Marvel's Strongest Mage

Thor was dead.

Or so it seemed.

Smoke coiled around the battlefield, swirling in the wake of the blast. The beam of destruction had ripped through the desert like a blade of godfire, vaporizing everything in its path—including what appeared to be the broken body of the Thunder God.

But Thor wasn't dead.

Loki realized it first.

Perched upon the Throne of the All-Father in the halls of Asgard, Loki's eyes narrowed. He had grown up beside Thor. He knew his strength. His endurance. His stubborn refusal to die. And more than anything, he knew his brother's dramatic flair. Thor wouldn't die like that. Not without a fight. Not without the sky mourning his name.

The Destroyer Armor took another heavy step forward. The furnace in its chest surged, glowing white-hot, and then, with a mechanical WHHRRRMMM, it fired again.

The beam tore across the sand, and in an instant, the body that had been Thor's—or seemed to be Thor's—was reduced to dust. Nothing left but scorched glass and ash.

But Loki caught it. A detail. Subtle. Precise. The beam hadn't hit the body directly. Only the ripple of its power had touched it—and yet it had disintegrated entirely. No Asgardian body, not even mortal-wounded, was that fragile.

Illusion.

Not even Stark, hovering above in his armor, or Sif and the Warriors Three below, caught it right away. They stood stunned, hearts wrung tight, believing they'd just watched Thor and Daniel fall together.

Then the Destroyer turned.

Its furnace flared again. Another beam ignited and hurtled toward the fallen Mjolnir, which lay inert in the sand.

CLANG!

The beam struck something solid.

Or rather, someone. A figure stood between the Destroyer and the hammer, Mjolnir raised high. The beam struck the divine weapon and split harmlessly around it in a flare of sparks and thunder.

Thor.

Alive. Whole. Not a scratch on him.

And standing behind him, in the distortion of the fading mirage, was Daniel.

Another hammer in his hand.

Stark's voice came through the comm, breathless. "Illusion. That was an illusion."

Sif let out a slow breath. The warriors beside her nodded grimly. They had doubted the earlier scene, even if only quietly. Thor was many things—impulsive, reckless, infuriating—but weak was not one of them. The Destroyer might kill him, sure, but not in a single beam. Not without resistance. Not without shaking the sky.

Daniel's eyes met Sif's. A thin, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Then thunder flashed.

The hammer in his hand sparked with blue-white lightning. And in a blink, Daniel was gone—replaced by another Thor. Silver armor, crimson cape, storm-glow eyes. Another God of Thunder. An illusion, yes. But a convincing one. The kind that could fool more than just the eye.

The real Thor stepped forward, standing beside Daniel's illusion. Two Thors now. Both wielding hammers. Both aglow with divine might. Both bracing themselves.

And then they ran.

Side by side, they surged forward through the sand, hammers raised against the oncoming beam of the Destroyer. Energy clashed against divine metal in a shower of sparks. Lightning howled around them.

If Loki had been on Earth in that moment, Daniel would never have dared such a gambit. But from Asgard, controlling the Destroyer remotely through the Eternal Spear and the All-Father's Throne, Loki's reach was limited.

Even so, Daniel knew the truth.

The Destroyer was not just another weapon.

It was terror incarnate.

In ages past, when frost giants fled and fire demons dared not speak Odin's name, they feared the Destroyer. It had leveled armies. Burned cities to ash. Its legacy was carved in ruins.

And this? This was barely a tenth of its power.

But still, the two Thors pushed forward, bracing their hammers against the tide.

Until the Destroyer moved.

Its massive arms snapped out like coiled iron serpents, reaching for both hammers at once.

Daniel's mind screamed.

"Back! Now! He's going for the hammers!"

They broke off instantly, darting to either side, just as the Destroyer's furnace surged again and swept the battlefield in a wave of fire and ruin.

From afar, Stark landed beside Sif and the others, removing his helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

"Can that thing even hold Mjolnir?" he asked, eyes glued to the clash.

Sif hesitated. "I don't know."

But Vostagg did.

"Yes," the old warrior said grimly. "I've seen it. Long ago. In the old wars, the Destroyer wielded Mjolnir more than once."

The revelation struck hard. The thought that even Thor could lose his sacred weapon—that the very symbol of his strength could be turned against him—was more terrifying than any beam.

And if the Destroyer took both hammers?

Thor might fall. And Daniel...

Daniel was powerful, yes. Even without Mjolnir, his illusions and spells gave him a terrifying edge. But Mjolnir enhanced him. Extended him. Let him tap into divine realms not his own.

Lose that, and he could still fight. But he'd need to end it fast.

Then came the copies.

Phantoms of Thor burst into being, dozens of them encircling the Destroyer. Real, illusory, indistinguishable. Hammer-wielders cloaked in lightning and war cries. The battlefield became a blur of motion, sound, and storm.

The Destroyer hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then it unleashed hell.

The beam swept out like a sun flare. The illusions burned away like smoke. One by one, Thors vanished in bursts of static and dissipating magic. Until only two remained.

Two Thors.

Indistinguishable. Identical.

The Destroyer turned toward one.

Loki smiled, watching from afar.

He didn't need to guess.

He would destroy one.

And if it turned out to be the real Thor?

So be it.

In a flash of light and fire, the Destroyer lunged—and aimed straight for the real one.