The Mirror Dimension shattered like smashed glass, collapsing in midair.
Twisted cityscapes and inverted skyscrapers dissolved into countless motes of raw energy, fading silently.
Strange and Mordo fell out of the breaking void, crashing heavily onto the Sanctum's cold marble floor.
Strange coughed up blood as he struggled to his feet. The Cloak of Levitation was torn in several places, his face bruised—but his eyes were harder now. Brighter. He had won—on his own terms.
Mordo, however, was finished.
He knelt on the ground, hands braced against the marble, hollow eyes sweeping over the devastation. The Sanctum was in ruins. Bottomless craters pocked the walls—scars left by Levi's clash with Dormammu. The floor split with jagged fissures, as though the earth itself had groaned in agony.
At last, his gaze locked onto the blood-soaked man kneeling nearby, golden vapor rising faintly from his body.
That man was a walking catastrophe.
His very existence was the greatest blasphemy against order.
"Do you see now, Strange…" Mordo's voice rasped like rusted iron scraping together. "This is the price. The price of abusing power."
He slowly stood, the last trace of struggle and grief vanishing from his eyes, leaving only chilling calm.
"The Ancient One stole power from the Dark Dimension to prolong her life. You toy with the Time Stone for victory." His trembling hand pointed at Levi. "And him—if one day he becomes something like Dormammu—this world will face catastrophe."
A twisted, sorrowful smile crossed his face—pitying Strange, pitying himself, pitying a world treated as a playground by sorcerers.
Then his body collapsed to the floor.
Lifeless.
Strange opened his mouth—but no words came.
He dragged his exhausted body toward Levi. Watching the wounds that should have been fatal knit closed at impossible speed, Strange's expression grew complicated—gratitude, awe, and a faint sense of helplessness.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I… I need time. The Ancient One's death. Mordo's fall… I need time to…"
He lowered his gaze to the Eye of Agamotto resting against his chest, confusion clouding his features. He had won—but felt as though he'd lost everything.
"Time?" Levi pushed himself upright. As he moved, his wounds scabbed, healed, and shed, revealing flawless skin beneath. He exhaled a metallic breath and fixed Strange with eyes sharp as freshly forged blades.
"Time is exactly what you don't have."
He stepped closer. Close enough for Strange to catch the scent of smoke and ozone clinging to him.
"You think Sorcerer Supreme is some honorary title? A Nobel Prize for magic?" Levi's lips curved in faint mockery. "It's a shackle. The moment the Ancient One handed it to you, your grief, your confusion, your personal feelings—they became luxuries you can't afford."
He tapped the glowing green stone on Strange's chest.
"Don't let your emotions become someone else's opening."
The words hit like ice water.
Strange straightened.
He was Sorcerer Supreme now. No time to grieve. No right to hesitate.
He inhaled deeply, vulnerability fading, composure returning—the surgeon reborn.
"I understand."
"Good."
Levi nodded, then gestured toward the oily black stains of lingering dark energy across the Sanctum. "I'll need samples of Dormammu's residue for research. That acceptable?"
Strange managed a weary smile. "Of course. Better you take it than leave it here."
"Deal."
Levi extended his hand. Space warped.
The stubborn Dark Dimension remnants were forcibly peeled from walls and floor, hissing as they gathered into his palm. He compressed and purified the chaotic energy with spatial force until it condensed into a pitch-black crystal no larger than a fingernail—so dark it seemed to devour light.
He pocketed it casually and turned to leave.
"Hey!" Strange called. "Where are you going?"
"Home. Sleep."
Levi waved without turning back. His body flickered like unstable static—and vanished.
Strange stood alone in the ruined Sanctum, staring at the mess and the first light of dawn beyond the broken window.
He sighed.
---
Underground Base, New York
Levi sat cross-legged on the metal floor, the black crystal placed before him.
He closed his eyes.
Information about his new ability—[Dimensional Invasion]—unfolded like a tidal wave in his mind.
S-Rank ability. Enormous potential.
He could tear off a fragment of his own power and will, projecting it into other universes like launching a probe. That fragment would automatically construct an avatar adapted to the local laws.
The avatar would act independently. Everything it saw, learned—even abilities it copied—would sync back to him via a form of quantum entanglement beyond space-time.
A perfect power for a transmigrator.
But the limitation was obvious.
The avatar's initial strength depended entirely on how much power he tore from himself.
At his current quasi-Skyfather level, even ripping off ten percent of his strength would produce an avatar capable of… maybe punching apart a satellite.
Satellite-tier.
Levi frowned.
That was weaker than Carol in her early Binary state. Sending something like that into high-tier universes would be suicide.
He decided to test it.
Focusing inward, he latched onto a sliver of his own power—and pulled.
Agony ripped through him, as if a piece of his soul had been torn free.
The air before him distorted. A translucent figure formed—his own outline, blurred and unstable like rippling water.
He felt the mental link clearly. He could control it like a limb. See through its eyes.
But it was weak.
Pathetically weak.
He commanded it to pick up a glass of water.
The spectral hand passed through the glass without resistance.
He tried to make it speak. Only static crackled.
"So the principal's too thin," Levi muttered.
He recalled the fragment. The avatar dissolved into light and reintegrated, the soul-tearing pain slowly fading.
He understood now.
This required patience.
Only once he fully stepped into Skyfather-tier would each torn fragment carry enough weight to function as a true asset rather than disposable trash.
He set aside the tempting prospect of multiversal harvesting and picked up the black Dormammu crystal instead.
Perhaps the pure devouring corruption of the Dark Dimension could inspire a new, unconventional path for his multi-law fusion.
---
Malibu, California
Tony Stark's mansion felt suffocating.
Pepper Potts stood in business attire, files in hand, exhaustion written across her face.
"Tony, you haven't slept in three days," she pleaded. "The Battle of New York is over. You have to move on."
"I can't!"
Tony spun around, eyes bloodshot.
"You didn't see it, Pepper! The wormhole—the endless alien army! We almost died! I'm just a man in a metal suit! How am I supposed to protect you? Protect this world?"
His voice cracked with panic and bone-deep fear.
"So you lock yourself in here and build more suits like a madman?" Pepper gestured at the rows of pristine armor—Mark VII through Mark XLII—soulless sentinels awaiting inspection.
"They're not suits!" Tony shouted. "They're security! They're the solution!"
The argument ended badly.
Pepper left, disappointed.
Tony collapsed onto the couch. The moment he closed his eyes, he saw the endless void of the wormhole and the lifeless gray faces of the Chitauri.
He bolted upright, gasping.
"JARVIS," he croaked.
"I'm here, sir."
"Deploy… any suit. Just—have it sit with me."
"Deploying Mark 42."
Moments later, the red-and-gold armor clumsily descended into the living room and dropped onto the couch with a heavy thud, crushing the leather cushions.
Tony turned sideways, curling up like a wounded child, resting his head against the cold metal chestplate.
The arc reactor's blue glow pulsed softly—like a fragile, anxious heartbeat.
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