Spider-Man: Web of Shadows

Chapter 117: The Dark Mirror

The Sanctum Sanctorum felt alive, pulsating with raw, ancient energy. Strange's ritual was starting to take form, the air thick with an electric hum as the walls of the room flickered with mystical symbols. Peter stood back, his senses on high alert, watching as Strange manipulated the threads of magic with practiced precision. His hands moved in fluid gestures, murmuring incantations under his breath, the air around him bending to his will.

Peter's eyes darted around the room, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. The mystical energies in the room were powerful, yes, but they felt off—distorted, almost as if the very fabric of reality itself was… unsettled.

Dr. Strange's voice broke through his thoughts. "Peter, focus. We need to stay connected while I trace the rift's source."

Peter nodded, but his heart was racing. He wasn't used to being the one who needed to be focused. Usually, it was Spider-Man who had to swing in and save the day. But this—this was beyond his usual street-level problems.

The ritual began to intensify. Strange's eyes were glowing with a fierce light, his brow furrowed in concentration. The ground beneath Peter's feet seemed to tremble, as if the world itself was buckling under the weight of whatever Strange was trying to summon.

Suddenly, the lights in the Sanctum flickered. A low, guttural rumble echoed from somewhere deep within the building. Peter's spider-sense flared with such intensity that it nearly knocked him off his feet. He spun around, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

"Something's wrong!" Peter shouted, instinctively reaching for his webs.

But before Strange could react, the room was plunged into darkness. The mystical symbols on the walls vanished, and the air became cold, almost suffocating. Peter's breath came in shallow gasps as he squinted into the blackness.

"Strange!" he yelled, but his voice barely carried through the thick silence.

Then, as if answering his call, a figure emerged from the shadows.

It wasn't Doctor Strange.

Peter's eyes widened. The figure was tall, cloaked in a dark, tattered robe. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but its presence radiated an unsettling power. The very air around it seemed to ripple like a heatwave. The dark figure took a step forward, its footsteps echoing with an unnatural resonance.

"You… You should not have meddled, Stephen Strange," the figure's voice rumbled, deep and reverberating, like an echo from another dimension.

Peter instinctively stepped in front of Strange, his fists clenched, ready to spring into action. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound unnerving. "I am not your concern, boy. But you should know this: The threads of fate are not yours to alter. You cannot stop what is already in motion."

Peter's heart pounded in his chest. This wasn't just some random villain—it felt far more dangerous, more cosmic in nature.

The figure lifted its hand, and with a sudden flick of its wrist, the shadows around the Sanctum shifted and warped, becoming like living entities. They twisted and stretched, darkening every corner of the room. Peter's spider-sense screamed, but there was no time to react.

The shadows lunged.

"Peter, move!" Strange shouted, his hands glowing with magic.

But it was too late.

The shadows were fast, engulfing Peter in a cold, suffocating grip. They wrapped around him like chains, pulling him toward the figure. Panic surged in his chest. His webs fired at the walls, but the shadows twisted and absorbed them.

"I told you," the figure growled, its voice now dripping with malice. "This multiverse is beyond saving. You will all fall, one by one. And when the threads are severed, there will be nothing left to save."

The shadows constricted tighter, suffocating him. Peter fought back with everything he had, summoning every ounce of strength to break free, but the darkness only seemed to grow stronger. His vision blurred, his head spinning. This wasn't just a fight for survival—this was the collapse of everything he knew.

"Enough!"

With a forceful roar, Dr. Strange's hands glowed brighter, unleashing a wave of magical energy that surged through the room. The shadows recoiled, their grip loosening just enough for Peter to break free. He gasped for air, every inch of his body aching.

The figure, however, was unfazed. It stood there, unaffected by the magical barrage.

"You are fools," it said, its voice cold and calculated. "You cannot stop what is coming."

Dr. Strange was breathing heavily, his concentration faltering as he reached for his amulet. "Peter, get ready. We're going to need everything we've got to stop this."

Peter nodded, but his mind was racing. There was so much more to this than they could see. This wasn't just a rogue villain—it was someone—or something—aware of the multiversal collapse. And if they couldn't stop it, the consequences would be disastrous.

Before Peter could react, the figure vanished into the shadows, leaving nothing but a lingering sense of dread in the air. The Sanctum's lights flickered back on, and the oppressive atmosphere began to fade.

Strange staggered, clearly exhausted from the encounter. He looked at Peter, his face grave. "That was no ordinary opponent. I can feel it—this is bigger than we thought."

Peter's chest tightened. "Who was that?"

Dr. Strange's gaze darkened. "An agent of the Void. A being from beyond the rift. They are the ones pulling the strings. And they will stop at nothing to ensure the destruction of the multiverse."

Peter swallowed hard. "So… what now?"

"We prepare for war," Strange replied. "The Void will not rest. And neither will we."

End of Chapter 117