Months passed.
The world did not forget what had happened. It adapted to it.
By quiet diplomatic motion and uncontested internal vote, the territory once known as Greenland had its designation officially changed Heaven, at the request of Lord Markus Tenebris.
No debates followed.
No objections were recorded.
Tenebrism was no longer considered a fringe movement or theological anomaly. It was an institution, a rising order, recognized by seventy six governments and silently acknowledged by dozens more.
The latest census placed the number of active believers at over 800 million.
More than the entire populations of the two subdomain worlds Markus ruled in the shadows of his private realm combined.
Eden Industries did not idle.
While faith grew on Earth, infrastructure rose in the skies.
The company completed its first orbital security initiative: fifty stellar grade satellites, each housing a Reaper class plasma cannon, weapons repurposed and reforged from what was once thought to be incomprehensible alien technology.
Another fifty were under construction.
Each satellite was a paradox: a threat to Earth, and a guarantee of its protection. A sword above the clouds, suspended by a god's restraint.
When asked about the program, Eden's PR wing offered only one phrase:
"Lord Tenebris will not allow his worshippers to be endangered by alien threats."
Three cities now stood upon the soil of Heaven.
Each born through Markus's reality domination, sculpted into perfection without human error, delay, or flaw.
Lux
At Heaven's southern edge, the city of Lux rose like a psalm sung in stone.
A city reserved exclusively for worshippers, its skyline was a seamless fusion of cathedrals and healing sanctuaries. Each temple echoed a different architectural epoch. Gothic arches kissed by celestial geometry.
Dragon Priests walked the gardens in their dark robes, their presence an anointed blessing. The sick came in silence, the broken in reverence, all in hope. And many left whole.
Security and infrastructure were maintained by Magus and WL1 units. Guardian Angels were the visible face of the security. They operated in perfect discipline, in absolute harmony, immune to corruption, unmoved by fatigue.
Lux was not a city.
It was a reward.
To the west of Lux, the diplomatic hub known as Aurora Divina gleamed beneath the twilight sky.
Already, eighty five embassies stood in calculated symmetry. Designed and built to Markus's specifications. No chaos. No decay.
Here, diplomacy was conducted in quiet tones and controlled breath.
To the southeast, nestled along the coast, stood Aurea Ripa. The Golden Shore.
It was a port city, the mercantile lifeblood of Heaven. Connected by multiple rail lines to Arx Seraphim, it served as the only export node for Eden Industries with multiple sea and two airports..
Goods flowed like river water: weapons, consumer goods, pharmaceutical products, infrastructure AI clusters. And Arx Seraphim remained sealed.
No one entered. No one requested to. The understanding was unspoken. The heart of Heaven did not tolerate proximity.
Aurea Ripa, Lux, and Aurora Divina. These were the three gateways to Heaven for the rest of world.
The rest of Heaven transformed without ceremony.
Former territories, once small towns now abandoned outposts. They all been converted into perfect ecosystems. Lush forests, crystalline lakes, engineered fauna and flora untarnished by mankind.
No cities. No roads.
Just beauty, feral and protected.
A few poachers, arrogant or ignorant, ventured into these sanctified zones in search of profit.
They were captured the moment they stepped on Heaven soil.
Their 'interrogation' lasted months.
Their public executions were held in Aurea Ripa, in the open square, under the sun, a clear message to all. Each was beheaded. Human rights were for humans after all. Not for creatures in human skin. They were irrelevant to him. Especially when applied to what he considered creatures with subhuman social structures, regardless of race, color or belief.
But the construction of Heaven, its cities, its systems, its worship was not what truly held Markus's attention. That was merely infrastructure. What he had truly been waiting for… was, the story. Specifically, Thor: The Dark World. The first sign came quietly. A report out of London. Jane Foster's inexplicable disappearance into a derelict site and her sudden reappearance with fluctuating energy fields surrounding her. Markus read the findings in silence, eyes drifting toward the sky. He was contemplating if he should get the Reality stone now or let the plot continue.
As predicted, Thor arrived on Earth.
The prince came not as a soldier, nor as an envoy, but as a man chasing a woman. The romantic absurdity would have made Markus laugh if he cared about Asgard.
Odin, naturally, had advised against it. And naturally, Thor ignored him. The thought of a divine bloodline compromised by mortal infatuation was not Markus's concern. Asgard was doomed the moment Thor was born.
The drama of gods was of no interest to him. The convergence was.
Once Thor brought Foster to Asgard, the game was in motion.
Markus did not intervene. He merely observed, as the pieces fell neatly into place. The rise of Malekith. The ancient hunger of the Dark Elves. The reawakening of an old threat masquerading as destiny.
And then, it happened.
Greenwich collapsed into a theatre of war. The skies split. The realms trembled. And in the midst of it all, Malekith, ancient, arrogant, blind in ambition, wielded the Aether like a blade of black flame.
It was… amusing.
Because he never realized what the Aether was nor it was no longer his.
At the peak of alignment, just before the realms snapped into perfect convergence, Markus spent ten million Divinity points.
Quietly.
Without flourish.
And replicated the Reality Stone, atom by atom, essence by essence.
He returned to his mansion.
To his sanctum.
To silence.
He placed the true Reality Stone within his personal domain, beyond scan, beyond gods, beyond detection.
The power of the fifth Infinity Stone was now his.
And the world, once again, spun onward without understanding what had changed.
In the depths of Noctorrius Primus, time ceased.
Reality bowed.
Markus stood alone, Serpahim has already served her lord.
Before him, suspended in the air like a living wound in the fabric of existence, hovered the Reality Stone. Crimson, unstable, alive with defiance. Just like the Mind Stone, it did not submit. It seethed. It resisted in it's own way.
He raised his hand, fingers open and activated "Chrono Condensation."
And the chamber swallowed fifty years into a heartbeat.
The Reality Stone did not go quietly.
It fought him on every level.
Not with violence, but with interpretation. It twisted perception. Rewrote physics. Attempted to fracture his consciousness into multiversal fragments. One moment, Markus stood on a burning sun. The next, he was a child in a cold room. Then, a corpse beneath his own throne.
But none of it held.
None of it endured.
Markus endured.
And in the fiftieth year, as his essence eclipsed the last remaining echo of rebellion, the final shard of the Reality Stone turned, slowly, brilliantly and sank into his chest like a comet slipping beneath a still sea.
His coat rippled. The chamber lit with black and crimson tendrils. Reality bent toward him now, not against.
And with it came the evolution.
Reality Domination and Fate's Edict fractured.
Then they vanished.
Not lost, they both been absorbed. In their place rose something else. Something elegant. Something inevitable.
New Skill Gained: Veritas Rex
Passive Effects:
Absolute Reality Control: Full dominion over physical, conceptual, and metaphysical states of any being. Markus's will becomes law across every layer of existence.
Truthforge: Spoken or thought declarations are instantly binding. If he declares it, reality folds to accommodate.
Law Immunity: Immune to paradox, manipulation, reality overwrite, and divine retcons. Not merely resistant, simply immune.
Active Effects:
Narrative Rewrite: Retroactively alters outcomes or historical events. The world adjusts itself seamlessly.
Lawscript: Rewrites fundamental rules within an area. Gravity, causality, emotion, temperature, all mutable.
Manifest Fable: Summons physical constructs from myth, history, or imagination. Gods, creatures, weapons, even events.
Existence Veto: Selectively nullifies any consequence, action, or being from past, present, or possible future.
Reality Branding: Assigns metaphysical "roles" to entities. A name becomes a fate.
Markus opened his eyes slowly.
The chamber recalibrated around him. Subatomic structures aligned. Dimensional fields stilled. He looked down at his hand and murmured with quiet amusement:
Reality Domination and Fate's Eddict had served their purposes.
Veritas Rex was concise.
Regal.
Complete.
And with it, all his previous Stone granted abilities surged. They bloomed inward and outward. Threefold stronger, cleaner, sharper.
His mastery over space, his control over power became ambient destruction. His manipulation of time became a tool of artistry, not effort. His dominion over mind increased in effective area.
And yet, it was not time to act.
Not yet.
Thanos still played his clumsy game.
Markus would let the Mad Titan sacrifice Gamora. Let him bleed and cry and grasp at purpose. When the Soul Stone revealed itself, Markus would take it, as he had taken the others.
No drama. No trade.
Just inevitability.
For now… he had another errand.
He stepped forward, coat flaring with dimension shifted texture, and moved toward Asgard.
"I suppose," he said idly, "it's time to visit Loki..."
A pause.
A smirk.
"I meant Odin, of course."
He whispered the last part to himself, a private jest against a god who thought masks could hide from Veritas.
And then, more softly still, as the gate opened before him:
"Even Asgardian shieldmaidens forget their oaths, it seems. No honor left in the blood these days…"
He vanished into the stream.
The Bifrost Bridge shimmered under Asgard's pale twin moons.
Its surface, carved in ancient runes and laced with cosmic thread, rarely trembled.
Tonight, it did.
Only once.
Markus appeared.
Not with light, nor with sound. He was simply there, as if reality had remembered he was supposed to be.
Heimdall did not see it.
He could not.
Not even Heimdall, Watcher of Worlds, Guardian of the Gates, who had once claimed to see a thousand souls across the realms in the same breath saw this one arrive.
Markus stood directly behind him, arms at his back, expression pleasantly neutral.
He raised one hand and tapped Heimdall's shoulder with two fingers.
The effect was immediate.
Heimdall spun, blade in hand, his stance perfect, trained, forged by centuries of vigilance.
His golden eyes locked onto the stranger. Then up.
Markus stood easily two heads taller, his broad frame sheathed in tailored black, the cut of his coat sharp enough to wound. His muscle mass wasn't just impressive, it was deliberate. Compressed authority beneath skin and silence.
The sword stopped mid swing.
Literally.
Frozen in the air, half a meter from Markus's neck, stuck between motion and regret.
Markus smiled, unbothered.
He greeted the Guardian in fluent Asgardian, his tone warm, polished, and tinged with amused nobility.
"Heimdall, the watchful gatekeeper. A pleasure. Tell your king that a… guest has arrived."
He gestured around lazily with a single finger.
"I'm here for two reasons: First, to enjoy Asgard's brisk weather. Second… to understand why a certain shieldmaiden believes oaths are more decorative than binding."
Heimdall said nothing for a moment.
He simply stared.
Not at the presence, at the absence. He still couldn't see Markus. Not the way he saw others. There were no threads, no lifelines, no aether echoes. Just a void wearing skin and tailored charm.
He nodded once, stiffly, then gripped Hofund, the massive greatsword, and pressed it to the central socket of the Bifrost interface.
The golden ring flared.
A signal was sent.
In the Throne Room of Asgard…
'Odin' sat with effortless poise.
Guards lined the walls. The illusion was perfect. Every wrinkle, every motion, every vocal inflection.
Until the sword of Hofund lit the air behind the throne.
And the message arrived.
A whisper across divine bandwidth:
"He is here."
The illusion flickered.
Only for a second.
But enough.
The regal posture slumped. The eyes widened.
And Loki, god of mischief, thief of thrones, and actor of gods, panicked.
He stood sharply.
The scepter disguised as Odin's staff nearly clattered from his grip.
"No. No, no, no, not him. Not now."
Because Loki remembered.
He remembered the hand that had lifted him like a toy.
The being who had walked through the invasion of New York not as a defender… but as a cleanser.
Markus had arrived in Asgard.
And Loki knew, This time, he wouldn't walk away with just bruises.
He might not walk away at all.
A regiment of Honor Guard thundered down the Bifrost within minutes.
Armor gleaming, spears upright, formations perfect. Twelve warriors of Asgard, hand picked, revered, elite.
And yet, as they arrived and surrounded Markus, their presence felt more decorative than defensive.
They marched with ceremony, flanking him in formation, heads held high.
He towered over them like a walking myth among festival figurines.
One of them risked a glance upward and visibly gulped.
Markus, to his credit, was courteous.
He even adjusted his pace so they wouldn't look like they were jogging.
At the far end of the Rainbow Bridge, the Golden Palace of Asgard waited, its gates grand and ancient, its towers laced with starlight.
And on its throne, Loki waited too.
Still draped in Odin's form, still cloaked in divine glamour, still sweating beneath layers of calm.
Seconds felt like hours.
He tried to breathe slowly.
Tried to act like a god.
But his heart was hammering like a drunk dwarf on festival drums.
He gripped the throne's armrests. His palms were slick.
"He's just a guest," Loki reminded himself. "He's not here to kill you. Probably. Possibly. Hopefully."
"Maybe he just wants to gloat."
And then.. The doors opened.
Markus stepped into the throne room.
Twelve of Asgard's finest flanking him like decorative tassels.
The air shifted. Not from power but from presence.
Every servant in the hall went still. Even the wind outside held its breath.
Markus moved like architecture that had decided to walk.
His long coat flowed behind him like a second shadow, and his turquoise eyes sparkled, not with menace, but with polite anticipation.
The Honor Guard peeled away in unison, taking formation along the sidewalls.
And as he approached the throne, he spread his arms wide, the picture of warm, familiar reception.
"Odin! Old friend!" he said cheerfully, his voice ringing through the chamber like a bell in a cathedral. "How have you been since last I saw you?"
Loki, as Odin froze. His lips parted. His heartbeat skipped.
Then, just as his panic reached critical mass, a voice slipped into his mind. Calm. Playful. Disarming.
"How's your throat, Loki?"
Loki blinked. His mouth stayed open for half a second longer.
Then, realization set in. He knows.
And more importantly, He's letting me keep the charade.
Loki's face lit up with a sudden, shaky grin. His entire body eased. The tension in his shoulders broke like water over stone.
He stood from the throne, arms spreading in imitation.
"Markus!" he said with overacted joy. "I've been… good. Really."
He strode down the steps with practiced confidence, each footfall smoother than the last.
Inside, he was still panicking.
But now it was the manageable kind.
The kind where you knew the tiger in the room wasn't hungry ..yet.
Markus smirked as Loki approached.
"You've aged well," he added with mock admiration, glancing at the illusionary beard. "More regal than I remember."
Loki chuckled awkwardly. "Well, you know how it is. Diet. Meditation. Ten thousand years of wisdom."
Markus nodded.
"And lies."
Loki's grin twitched, but held.
Markus remained a guest in the Golden City.
But to call him a guest felt like labeling a storm cloud as a passing breeze.
The halls of Asgard adjusted themselves around his presence. Loki adjusted himself even harder.
To maintain control of his illusion, he had declared a week of festivities, ostensibly to honor "an old friend of the Allfather." It gave him an excuse to keep Markus entertained, to ensure the court's eyes were on the merriment and not on the slowly crumbling mask behind the throne.
Markus, for his part, was thoroughly amused.
He smiled during banquets. He complimented the wine. He leaned toward Loki with the casual audacity of someone who had lived far too long to care about thrones.
"It warms my soul," he murmured over roast boar, "to see Odin so sprightly these days. I do hope it lasts."
Loki choked slightly on his wine.
"And the decor! You've added flair to the throne room. More gold. I always suspected the Allfather had a hidden passion for pageantry."
The laughter was polite. Loki's jaw remained tense.
Meanwhile, across the city, Lady Sif had gone very still.
The words reached her like thunder carried by the wind: Markus Tenebris is in Asgard. Asgard celebrates him.
She stared blankly at the hilt of her blade, the glint of metal catching on memories.
She had once knelt before him as a warrior whose life had been returned.
He had healed her. He had healed the Warriors Three.
And in return, she had sworn herself to him. Not as a goddess or a servant. But as a shieldmaiden bound by honor.
"Should I return with Thor?" she had asked back then, when the battle ended and the skies cleared.
"You may," Markus had answered. "But I'll be waiting for your return."
That return had never come.
Asgard had descended into chaos. The Bifrost shattered. The throne challenged. And then came the war with the Dark Elves. There had been no space for oaths… and now she bore their absence like an old wound.
And now he was here.
Sif adjusted her armor and pulled her cloak tight.
"We go to the palace," she said to the others.
Fandral raised a brow. "To honor the Allfather's guest?"
Volstagg snorted. "To pray he doesn't get bored halfway through and tear the palace down with a sigh."
Hogun nodded silently.
Sif didn't answer.
She simply walked forward.
To a feast of golden wine and dancing revelry. To a palace dressed for joy but wrapped in fear.
To face the man who had saved her and now awaited her explanation.