The world ended not in fire or ice, but in a silent, shattering scream of fractured reality.
One moment, I was Arthur Leywin, White Core mage, Lance of Dicathen, heir to the legacy of the Asuras, standing at the epicenter of a spell meant to weave the very fabric of space and time. The next, the aether I commanded with such absolute authority turned against me. It wasn't a rebellion; it was a catastrophic collapse, like a star consuming itself. The intricate, violet lattice of my spellwork imploded, and the universe tore open.
There was no light, no sound, only the visceral sensation of being unraveled. My mana core, a blazing sun within my chest, guttered and went dormant, shielded by a frantic, last-ditch surge of aether. My body was a leaf in a hurricane, pulled through a wound in existence itself.
I felt my consciousness fray at the edges. Tessia… Sylvie… Mom… Dad… The names were anchors I could no longer grasp.
Then, nothing.
---
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a violent, sensory assault.
The first thing was the smell. Not the crisp, clean scent of pine and mana-rich air, but a foul, acrid cocktail. The stench of rot, of something chemically pungent, of things burning that should not be burned. It clawed at the back of my throat, harsh and unnatural.
The second was the sound. A low, relentless rumble, like a distant avalanche that never ceased. Interwoven with it were sharp, piercing noises—blaring horns, fragmented shouts, a high-pitched whine from some unseen source. It was chaos given voice, a dissonant symphony that grated against my enhanced senses.
I forced my eyes open.
Darkness. But not the pure darkness of a moonless night. This was a grimy, oppressive shadow, cast by towering, monolithic shapes that blotted out the sky. I was lying on a cold, hard surface, nestled between two of these immense structures, in a narrow alleyway.
Pushing myself up on one elbow, I winced. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. My head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache centered on my dormant core. I was wearing my standard traveling gear—sturdy, dark-grey tunic and trousers, reinforced with minor enchantments for durability, and a high-collared cloak. The fabric was torn in several places, and a fine layer of grime coated everything.
Where…?
My mind, a strategist's mind, began to assess despite the fog of disorientation. The structures around me were not made of stone or wood. They were sheer-faced and smooth, reflecting the dim, ambient light in a way that suggested some form of treated stone or… metal? They stretched upwards, impossibly high, their tops lost in a hazy, orange-tinged gloom that passed for a sky. No stars, no twin moons of Dicathen. Just a sickly, light-polluted blanket.
This was not just another continent. This was not even the Beast Glades.
This was another world.
The realization should have been paralyzing. But years of war, of facing down eldritch horrors and traitorous Scythes, had forged in me a resilience that bordered on inhuman. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Survival was the first imperative.
With a grunt of effort, I got to my feet, leaning against the cold, slick wall for support. My body felt heavy, leaden. My internal energy was a flickering ember. The ambient mana here… it was there, but it was thin, listless, tainted. Drawing on it felt like trying to breathe through mud.
But aether… aether was different.
I closed my eyes, pushing past the pain, and reached inward. Past the dormant white core, to the deeper, more fundamental layer of my being. There, like a silent, violet nebula, was my aether core. It was stable. Diminished from the translocation, but stable. It thrummed with a familiar, profound power, connecting me to the very fabric of this reality.
A wave of relief, so potent it was almost dizzying, washed over me. I was not completely helpless.
I focused my aetheric awareness outward, not to manipulate, but to perceive. The world shifted. The grimy alley was overlaid with a shimmering tapestry of lines and currents. The flow of life—weak, frantic, and short-lived—from small vermin scuttling in the shadows. The sluggish, geological movement of the earth deep below. And the air… it was thick with invisible, chaotic emissions. Not mana, but something else. Artificial. Poisonous.
What kind of world have I fallen into?
A sharp cry, laced with genuine fear, cut through the ambient rumble from the mouth of the alley. It was followed by the sound of a struggle and gruff, demanding voices.
My instincts, honed on a thousand battlefields, kicked in before my rational mind could process the language. A predator was cornering prey.
I moved.
My body, even in its weakened state, was far beyond the peak of any normal human. I was a blur, my footsteps silent on the cracked ground. I reached the edge of the alley and peered out into a wider, dimly lit street.
The scene was both alien and grimly familiar. A young woman, dressed in thin, impractical fabric, was backed against a wall. Two larger males, clad in rough, dark clothing, were menacing her. One had her arm twisted behind her back, while the other was brandishing a small, oddly shaped piece of metal. A weapon? It looked crude, without an edge or a point.
"Just give us the bag, sweetheart, and we won't have to get ugly," one of them snarled, his voice rough.
The language was strange, guttural. But as he spoke, a faint shimmer of aether connected the sounds to my mind. My innate affinity for comprehension, a boon from my Asuran heritage and aether integration, began to parse it. The meaning filtered through, not word-for-word, but as intuitive understanding. Bag. Give. Ugly.
The woman sobbed, clutching a small pouch to her chest. "Please, it's all I have…"
Chivalry was not a concept I had learned from books in this world. It was a code etched into my soul, a legacy of my father, Reynolds Leywin. To see strength used to bully the weak was an affront to my very nature.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"Release her," I said, my voice calm but carrying an edge of absolute authority. It cut through the tense atmosphere like a knife.
The two men spun around, their eyes wide with surprise that quickly morphed into contempt. They saw a young man, probably in his late teens by their standards, dressed in what they must have considered bizarre, archaic clothing. I looked like a lost cosplayer, not a threat.
The one with the metal weapon sneered. "Piss off, kid. This ain't your business."
"You are mistaken," I replied, my aether-enhanced mind quickly adapting to the cadence of their language. "It became my business the moment you decided to act like cowards."
The second man, the one holding the woman, shoved her aside and took a step towards me, cracking his knuckles. "Looks like we gotta teach this fancy-talkin' freak a lesson."
They charged. It was a clumsy, undisciplined rush. To my eyes, they moved in slow motion, their movements telegraphed and full of openings.
I didn't need mana. I didn't even need to draw deeply on my aether.
As the first man swung his crude metal weapon, I simply moved my head a few inches to the side. The object whistled past my ear. I caught his extended arm, my grip like iron, and applied minimal pressure. A sharp crack echoed in the narrow street, followed by his scream as his wrist broke.
The second man lunged, a wild punch aimed at my face. I didn't block or dodge. I let his fist connect with my jaw.
Thud.
It was like punching a mountain. He cried out, clutching his now-shattered hand, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and primal terror.
I hadn't even flinched.
I looked at him, my gaze flat and devoid of emotion. "Leave."
They didn't need to be told twice. Scrambling, helping each other, they fled into the night, their whimpers fading into the city's rumble.
I turned to the woman. She was staring at me, her face pale, her body trembling even more violently than when she was being robbed.
"Are you harmed?" I asked, my tone softening slightly.
She just shook her head, unable to form words. Her eyes were fixed on me, not with gratitude, but with a deep, unsettling fear. She wasn't looking at her savior; she was looking at a monster.
Before I could say another word, she turned and ran, disappearing down a side street, her footsteps echoing frantically.
I stood alone in the street, the unnatural wind tugging at my cloak. The encounter had lasted less than thirty seconds, but it had told me everything I needed to know. This was a world of weak individuals, but it bred violence and fear. My strength, even a fraction of it, was so far beyond their norm that it inspired terror, not awe.
And then I felt it. A subtle, probing sensation. Not aether, not mana. It was a focused, technological pulse. My eyes scanned the surroundings, my enhanced perception picking out details an ordinary person would miss. A small, dark sphere tucked high up under a ledge, with a single, unblinking glass eye. A… camera? Some form of scrying artifact.
They were watching.
A grim smile touched my lips. So, this world had its own sentinels. Good. Perhaps I could find someone in authority. Someone who could provide answers.
But first, I needed to understand. Knowledge was power, and I was currently starved of it.
My gaze fell upon a brightly lit building across the street. Its front was a single, massive pane of clear, flawless glass—a testament to incredible artifice, even if it lacked enchantment. Inside, I could see rows and rows of… scrolls? Tall shelves stacked with colorful, rectangular objects. People moved about inside, browsing quietly.
A repository of knowledge. A library.
It was a place to start.
I walked towards the entrance, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss that made my hand twitch towards a sword that wasn't there. Stepping inside was like entering a sanctuary. The air was cleaner, temperature-controlled. The frantic noise of the city was reduced to a muted hum.
The sheer volume of information was staggering. Thousands upon thousands of books. I walked through the aisles, my fingers trailing over spines, my aether-enhanced mind absorbing titles at a glance. A History of the 20th Century. Principles of Quantum Mechanics. The World Almanac.
I pulled a large, heavy volume from a shelf—an atlas. Flipping it open, I was confronted with maps of a world utterly alien to me. Continents shaped wrong. Names that meant nothing: North America, Europe, Asia. I found the city I was in. New York. A place called the United States of America.
This confirmed it. I was not just in another country. I was on another planet, in a reality parallel to my own.
As I stood there, a deep sense of isolation, vaster than any ocean on these maps, threatened to crush me. My family, my friends, my home, my war… all were an incalculable distance away. They were either mourning me or moving on, believing me dead.
The thought sent a sharp, physical pain through my chest.
But then, I felt a different kind of disturbance. A ripple in the spatial layer of this very building. It was subtle, a skillfully crafted manipulation, but to my aether-attuned senses, it was as blatant as a shout.
Someone had just teleported in.
My head snapped up, my body coiling into a ready stance. My eyes scanned the quiet library, dismissing the ordinary civilians who were oblivious to the intrusion.
There. By a section labeled 'Metaphysics and Occult.'
A man stood, as if he had been there all along. He was tall, wearing a simple, dark blue tunic and trousers, but over it billowed a magnificent, crimson cloak that seemed to move with a life of its own. His face was stern, framed by streaks of silver at his temples, and his gaze was locked directly on me. In his eyes, I saw not fear or confusion, but a deep, analytical intensity. He saw me not as a strange youth, but as a problem. An anomaly.
He was a mage. There was no doubt. The residual energy clinging to him spoke of dimensional travel and complex spellforms. His power was different, more structured and incantation-based than my innate manipulation, but it was potent.
He took a step forward, his cloak flowing gracefully behind him. The ordinary people in the library seemed to unconsciously shift out of his path without even noticing him.
I met his gaze, my own expression neutral. I did not speak. I simply waited, my aether core beginning to spin slowly, ready to rewrite the local reality if this man proved hostile.
He stopped a dozen feet away, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he could sense the dormant power within me.
"I am Doctor Stephen Strange," he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying an authority that matched my own. "And I think you and I need to have a conversation about what you are, and why the fabric of reality screams in your presence."
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End of Chapter 1
Author's Note:
Welcome,everyone, to the start of a new journey! Arthur Leywin, stranded in the MCU. What will S.H.I.E.L.D. do when they get the footage of a kid no-selling a punch and breaking a thug's wrist without moving? How will Doctor Strange deal with a "reality warper" who doesn't use spells? The clashes are coming! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and if you're enjoying the premise, don't forget to add it to your library! Power Stones are always appreciated to help the story get discovered