. It keeps the mind sharp."
Then, the world blinked.
One moment, Tony was smelling motor oil and the clean tang of the Pacific. The next, he was inhaling the scent of sealed tombs and forgotten time, a bone-dry aroma of ancient dust and cold stone. The wrench clattered from his numb fingers onto a floor that felt solid as a mountain's root.
"Okay," Tony muttered, straightening up and rubbing his eyes. "Either the coffee was spiked with something from another dimension, or I've finally broken the space-time continuum with a socket wrench. I'm leaning toward the coffee."
To his left stood a man who looked like he had stepped directly off a recruitment poster for 'Warrior Kings of Legend' radiating a lethal dignity even in his confusion. To his right, a young girl was wrapped in threadbare clothes, looking like a frightened stray cat that had suddenly realized it was standing in a tiger's den. Her eyes were wide, darting from shadow to shadow.
But the real problem was at the end of the hall.
There, upon a throne that looked as though it had been carved from the very concept of 'Eternal Silence,' sat a silhouette. It was like a hole in reality, a figure sculpted from impenetrable fog, drawing in the light and giving nothing back.
The Fool
Tony's sarcasm shattered like cheap glass. His brain gave him one very clear, very cold piece of data. This being is operating on a level where his greatest intellect is merely… incidental.
———-
In the heart of Wakanda, T'Challa moved through the final forms of an intensive sparring session. His movements were a blur of precision, the hum of advanced technology a familiar song in his ears as he practiced against holographic drones. He had just lunged for a final strike when the world abruptly shifted.
The transition was seamless. One breath was taken in the sterile air of a high-tech vibranium gym and the next was expelled into a fog choked silence.
For a brief moment, a jolt of alarm surged through him. It was a normal reaction to the unbelievable. His heart beat wildly in his chest, his muscles tensing in anticipation of attacking some unseen threat. But T'Challa forced the reaction down instantly. He mastered his breathing, his face becoming a mask of royal composure even as his mind raced to comprehend the displacement. He did not let the tremor in his hands show. The Prince of Wakanda remained upright and steady, his gaze piercing through the mists as he controlled his instincts in the face of a cosmic entity that looked as though it could delete his entire continent with a dismissive flick of a finger.
———-
In a grey apartment in Sokovia, Wanda Maximoff sat in the dim light, nursing the hollow ache in her stomach. The small kitchen was empty and the air was thick with the lingering scent of the neighbors' boiled cabbage. It was a smell that always reminded her of what they did not have. She was staring at the door, waiting for Pietro to return with anything he could find, her mind a loop of worry and exhaustion.
The shift happened between heartbeats. One moment she was huddled in the cold shadows of her home and the next, the smell of poverty was gone. It was replaced by the damp scent of ancient stone and mist. She found herself standing inside a fog filled castle. Her heart became a frantic bird beating against her ribs, the crushing silence of the hall far more terrifying than the sounds of the city she had left behind.
———-
The silence in the hall was so heavy it felt like it had its own gravitational pull. Then, at the edge of the long stone table, they saw him. The man who had been sitting in total silence, just like them, suddenly stood up. He looked like... a guy. An impeccably dressed guy who had clearly read the employee handbook for this particular brand of cosmic horror.
And that man began to speak. His voice was almost conversational as he recited a list of titles that made Tony's skin crawl with an instinctual dread.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era."
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog."
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate."
He paused, then his voice dropped, taking on a ritualistic cadence.
"We pray for your grace."
"We pray for your blessing."
"We pray for the mercy of your gaze."
Tony stared at Aryan, his mind racing, connecting dots at a furious pace. This guy isn't a guest. He's not one of the lab rats. He's the one who knows where the exit signs are.
The silhouette on the throne 'The Fool' leaned forward, a movement that seemed to bend the very air around it. "I ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR ARRIVAL," a voice said. It filled every empty space in the hall and in their minds. "THIS IS SEFIRAH CASTLE… YOU HAVE ALL BEEN SUMMONED ACROSS THE BOUNDARIES OF EXISTENCE BY THE WILL OF FATE. HERE, YOUR PASTS ARE SHADOWS, AND YOUR FUTURES ARE YET TO BE WEIGHED."
Tony Stark leaned forward, placing his palms on the cold stone table. "Alright, I'll bite. You've got the castle, the fog, and a pretty impressive list of job titles. Let's talk business. You say we were summoned by the will of fate. Since you are the one sitting upon the throne of this castle, why don't you tell us, why us? What is it you expect from us?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
"THE WORLD YOU INHABIT IS A FRAGILE CLOCKWORK," The Fool's voice resonated, each word feeling like a truth carved into their bones. "YOU SEE THE GEARS, THE WARS, THE TECHNOLOGY, AND THE POLITICS. BUT YOU DO NOT SEE THE HANDS THAT WIND THE SPRING. THERE ARE ENTITIES IN THE DEEP COSMOS, AND FORCES IN THE HIDDEN DIMENSIONS, THAT VIEW YOUR WORLD AS NOTHING MORE THAN A FEAST. SOME ARE ALREADY HERE. OTHERS ARE COMING."
The fog around the throne seemed to swirl with images of dying stars and screaming galaxies.
"I HAVE WATCHED THE 'ENDLESS LOOPS' OF HISTORY," The Fool continued. "IN EVERY VERSION OF FATE, I SEE THE SAME TRAGEDIES. I SEE HEROES FALL BECAUSE THEY WERE TOO WEAK. I SEE CIVILIZATIONS TURN TO ASH BECAUSE THEY WERE TOO LATE. I SEE THE SAME SCRIPTS PLAYED OUT BY DIFFERENT ACTORS, LEADING ALWAYS TO THE INEVITABLE SILENCE."
T'Challa's voice cut through the gloom. "You speak as if you are outside of time. If you see the end, why interfere now?"
"BECAUSE A DESTINY THAT IS KNOWN IS A PRISON," The Fool replied, and the temperature in the room truly did plummet. "I HAVE CREATED SEFIRAH CASTLE AS A PLACE OUTSIDE THE REACH OF THE 'SCRIPT.' YOU WERE INVITED BECAUSE YOU ARE THE VARIABLES. YOU ARE THE FEW WHO POSSESS THE WILL TO CHANGE THE ENDING, BUT LACK THE MEANS TO SURVIVE THE BEGINNING."
"So," Tony said, a smirk returning to his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We're the 'Plan B' for the universe? The Hail Mary pass?"
"We are the creators of a new path," Aryan added. "The Fool provides the stage and the tools. What we perform upon it is up to us. The forces that want our world to fall are already moving. If we want to stand against them, we'll need the kind of power that doesn't exist in our history books."
Aryan stepped forward, gesturing to himself. "You may call me 'The World.' I was the first invited. Every first Monday of the month, at 2 PM your time, we meet here. Perhaps, to continue our conversation, you should all introduce yourselves first."
Tony spread his hands wide. "I'm Tony Stark. I build things, I pay for things, and I'm currently wondering if I left the stove on in California. Nice to meet you, silhouettes."
The name 'Tony Stark' hung in the air for exactly one second. Then, the air detonated.
A violent eruption of scarlet energy hissed out from the smallest silhouette across the table. It was pure grief. The grey fog turned blood red as the girl's silhouette lunged forward, though an invisible force kept her pinned to her stone seat.
"You," she snarled, the word dripping with a venom that made Tony flinch. "Murderer."
Tony nearly tipped his chair over. "Whoa! Hey! Murderer? That's a bit strong for a first date, don't you think? What did I do? Overcharge you for a gun?"
"You destroyed my family!" the girl screamed, her voice cracking with a pain so raw it was almost a physical thing. "You killed my parents!"
Tony's defensive reflex kicked in. "Look, kid, I sell weapons to the U.S. military. I don't pick the targets. I don't start wars! If you have a grievance, take it up with the Pentagon! Don't shoot the messenger, especially when the messenger is this handsome."
Wanda's eyes flared with a glowing scarlet, the air around her beginning to crackle with unstable energy. "The messenger?" her voice trembling with a decade of buried rage. "The messenger whose name was etched into the tools of our destruction? You didn't pull the trigger, but you built the cage we were trapped in. You fed on our fear for profit, and now you stand here joking while the smell of your burning city still haunts my dreams!"
The Fool lifted a single finger. The world went silent. The scarlet energy vanished. The girl's screams were choked off as if a hand had been clamped over her mouth.
"Calm yourself," The Fool said.
The girl stilled instantly, her silhouette trembling with suppressed fury.
"SHE DOES NOT SEE YOUR FACE, TONY STARK," The Fool continued, his voice echoing from the throne but infinitely more chilling. "SHE SEES THE NAME ON THE METAL THAT TORE HER WORLD APART. WHEN WANDA WAS TEN YEARS OLD, A MORTAR SHELL STRUCK HER APARTMENT BUILDING IN SOKOVIA. HER PARENTS WERE ERASED IN A HEARTBEAT. A SECOND SHELL LANDED BESIDE HER BED, INCHES FROM HER FACE AND THAT OF HER TWIN BROTHER. IT DID NOT EXPLODE."
Tony felt a chill that had nothing to do with the fog, a cold that started in the pit of his stomach and spread through his veins.
"FOR TWO DAYS," The Fool whispered, and the whisper was louder than a scream, "SHE AND HER BROTHER STARED AT A SINGLE WORD ETCHED INTO THE CASING OF THE SHELL THAT WAS MEANT TO KILL THEM: STARK."
Tony went completely silent. The snarky comeback died in his throat. The easy deflection and the practiced arrogance, It all crumbled to dust. He looked toward the trembling silhouette across the table. For the first time in his life, Tony realized that the Stark legacy wasn't about stock prices, magazine covers, or weapon expos. It was about a little girl and her brother, staring at that name while trapped in the rubble, waiting for it to kill them.
"...I didn't know," Tony said, his voice hoarse, stripped of all its usual bravado. "I... I will investigate. If that was my name, if it was my bomb, I'll find out who sent it. I'll give you an answer, kid. I promise."
Aryan stepped back into the conversational void, sensing the need to shift the mood before the atmosphere became too grim for business.
"As I was saying," Aryan said, his tone professional, a splash of cold water on the raw emotion. "This is a place of exchange. Since Mr. Stark has so graciously introduced himself, perhaps the rest of you would like to follow? Or should we move straight to the catalog?"
As he spoke, translucent panels materialized before them, hovering in the air, glowing with a soft light that defied the laws of physics. Tony Stark leaned in, his eyes darting across the scrolling data. His guilt and shock had been momentarily replaced by a much more familiar sensation, professional curiosity.
T'Challa reached out, his fingers brushing the translucent panel. He scanned all the entries, his eyes narrowing as he processed the impossible list of abilities and powers displayed before him.
"I am T'Challa, son of T'Chaka, Crown Prince of Wakanda," he began, his voice a resonant bass that commanded the room. "I find the contents of this... 'catalog' to be highly improbable."
"I am Wanda," the girl whispered, her voice still shaky with unshed tears. "Wanda Maximoff… From Sokovia."
"Alright, 'The World,'" Tony said, pointing a finger at the list of biological enhancements. "I'm looking at this 'Perfect Super Soldier Serum.' Fifty-five million dollars for the dose. It sounds like a sales pitch from a guy selling snake oil in a back alley."
Aryan leaned back slightly in his chair. "I had the same doubts when I first arrived, Mr. Stark. But in this castle, the 'merchandise' is as real as the stone you're sitting on."
T'Challa spoke, his gaze shifting from the panel to Tony's silhouette. "In my country, we have our own ways of enhancing a warrior. But the scope of this... it is beyond anything in our records. Mr. Stark, you are a man of science. Do you truly believe a mere interface can bypass the laboratory?"
Tony snorted. "In a room where a guy is sitting on a throne of literal primordial fog and a girl just tried to kill me with her feelings? Yeah, I'm willing to entertain the possibility that my chemistry textbook is a little outdated. But fifty-five million for the dose? That's a hell of a leap of faith."
Aryan nodded. "As you said, it isn't cheap."
Tony looked across the table at T'Challa. "Tell you what, Your Highness," Tony said, a manic grin spreading across his face. "I'll take the plunge. If I wake up tomorrow morning back in my workshop and this was all a dream, at least I'll know what a fifty five million dollar hallucination feels like. But if it's real? I want the full package. I'm buying."
T'Challa inclined his head slowly, a gesture of profound gravity. "If the Crown of Wakanda hesitates while a private citizen acts, then the Crown is unworthy. I will also commit to the full transition. Fifty five million."
Tony cleared his throat, trying to regain some of his usual swagger. "Great. Now that we've decided, how exactly do I buy the 'Captain America' starter pack without my CFO having an aneurysm and asking why I spent fifty-five million on 'magic fog juice'?"
"The funds are deducted from accounts you already control," Aryan explained coolly. "The transaction is as untraceable as this room."
"Terrifyingly efficient," Tony muttered, then shrugged. "I like it."
With a shaky finger, Tony tapped the glowing panel. He watched as a total of $55,000,000 vanished from a private account he kept for exactly this kind of impulsive expenditure. T'Challa followed suit, the immense wealth of a hidden nation moving silently through the ether.
T'Challa voiced the question that hung like a guillotine blade over the table. "If I purchase something here…" the Prince's voice was low, "…can it be taken back?"
Aryan's gaze was calm. "Yes."
The word hit the stone table like a lead weight. Tony's fingers, which had been about to tap another icon, froze mid-air.
"At any time," Aryan continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "The power granted through this place remains… conditional."
"You mean it can be revoked," Tony whispered, the words barely audible.
"Yes."
Tony exhaled, a bitter sound. "Great. So even omnipotence comes with a 'terms and conditions' page that nobody reads. I knew there was a catch. There's always a remote off-switch."
"Nothing worth having is unconditional," Aryan met his gaze. "But do not mistake the nature of the bond. The power you acquire here is not borrowed from the throne. It is not siphoned from The Fool, nor is it sustained by his will."
"Then why the leash?" Tony snapped, his defensive genius flaring at the implication of control. "If it's mine, it's mine. End of story. Unless he's holding the puppet strings."
Aryan turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the indistinct outline of the throne in his peripheral vision. "Imagine the universe," he said, his voice becoming almost hypnotic. "Endless, filled with stars beyond counting. The power you acquire here, the strength in your veins, the secrets in your mind is one such star. It is yours to command."
"And Him?" Tony whispered, nodding toward the throne.
"He is the cosmos that contains it," Aryan replied.
A profound understanding dawned on T'Challa's face. "So even if we took everything available," he said, "it would not diminish Him."
"Not even slightly," said Aryan. "You could drain every panel dry, exhaust every possibility in this hall, and The Fool would remain unchanged. Stars matter a great deal to those of us who live among them, but to the cosmos? A star is but a flicker in the dark."
"So... no puppet strings?" Tony asked, still suspicious.
"No," Aryan said. "Loyalty is not required here. Respect is sufficient. Power gained here does not make you an extension of the throne. It makes you… visible to it."
A bitter sound escaped Tony's lips. "Yeah. That's somehow worse. It's like being a mouse that suddenly caught the cat's eye."
But for Wanda, the grief was shifting into a different kind of weight. She watched T'Challa and Stark as they looked over the entries, discussing the terms of buying powers. She looked at the translucent panel, then down at her own trembling hands.
Wanda remained pale, a ghost at the feast. In this room, she was just a girl from a ruined apartment in Sokovia with nothing to offer. To her, the catalogue was a cruel reminder that while these men could simply purchase their future, she was still the one with nothing.
Then, the throne stirred.
"YOU NEED NOT BUY ANYTHING, WANDA," The Fool said softly. "YOU JUST HAVE TO WAIT. TIME WILL LET YOU KNOW YOUR OWN WORTH."
Wanda's lip trembled as she looked up at the figure on the throne, her eyes filled with tears. These were the tears of overwhelming weight of being recognized.
In a room filled with powerful and impossible choices, this god-like entity paused just for her. He offered a kindness she did not understand. She felt a sob catch in her chest, a mixture of confusion and a fragile hope.
As a man who had spent his life being the smartest, loudest, and richest person in any room, Tony found The Fool's directness deeply unsettling. The entity hadn't spoken to him.
He chose her and the thought was a bitter pill to swallow. That means he understands the architecture of who we are. He's choosing favorites.
T'Challa sat perfectly still, his posture a masterclass in royal composure. But beneath the surface, his mind was a whirlwind of strategic calculations. Only one who fears nothing can afford such kindness, a deep sense of respect beginning to override his initial suspicion. A tyrant would have demanded she kneel. A god would have punished her. But he... he simply offered her the comfort of being enough.
Aryan raised his head. "I request a private conversation with Wanda."
The grey fog surged, thickening into a solid wall that isolated the two of them into a quiet alcove. Aryan looked at the girl. She wasn't the Scarlet Witch of legends yet. She was just a shivering teenager in a thin sweater who had spent her life staring at the business end of a missile.
"I have a proposition for you, Wanda," Aryan said gently.
Since the moment Wanda was summoned into this castle, a strange sense of closeness to Aryan had taken root in her chest. She did not know who he was, yet she felt as if she knew him. It felt as if they shared a history she could not remember. This was a feeling she had never experienced before. It was a deep familiarity that made her skin prickle and her heart skip. Despite the guarded walls she built to survive, she felt seen in a way that bypassed her logic. Even with this bizarre connection humming between them, her voice remained cold because her suspicion was her only shield.
She looked up, "Everyone who comes to Sokovia has a 'proposition.' Usually, it involves a gun, a cage, or a needle. Which one is yours?"
"None of the above. I'm offering a job and if you're interested, a sanctuary." He leaned forward slightly. "I know about the apartment in Novi Grad. I know how you and Pietro share stale bread and listen for the sound of boots in the hallway. Sokovia is a graveyard waiting for the next storm, Wanda. I'm offering you a way out. A place far from the reach of the people who want to turn you into a miracle or a corpse."
Wanda's laugh was brittle, like shattering glass. "And why? You sit at this table like you belong here. Why care about a girl from a city the world forgot?"
Aryan paused. "Because I know what it's like to be seen as a 'resource' instead of a person. You aren't a tool, Wanda. You're a person. And frankly? I'd rather have you as an ally than see you broken by the people who are coming for you."
"You want to buy me," she whispered. "Just like the man in the expensive suit sells his bombs."
"I'm not buying anything," Aryan countered softly. "I'm investing in a future where you actually have a say in what happens to you. I need people I can trust and people who know the value of a second chance. Talk to your brother. Tell him there is a man named 'The World' who has a home for you both. A roof over your head, and the peace of mind to wake up without checking the sky for falling metal."
Wanda searched his face, expecting a lie. Instead, she found a quiet sincerity.
"You speak as if you've already seen my future," she said softly.
"I've seen enough of the world to know what happens to people with your kind of spark if they stay in the dark," Aryan replied with a sad smile. "Think about it. You don't have to decide today. But the next time the world feels too heavy, remember. I'm just another member of this club, but I'm a member who has a guest room."
The fog thinned, and they returned to the main table just as The Fool spoke again.
His voice filled the room. "This gathering of the stars ends here."
For Tony, T'Challa, and Wanda, the sensation of existing began to fray at the edges. Their bodies lost their substance, turning into the fog. They started to fade away from the great stone hall, their physical forms becoming translucent as reality pulled them back.
Aryan watched them go. As the last traces of his guests vanished, the god-like silhouette of The Fool began to dissolve into the grey fog. Aryan walked toward the throne slowly.
Back on the throne, Aryan let his shoulders slump. The act was exhausting. His mind flickered to the ledger of the system.
In a single afternoon, the "Tarot Club" had moved from a concept to a gold mine. Between Tony Stark's desperate leap of faith and T'Challa's royal commitment, a staggering $110 million had been siphoned from the coffers of the world's elite and converted into the metaphysical currency of the fog.
"Money truly is the greatest superpower," he whispered to the shadows.
He opened the system panel in his mind, his eyes bypassing the Epsilon and Delta tiers, landing on a power that promised the one thing every ruler craves above all else: permanence.
[High-Speed Regeneration (Wolverine Type) — $100,000,000]
The price was nearly his entire afternoon's profit but the security it offered was absolute. His body on the throne jerked as a torrent of savage energy flooded his veins. It was an untamed inferno.
Inside his body, he felt the change on a fundamental level. If his heart were to be pierced, it would beat again. If his skin were torn, it would knit itself back together before the blood could hit the floor.
He looked at the two lingering echoes of the transactions. The $55 million from Stark and T'Challa. With a thought, he reached out through the dimensional threads that now connected Sefirah Castle to the physical bodies of the two men.
He projected the perfect blueprint of the Super Soldier Serum directly into their Souls.