Marvel's Strongest Mage

Daniel didn't understand why Mjolnir chose him.

And neither did Loki.

Out in the rain-scoured desert of New Mexico, the storm was still raging. The wind howled across the barren sands, and the deluge hammered down like an angry god's drumbeat. Lightning spiderwebbed the sky, illuminating the silhouette of a man standing tall amidst it all—Daniel, Thor's Hammer in hand.

On a ridge above the wrecked S.H.I.E.L.D. base, Loki watched in silence, drenched, seething.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He had lifted the hammer. That alone was a miracle. But Daniel—a mortal—had done more than that.

He commanded it.

Why? How?

Was Odin's grip on the hammer truly broken? Had the All-Father's enchantment weakened to such an extent that it now recognized anyone—even a sorcerer of Midgard?

Or was there something deeper at work?

Loki's thoughts swirled darker than the clouds above. He had touched the hammer. Daniel had wielded it. Thor was still missing. The world was sliding into chaos.

However, Loki refused to be outplayed.

This storm isn't over.

In a blink, his figure vanished into the night.

Inside the ruined base, the storm's fury echoed off the fractured walls. Most agents were still unconscious, but two figures stood awake and alert beneath the shattered ceiling—Daniel and Stark.

Stark broke the silence first, voice crackling with curiosity and veiled tension.

"So… Danie Reinhardt, huh?"

Daniel didn't flinch at the use of his full name. Stark had likely pulled his file the moment they'd met—back before the Expo, before any of this madness had begun.

He gave a small shrug.

"You already knew who I was."

"Nick Fury's got a way of collecting secrets," Stark said, tone clipped. "Let me guess—you came here for that hammer?"

Daniel glanced at Mjolnir in his grip, then met Stark's gaze with a cool nod.

"Half of the reason, yes. My magic—rune-based—draws from Norse traditions. I wanted to see it for myself. I didn't expect it to… respond."

Stark's expression didn't budge. He was already two moves ahead—calculating risks, cross-referencing everything with Fury's database. Daniel didn't bother pretending otherwise.

They know something. Maybe not the full truth, but enough to make me dangerous.

He remembered the war. Remembered World War II. That one brief confrontation with Nick Fury before vanishing into history. He'd looked different then—his face weathered by another life, another timeline.

Now, he wore a younger body. A different name. A new origin.

And still… the past was hunting him.

Before he could speak again, the hammer in his hand twitched.

Then—launched itself forward.

Mjolnir rocketed across the room with a thunderous crack, smashing into what should have been empty space—only to collide with crossed daggers mid-air.

Loki appeared, caught off guard.

The impact hurled him backwards, crashing him through the building's wall and into the desert beyond. Stone shattered, and his body vanished into the night.

Stark was already moving, voice low as he spoke into his internal mic.

"Jarvis. Full-spectrum holographic scan. Pattern recognition, thermal, vibrational—track that bastard."

He didn't need to understand magic. He just needed the rules. And Jarvis would provide them.

Stark might not have Loki's power—but he had something more dangerous: consistency and adaptation.

But Loki was never just one step ahead—he was already back.

He emerged behind Daniel in a flash of mist, blade racing toward his spine.

Daniel spun, Mjolnir already reversing direction—but it hit nothing. Just another illusion.

Another Loki appeared to his left.

Then his right.

Then above.

They're everywhere.

Daniel threw Mjolnir skyward. It spun in tight orbit around him, sparking lightning from the clouds. A ring of crackling thunder formed in its wake, a barrier of electricity that lashed out in every direction.

The rain surged.

Lightning danced.

And Loki—all dozen of him—stepped into the circle with drawn blades, closing in.

Daniel's eyes narrowed.

Now.

With a twist of his wrist, Mjolnir's path widened, forming a stormwheel of divine energy. Thunder shrieked as the rotating hammer cut through illusions one by one—each Loki bursting into vapor.

Then Stark shouted.

"Above you!"

Daniel looked up just in time.

The real Loki was descending, blade aimed at Daniel's skull, cutting through the very core of the storm.

Daniel swung.

Too slow.

The blade plunged downward—pierced through Daniel's head—through bone, through—

No.

It wasn't Daniel.

It was an illusion.

Loki landed hard, his blade buried in nothing. The real Daniel had already stepped out of phase, reappearing ten feet away.

This time, the trap had reversed.

All the lightning gathered in an instant.

One target.

One location.

Mjolnir snapped upward, pulling the entire storm's wrath into a single point above Loki's head.

A bolt of pure divine judgment fell like the hand of god, swallowing Loki in a blinding cascade of white.

Then—nothing.

He was gone.

Daniel stared at the scorched ground, wary.

And then—

A cold whisper passed behind his ear.

"Too slow, sorcerer."

A dagger kissed his throat.

Daniel reacted instantly, his palm snapping up—a blade of runed light flashing from his fingers. He spun, hurling Mjolnir back into rotation around him, forming a barrier of death. Stark mirrored his tension, both palms up, repulsors primed.

But Loki didn't strike.

He vanished again.

And this time, he stayed gone.

Only when agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. began to stir did the tension finally ease.

The first to rise was Hawkeye—groaning, confused, bow drawn before he even remembered where he was. He saw Daniel and instinctively fired.

Bad move.

The arrow shattered against Mjolnir.

Stark raised a brow.

"Relax, Legolas. He's on our side."

Within minutes, the room filled with groggy agents, and dazed medical staff.

Some didn't wake up. A quiet moment passed for the fallen.

They regrouped in a smaller conference room. Clean. Stable. Neutral.

Across from Daniel sat Agent Coulson, flanked by Stark and a handful of quiet techs. The others had been dismissed.

"Mr. Daniel," Coulson said gently. "I have to ask. What do you plan to do with Thor's hammer?"

Daniel reached out, lifted Mjolnir again, and placed it carefully on the table between them. It hummed softly—silent thunder in slumber.

Then he looked up, calm, steady.

"That's not Thor's Hammer," he said.

Stark blinked.

Coulson frowned. "I… I'm sorry?"

Daniel gave a faint smile.

"This is just a tool. Thor's Hammer isn't defined by the metal or the magic. It's the will behind it. The person who holds it."

He leaned back in his seat.

"Right now, that's not me. So at best? This is a replica. A placeholder."

Coulson looked stunned.

Stark, however, slowly nodded—eyes narrowing in understanding.

"You're saying… the hammer's only real if Thor holds it."

Daniel met his gaze.

"Exactly."

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