The underground laboratory was silent except for the low hum of running equipment.
Paul's eyes were locked onto the holographic projection, his pupils reflecting a stream of eerie blue data. Under his precise control, the barrel of an antimatter atom gun, mounted at the end of a sophisticated robotic arm, was aimed at an irregular shard of metal—a fragment of Uru from the Destroyer.
At the tip of the barrel, an almost imperceptible point of light pulsed in microsecond intervals, like an invisible chisel meticulously stripping away the ancient runes solidified on the metal's surface.
These were the remnants of the divine markings Odin had bestowed upon his artifacts, brimming with the overwhelming power of Asgard. Yet, to Paul, they were now nothing more than "pollutants" obstructing the march of science.
Zzzzt…
Another faint rune dissolved under the annihilation energy, scattering into harmless photons in the air.
The process was tedious, lengthy, and utterly draining.
"Sir, your heart rate has remained above 120 for three consecutive hours. Your body temperature is 37.8°C. A fifteen-minute break is advised."
Baymax's gentle voice came from behind him, followed by a pair of soft robotic hands offering a glass of water.
Without turning or blinking, Paul dismissed it.
"Quiet, Baymax. Record the data."
This wasn't mere cleansing—it was an overwrite of civilizations. He was using the universal principles he understood to erase the so-called "divine rules" he did not.
Ever since he had brute-forced his way into harnessing the first usable traces of magic from the Uru metal via exhaustive trials, the final door of his grand plan had cracked open.
Now, he intended to tear it down entirely.
Five days and nights passed.
When the last of Odin's runes disintegrated under the antimatter beam, the Destroyer fragment seemed to shed its divine shroud, revealing the pristine, primal metallic luster of pure Uru.
It was no longer a relic—just raw material awaiting reinvention.
"Perfect."
Paul's voice was hoarse, yet brimming with exhilaration.
Without pause, he issued his next order.
"Activate Magnetic Crucible No. 3, inject inert gases, and mold the Uru into a core reaction chamber. Simultaneously, load Design Scheme 72 in the virtual lab and commence final simulations."
The moment he spoke, the lab came alive.
Multiple robotic arms sprang into motion, carefully transporting the precious Uru into a massive ring-shaped device. Blinding plasma arcs ignited instantly, the searing heat constrained by an invisible magnetic field at the furnace's heart.
Paul had already turned to another console.
Before him, an intricately complex three-dimensional schematic spun rapidly—a spherical core studded with entirely new runes, each design a fusion of quantum physics' precision and the uncanny elegance of the occult.
This was his true goal: a Pym Particle Fabrication Device.
Not Hank Pym's discovery reliant on the particles themselves, but a foundational breakthrough—using Uru empowered by magic to forcibly warp space, conjuring subatomic particles capable of compressing matter.
This would be Paul Stark's own Pym Particles.
When the molten Uru core was installed into the main assembly, Paul took a deep breath.
Rising, he approached the massive machine, resembling some arcane altar, and pressed his palm against a cold verification panel.
"Baymax, initiate magic infusion. Start at 0.01%."
"Acknowledged, sir."
Huum—
A deep resonance thrummed, as though arising from the earth's depths.
The newly engraved runes lit up one by one in a pale blue glow, writhing like awakened serpents along the core's channels before converging at a single point.
The machine trembled faintly. The air thickened with the sharp tang of ozone and static.
Energy readings on the console skyrocketed.
"Warning—Unstable energy output! Spatial folding detected in core!"
"Warning—Magnetic containment weakening! Risk of leakage!"
Klaxons blared across the lab.
"Sir, the system is approaching critical thresholds. Immediate shutdown advised." For the first time, urgency colored Baymax's voice.
"Don't stop!" Paul's eyes burned crimson, locked onto the intensifying glow. "Divert all reserves! Push containment to 150%! Crush it!"
He was staking everything on his calculations.
At the edge of science, every great leap carried the risk of annihilation.
After a beat of silence, Baymax obeyed.
BOOM.
A surge of power clamped down from all sides, forcing the nearly rupturing core into submission. The violent light, compressed beyond limits, abruptly imploded inward.
All sound and light vanished.
Silence swallowed the world.
Then—
Ding.
A single, crystalline chime shattered the quiet.
Baymax's flat voice was a chorus of angels to Paul's ears.
"Subatomic spatial compression field confirmed… Particle stability achieved."
"Pym Particle fabrication: successful."
Paul's body sagged. Stumbling back, he collapsed onto the floor, his laughter building from a disbelieving chuckle into full-blown, unrestrained euphoria.
From the containment chamber, a single speck of light—smaller than dust—hovered serenely.
Paul gazed at it, then threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound echoing through the lab, raw with exhaustion, madness, and triumph.
He had done it.
He had pried open the foundations of physics with his own hands.
"Sir, congratulations." Baymax approached, extending an arm. "Initial analysis indicates 96.3% Uru depletion. Remaining reserves are insufficient for another attempt."
The laughter died.
But Paul's grin lingered.
Slowly, he rose, dusting himself off before swiping the display.
The Pym Particle schematics vanished, replaced by a nanoscale robotic blueprint—at its heart, a single, distilled rune.
His eyes blazed hotter than ever, alight with something fiercer than ambition.
"Baymax. New project: Codename 'Swarm'."
His voice was soft, edged with madness.
"I didn't go through hell for Pym Particles just to make bigger toys."
His lips curled as he tapped the screen.
"I want nano-machines—infused with runic tech, capable of scaling at will… and wielding magic."
An army.
A godslayer's army.