Marvel's Strongest Mage

"Damn you, Loki!"

Thor's roar tore through the desert like thunder splitting the heavens. Lightning crackled across the head of Mjolnir as he swung it with brutal force—slamming the hammer into the side of the towering Destroyer.

The result was only a deafening metallic clang.

Mjolnir—weapon of storms, forged in a dying star—had struck true… and barely left a dent.

It didn't matter.

Thor knew what this meant now.

Loki's plan was clear.

Daniel was the only one on Earth capable of inscribing the summoning circle for the Rainbow Bridge. Without him, Thor would be trapped here. No return to Asgard. No way to reclaim his throne. No way to stop Loki from consolidating absolute power.

Kill Daniel, and the path home dies with him.

It was simple, ruthless, and effective.

The kind of plan only Loki could conjure.

But there was one flaw in that scheme.

Daniel wasn't dead.

Not yet.

Thor didn't hesitate.

With the Destroyer momentarily occupied, he tore through the air, wind screaming in his wake, and landed where Daniel had been—only to find… nothing.

No body. No blood. No ash.

Just scorched sand. And a ripple in the weave of magic itself.

Daniel had vanished.

So had the incomplete version of his own Mjolnir—the one Thor had gifted him, forged in part from the same cosmic alloy as his own hammer.

Thor blinked once.

Then grinned.

"You sly bastard…" he muttered, almost impressed.

Whatever Daniel had done, it had worked. He wasn't foolish enough to face the Destroyer in a crippled state. He'd escaped, likely by folding space around himself in that final instant. And with the chaos of the Destroyer's assault masking his magic signature, even Loki wouldn't have noticed.

He played dead—and he played it well.

Thor's grip on Mjolnir tightened.

'Good, ' Thor grinned while thinking, 'With Daniel safe, I can finally, fight without restraint.'

Mjolnir streaked back into Thor's hand with a sharp crack, arcs of lightning dancing down his arm.

He turned toward the Destroyer.

The ancient armor loomed like a silver juggernaut, molten fire pulsing from the vents in its chest and mask-like face. It had been Odin's war-suit once—a relic of the conquest years, forged from enchanted Uru and empowered to guard the most sacred vaults of the All-Father.

But Odin no longer wielded it.

Loki did.

And though Loki's grip on the armor's true power was less complete, it was still formidable. Even at partial capacity, the Destroyer was a god-killer.

Thor knew. He had sparred it during the old trials. Even then, at full strength, he'd struggled.

And now, stripped of the full extent of his theos, wielding only the hammer's strength and a portion of divine power, Thor was… diminished.

But that never stopped him before.

He stepped forward, facing the burning furnace of the Destroyer's face.

"Loki…" he called, his voice low, rough, and resolute. "My brother. So this is it, then. You've finally grown tired of shadows."

Somewhere, across the stars, seated on the obsidian throne of Asgard, Loki smirked.

He heard every word. The Destroyer's consciousness was tethered to his will.

Thor's eyes narrowed.

"You sit upon a throne you did not earn, hiding behind your tricks, sending relics to do your dirty work. Tell me—was it always your plan to rule Asgard with a puppet's hand?"

The Destroyer's helm split.

The furnace blazed open.

Thor braced himself.

But before the energy beam could fire—

He raised Mjolnir.

"Loki… I don't know where I failed you. But I still believe you can come back from this."

The beam ignited.

Thor struck back.

Hammer met destruction in midair, raw power clashing in a thunderous shockwave that shattered the dunes around them. The sky howled. Sand lifted into cyclone spirals. Magic and plasma collided.

Thor grunted and was hurled backward—a comet of golden lightning—crashing into the dunes with an earth-splitting impact.

The Destroyer advanced, steam venting from its joints like a living forge.

Then—

A scream cut through the wind.

"For Asgard!"

From the sky, a figure fell like a star.

Sif.

Her armor gleamed with a lavender sheen, chestplate scorched and dented, her braid whipping like a banner behind her.

In both hands, she gripped a two-meter-long blade, its edge glowing with divine flame.

And with one perfect, battle-born motion, she plunged the blade into the Destroyer's chest.

The sound was like a mountain cracking open.

The armor shuddered, forced to its knees, impaled by a weapon not of this world.

The sword Sif carried had no name mortals could pronounce, but it had been forged by Odin himself, an imitation of the All-Father's own god-king sword—an artifact made for one purpose: to pierce the unpierceable.

It sang as it struck metal, divine energy spilling from the wound.

Sif landed in a crouch beside the faltering giant, her eyes glowing with rage and purpose.

Though she lacked the sheer brute power of her comrades—Fandral's speed, Volstagg's strength, Hogan's precision—she had something none of them did:

The favor of Odin.

Recognized from youth as the next Queen of Asgard, she had been groomed, trained, empowered—not merely a warrior, but a goddess, bearing dominion over the land and its cycles. She had been gifted divine grace long before she reached her limits.

The sword was part of that gift.

A weapon few were ever meant to wield.

And she had just embedded it into the heart of the most dangerous relic in the Nine Realms.

The Destroyer stuttered.

Its chestplate cracked where the blade was driven. Sparks hissed into the air. The burning light inside dimmed—just for a moment.

Thor dragged himself to his feet, battered but breathing, lightning arcing along his shoulders.

He looked at Sif.

Their eyes met.

She nodded once, firm and proud.

A silent promise passed between them.

This was not just about Asgard. Not about a throne. Not even about Loki.

This was about survival. About justice. About a realm that would not fall while they still stood.

Behind them, Volstagg and the Warriors Three took position, encircling the wounded Destroyer. Their weapons gleamed. The air grew tense.

The next move… would decide everything.

And far beneath the sand, cloaked in a bubble of compressed space, Daniel stirred.