"Recently, the world’s oceans have been experiencing strange changes."
"Eyewitnesses claim to have seen groups of whales—covered in armor."
"Marine life is behaving abnormally, and tropical fish have been spotted near Greenland."
"Global sea levels are shifting drastically. Experts attribute it to the moon’s tidal forces."
Despite the flurry of scientific explanations, something about the changes felt... off.
Even if the climate was warming, how could tropical fish possibly survive in Arctic waters?
Something unnatural was unfolding.
And Gene Mason was watching it all from behind his countless neural eyes.
Inside his cognitive core, Gene had been running simulations to upgrade his space armor. But the moment Red Queen’s voice echoed through his system, he paused the process.
"The oceans are shifting," he muttered. His V-shaped eyepiece glowed ominously as data surged through his neural network.
King of Atlantis. Mutant. Sovereign of Earth’s oceans.
A hundred-year-old monarch with the rage of youth in his heart. Though he still bore a noble restraint, the devastation Galactus had unleashed upon the ocean floor had shaken that restraint to its core.
Gene’s processors whirred. The conclusion was clear.
Namor wants retribution.
With a casual shrug, Gene spoke aloud, "Just a minor skirmish. Deploy the Blade Unit and S.W.O.R.D.’s field agents when it begins."
After battling Galactus, Gene hardly saw Namor as a threat. An Atlantean mutant with a trident? Child’s play.
With the situation marked as a low-priority alert, Gene resumed refining the armor’s internal configuration.
But another signal suddenly interrupted—urgent, and familiar.
Gene offloaded the calculation tasks to his optical computers, then, in a golden flash, teleported from the Skynet Base to the headquarters of S.W.O.R.D.
Doom was already waiting, his cape billowing slightly in the artificial breeze.
Gene, anticipating the conversation, spoke first. "You and Strange are both obsessed with magic. But what if magic could be fused with what we already possess—technology? Imagine what we could create."
Doom’s expression flickered, something like excitement breaking through his usually cold façade.
Unlike Strange, Doom had no formal training. His mastery of magic came from the scraps left in his mother’s gypsy grimoires—powerful, but fragmented. Systematic knowledge had always eluded him.
Gene’s words hit like thunder.
"You mean... you can program magic?"
A whole new world had just opened before Doom’s eyes.
As Gene spoke, the arcane patterns carved into his synthetic skin pulsed to life. A golden magic disk formed in his palm, shifting, twisting, morphing with each motion of his fingers.
"Programming magic is more adaptable—and far more efficient."
The disk flickered through an array of forms, from weapon schematics to binding glyphs. Doom stared, awestruck.
"I’ll leave it at that for now," Gene concluded. "If you have questions, come back anytime."
Doom gave a slow, respectful nod. The demonstration had left him overwhelmed, the kind of knowledge that would take months—years—to fully digest.
But it was exactly what he had hoped for.
Elsewhere, far from the clean order of Gene’s labs, another Chapter of chaos was beginning.
Baron Strucker, the last remnant of Hydra’s true bloodline, stood in the shadows of a forgotten castle.
Unlike the twisted Hydra that had ignited World War II, Strucker clung to the original ideology—a dark, esoteric cult that believed in preparing Earth for the return of their god.
And now, after years of secrecy, sacrifice, and science, Strucker had succeeded.
The Earth trembled with sudden bursts of energy. Space itself bent and tore near the planet’s surface.
From a distant, alien world, their "god" had returned.
But something was wrong.
Strucker watched uneasily as the so-called god sat motionless on a worn velvet couch, hollow-eyed, expressionless.
He matched the ancient records exactly—his physical form identical to the depictions preserved by Strucker’s ancestors.
He hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival. He didn’t move. He didn’t demand. He only consumed.
And what he consumed was not food.
"Bring the offering," Strucker ordered coldly.
A pair of terrified subordinates dragged a man toward the god and threw him at his feet.
The god blinked once.
A sound, like buzzing.
Tiny, bee-like creatures erupted from beneath his skin, swarming toward the victim.
The man’s scream barely lasted three seconds before he was reduced to blood and bone.
Then, the god spoke for the first time.
His voice was low. Guttural.
Strucker’s eyes widened.
This was no myth. No symbolic god.
This was something far worse.
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