Marvel's Iron Lady

The Dark Elves were not only adept with advanced technology but were also a race deeply versed in the ways of magic. As their king, Malekith, in addition to his research on the Aether, was both a skilled warrior and a powerful sorcerer.

Although the magic used by Malekith differed greatly from that of the Sorcerer Supreme, their battle was closely contested. Despite being just an avatar, the Sorcerer Supreme's power was not to be underestimated, though it represented only a fraction of the full strength of the real Ancient One.

Even as a mere avatar, the Sorcerer Supreme had a distinct advantage—she could draw power directly from the Dark Dimension. Meanwhile, Malekith, despite using his particle-based form to evade multiple attacks, was ultimately outmaneuvered by the experienced sorcerer and fell into one of her traps.

In the end, Malekith had one of his arms severed by the Sorcerer Supreme's magic fan and was tightly bound by chains forged from dark energy.

"Damn you! You vile woman! If you have any honor, fight me one-on-one!" Even as he was restrained by the dark chains, Malekith continued to shout defiantly, his arrogance undiminished.

The Sorcerer Supreme, however, paid him no heed, simply gazing coldly at the fallen king of the Dark Elves. It was somewhat amusing to see an ancient being from eons past now reduced to such a pitiful state.

It seemed that much of Malekith's fearsome reputation from the Dark Ages was tied to his possession of the Aether. This also explained why, after losing the Aether, he was so easily subdued by the Sorcerer Supreme. No wonder he bore such intense hatred toward Natasha Stark, who had "stolen" the Aether.

The Mirror Dimension, a secret technique exclusive to the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj, was not a place where just anyone could exist. Only those trained in its ways could move freely and maintain their powers here. The Sorcerer Supreme didn't know whether the Dark Elves drew their power from nature, but without the Aether and trapped in the Mirror Dimension, Malekith's defeat was inevitable.

Standing at the center of the Mirror Dimension, on a floor pieced together from various architectural fragments, the Sorcerer Supreme watched the bound Malekith with a cold stare. Malekith, unable to move, thrashed about like a helpless fish, futilely cursing and struggling.

"Personal strength is crucial, and most importantly, one should not rely too much on external objects," the Sorcerer Supreme's avatar sighed quietly. With a casual wave of her hand, she ended Malekith's life.

And so, the invasion of the Dark Elves, an ancient remnant of a long-lost age, came to a pathetic end—almost like a farce.

When Malekith's decapitated, bound body suddenly appeared in the palace hall, even Thor couldn't help but swallow nervously. Frigga discreetly squeezed her hand in tension, while Odin remained calmly seated on his golden throne, unfazed.

Asgard was an ancient civilization, its continuation stretching so far back that it had long forgotten the passage of time. Whether it was banishing countless enemies to the farthest reaches of the universe or casually slaying Malekith, the actions of Stark and the Sorcerer Supreme made the Asgardians uneasy.

It wasn't camaraderie that Asgardians felt toward these two from Midgard, but a more profound, deeply-rooted fear. Neither of these two individuals were forces that Asgard could afford to antagonize.

Only the elderly Odin, who had sat on his throne throughout the battle, remained calm, his single eye scrutinizing both Stark and the Sorcerer Supreme. His gaze was thoughtful, but he said nothing.

A strange silence settled over Asgard's palace, with no one daring to speak for a long time.

"Uh… we won the battle. Should we… throw a feast to celebrate?" Finally, it was the ever-simple Thor who broke the silence, his uncertainty reflected in his tone. Even he could sense the unusual atmosphere.

Thor's words snapped Frigga out of her reverie. As Odin's wife and Queen of Asgard, her duty was to safeguard Asgard's interests. She had been wary of the power displayed by Stark and the Sorcerer Supreme, unsure of how to proceed.

Thor's suggestion reminded her that it wasn't just about caution but also about fostering goodwill. Building a positive relationship with these two powerful individuals from Midgard was in Asgard's best interest.

"Thor is right," Frigga said. "Since we have successfully repelled the invaders, we must throw a grand feast to celebrate. You two are our honored guests and have helped protect Asgard. Please, do us the honor of attending the feast."

Frigga's words were measured, her stance humble, and her tone filled with gratitude.

Stark turned around, glancing at the Sorcerer Supreme behind her, as if seeking her opinion. The Sorcerer Supreme simply smiled kindly, as if encouraging Stark to make her own decision.

Reading the Sorcerer Supreme's expression, Stark smiled in turn. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we won't be able to attend the victory feast," she said, slowly turning to Frigga.

While Asgard might genuinely have wanted to cultivate a good relationship with the two powerful Midgardians, Stark wasn't inclined to stay. Her gaze shifted to Thor, sizing him up from head to toe.

Thor looked exactly as he did in the other world she remembered—clad in armor, holding a hammer, and presenting himself as a muscular brute.

"I'm sure we'll meet again, though not today," she added, speaking directly to Thor. Thor stood there, stunned, unable to respond, his confusion evident.

Seeing Thor's embarrassed expression, Stark chuckled softly, waving her hand to tear open a spatial rift. One end of the rift connected to Asgard's palace, the other to central London on Earth.

Personally, Stark wasn't ready to engage with the gods of Asgard just yet. The reason was simple: she knew her interference had already altered the future. Such tampering with the timeline was bound to create unknown consequences and chaos.

Her greatest asset wasn't the Infinity Stones, but her knowledge of potential future outcomes. Only by keeping control over those possibilities could Stark be confident in making the right choices. However, having now taken possession of both the Space and Reality Stones, changes to the future were inevitable.

For now, she had no choice but to take things as they came, adapting to the changes and seeing how the future would unfold.

And so, Stark's journey to Asgard came to an end. With the problem of the Dark Elves resolved and the Reality Stone firmly in her grasp, there was no reason for her to stay.

She didn't know what the Asgardians thought of her departure, nor did she care. Stark simply tore open the rift and returned to Earth, bringing the Sorcerer Supreme back to London with her.

Once back in London, the Sorcerer Supreme's avatar said nothing before disappearing into the streets. Stark figured she had likely gone to the Sanctum Sanctorum, as there were two others located in Hong Kong and New York.

As for Stark, after a brief rest in London, she returned to New York with the rehabilitation team she had brought with her.

It wasn't that she didn't want to stay in London to relax and enjoy her vacation, but rather because she had received an intriguing report from Jarvis.

Osborn—Norman Osborn, the chairman of Osborn Industries—was running out of time. Ever since Stark's initial business negotiation with Norman Osborn had failed, she had instructed Jarvis to spread some unsubstantiated rumors within society.

Soon, whispers began circulating that Norman Osborn, the head of Osborn Industries, was terminally ill.

Such rumors, though unverified, were never officially denied by Osborn. Not because he didn't want to clarify them—but because his health had taken a sudden turn for the worse.

When the rumors started spreading, Norman was already hospitalized in a private ward in New York City, making it impossible for him to refute them.

Without Osborn's denial, the rumors grew like wildfire, eventually creating a full-blown media storm that engulfed the entirety of Osborn Industries.

A select few knew that Norman had been hospitalized, and they were all high-ranking members of Osborn Industries, some even being shareholders. Naturally, they began connecting the dots and speculating about Osborn's imminent demise.

This sparked a wave of panic, and for a corporation, such fear could be deadly. The media storm hit, and Osborn Industries' stock prices plummeted.

Of course, all of this was partly due to Stark's doing, but it was just normal business strategy—nothing to fret over.

In Stark's view, rather than dealing with a strong Osborn, she preferred a broken, subjugated one who would listen to her commands.

As panic spread among shareholders, they began offloading Osborn stock. With every second that passed, the danger facing Osborn Industries grew exponentially, and it became clear that the company was spiraling downwards.

Amid this crisis, Norman Osborn, already weakened by his family's genetic disease, was bedridden, fighting for his life. Yet, despite his illness, he was forced to keep working, maintaining the appearance that nothing was wrong.

But behind closed doors, Norman Osborn's body was wasting away, his illness progressing rapidly. He was hanging on by a thread, facing the constant threat of collapse.

Despite his efforts to reassure the board and stabilize the company, it all fell apart when one event occurred—

Late one night, Norman Osborn collapsed in the CEO's office at the Osborn Industries headquarters and was rushed to the emergency room.

The news of his collapse caused a massive uproar among shareholders who were already under immense pressure. Fearing further losses, they began to withdraw their investments rapidly.

Even the U.S. military, which had contracts worth billions of dollars with Osborn Industries for pharmaceuticals, paused all orders. Everyone was waiting for news on Norman Osborn's condition.

If he walked out of the hospital alive, Osborn Industries might survive this crisis. His health was the key to the survival of the billion-dollar corporation.

However, hope was fading fast. Three days passed, and nearly everyone had lost faith.

At this moment of crisis, a few men in black suits broke into a laboratory at Osborn Industries. This lab belonged to Dr. Curt Connors, who was working on human enhancement drugs. The men left with a glowing, green serum.

Shortly after, a black SUV sped towards Upper Manhattan, eventually pulling into the Osborn family's garage.

When the bodyguards entered Norman Osborn's bedroom with the serum, they found him bedridden, his body frail and hooked up to various medical tubes.

The genetic disease that plagued the Osborn family had struck harder and faster than Norman had anticipated. He could no longer leave his bed. His only hope was the serum developed by Dr. Connors.

"Sir… we've brought it. Dr. Connors says the drug hasn't undergone clinical trials yet, and the side effects are unknown."

The bodyguard hesitated, looking at the pale and withered Norman Osborn, who resembled a man on the brink of death.

"Enough! Give it to me—now," Norman snapped.

Seeing the vial in the bodyguard's hands, Norman's eyes lit up with a glimmer of the man he once was, the man who dominated the corporate world. He forcefully grabbed the serum, loaded it into a syringe, and injected it directly into his main artery.

"Theoretically, it should cure your genetic disease, but I can't guarantee the results," he recalled Dr. Connors saying. The serum hadn't been tested on humans, and its effects were uncertain.

But Norman didn't have time for caution—his body was at its limit. If he waited any longer, death was inevitable.

He had considered reaching out to Stark… though he doubted whether a weapons manufacturer's heir could develop a cure for a genetic disease.

Nevertheless, he had tried contacting her, only to find that she was unreachable.

Of course, Norman could never have imagined that when he was trying to reach Stark, she wasn't even on Earth at the time.

As the glowing green serum entered his bloodstream, Norman Osborn felt a surge of excruciating pain. He knew his illness was at a critical stage, and only something as extreme as this serum had a chance of saving him, which is why he had chosen to inject it directly into his artery.

The pain was intense and all-consuming, causing him to writhe in agony. His face twisted as his veins bulged and his body radiated an immense heat. Just as the pain became unbearable, it suddenly stopped.

Norman lay on his bed, pulling out the tubes connected to his body, feeling a surge of energy unlike anything he had experienced before.

But as the power coursed through him, Norman's thoughts darkened. He knew why Osborn Industries was in such a dire state—and he blamed the traitorous shareholders who had abandoned the company.

He began to imagine the punishment they deserved for betraying him, and these thoughts, like a cancer, began to spread and grow uncontrollably in his mind.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon: 

Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven