Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

"What? A sanitation worker?"

Evenson had been pleased when he’d heard that the Eredar Twins had already found candidates so quickly.

Then he’d heard the first candidate’s occupation.

"You two aren’t serious."

He’d assumed Gennos’s project qualified as cutting-edge technology. Surely the man needed an assistant with several advanced degrees. An MIT graduate wouldn’t have been unreasonable.

So why hire a sanitation worker?

Was this person supposed to spend his days cleaning up Gennos’s laboratory waste?

"Don’t underestimate people who work at the bottom of the ladder."

Salorass sounded as though she’d anticipated his reaction.

"People make that mistake all the time. Even the Legion routinely ignores its low-ranking imps, treating them as worthless cannon fodder."

She paused.

"Well... most of the time, we do too."

Aurecess picked up the thread.

"But we’ve also learned that, when used correctly, those supposedly worthless troops can produce extraordinary results."

"Imagine this."

Salorass gestured as she spoke.

"The Legion is attacking a fortress. The walls are strong, the defenders are courageous, and waves of demon guards are charging forward, but they simply can’t break through."

She grinned.

"Then, in the middle of the battlefield, a tiny Gan’arg laborer appears."

"Oh, yes. A Gan’arg laborer. So small and unimpressive that it probably looks less dangerous than a boar."

"Who would pay attention to it?"

Her smile became positively wicked.

"While all those brave defenders focus on the demon guards charging toward the walls, the little laborer quietly crawls beneath their legs and slips right up to the fortress."

"Nobody notices."

"But the little fellow happens to be carrying an entire sack of concentrated fel bombs."

Aurecess raised her hands.

"Boom."

She mimed an explosion.

"The wall is blown apart with a perfectly placed demolition charge. Every defender dies."

She smiled.

"All because they ignored someone who looked completely harmless."

"Deeply inspiring."

Evenson’s smile was painfully insincere.

"But I’m pretty sure the Legion doesn’t actually do things like that very often. At least, I’ve never heard of it."

"That’s because most siege operations are commanded by pit lords."

Salorass rubbed her forehead.

"Their entire tactical philosophy is basically: attack, attack harder, then attack even harder."

"No one’s limiting their casualties, so they see no reason to stop."

"It usually works eventually."

Aurecess curled her lip.

"Once the pile of corpses is taller than the fortress wall, they can climb over it."

"I’d personally call in a fel-powered warship."

Evenson rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, I don’t understand why the Legion fights like this. Everyone seems determined to charge straight ahead swinging an axe. Apparently even turning someone into a living bomb counts as a brilliant tactical maneuver."

He sighed.

"Putting pit fiends in charge of military strategy is a terrible idea. Replace them with Eredar commanders, or even dreadlords, and the Legion’s combat efficiency would skyrocket."

"I completely agree."

Salorass pouted.

"But the Legion’s primary combat troops are demon guards. And creatures whose brains are mostly muscle have never gotten along particularly well with rational demons like us."

"We call them idiots."

Aurecess shrugged.

"They call us shameless."

She sighed.

"That’s how it’s always been."

"All right. I understand the point."

Evenson nodded.

"Even the little guy has something special about him. Put someone in the right position and even an insignificant person can make a huge difference."

He looked at Salorass.

"So what’s special about this sanitation worker?"

"He has consistently ranked number one among New York’s private cleanup crews lately."

Salorass smiled.

"Does that count?"

"That’s supposed to be impressive?"

Evenson almost dismissed it outright.

Then he caught himself.

"Wait."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You said lately."

His expression changed.

"What exactly has he been cleaning?"

Aurecess blinked innocently.

"What kind of garbage do you think has attracted the most attention in New York lately?"

She tilted her head.

"What kind of garbage would make us take notice of one particular cleanup worker?"

Evenson smiled.

"The Chitauri."

Exactly.

The Battle of New York had marked the beginning of a new world.

But the battle had happened only recently, and its larger consequences were still being debated. How should humanity respond to extraterrestrial civilizations? How should governments handle superhuman and extraterrestrial incidents? What legal framework would govern alien technology?

Nobody had answers yet.

But three days after the battle, some people had already discovered an opportunity in the wreckage.

Private cleanup crews.

After the fighting ended, New York was littered with Chitauri corpses, war machines, personal flyers, and even those strange golden fish-shaped machines.

Someone had to clean it all up.

So various private companies and contractors organized themselves and reached agreements with the city government.

They weren’t doing it out of charity.

Nor were they particularly interested in the government’s modest compensation.

They wanted the salvage.

During the cleanup, they could quietly set aside valuable alien equipment.

Then, once enough time had passed, they could sell it to interested buyers: collectors, scientists, research institutions, alien enthusiasts, and anyone else willing to pay.

And they were willing to pay a lot.

Adrian Toomes was one of those men.

He had poured almost all of his assets into his cleanup operation, gambling everything on the hope that they could finish the job and make a fortune.

And the team he’d invested in really was capable.

There was a certain ingenuity that came from ordinary working people who knew how to solve problems with limited resources.

They quickly learned how to dismantle Chitauri machinery.

Then they figured out how to make basic use of the technology themselves.

Their progress had been impressive from the beginning, and they’d already accumulated quite a stockpile of valuable equipment.

Maybe Toomes genuinely needed the money to support his family.

Maybe he was simply dreaming too hard about getting rich overnight.

Either way, he’d overlooked one crucial fact.

Alien corpses and extraterrestrial technology were unimaginably valuable.

Powerful organizations across the world were already watching the wreckage like sharks circling blood in the water.

The only reason those organizations hadn’t moved immediately was because they were competing with one another.

That competition had given small operators like Toomes a brief window of opportunity.

But it wouldn’t last.

Before long, the competition ended.

With strong support from S.H.I.E.L.D., Stark Industries secured the rights to clean up and recover all Chitauri material in New York.

The courts immediately issued injunctions.

Every contract the government had signed with the small private cleanup groups was rendered void.

Any alien technology they had already recovered had to be surrendered.

There was no room for negotiation.

Evenson shook his head.

"That does sound a little like a giant corporation crushing small private businesses."

He paused.

"But if they weren’t blinded by greed, they should have seen this coming."

"Governments aren’t exactly going to hire a scrap dealer to dispose of a decommissioned nuclear weapon."

"Besides, their original plan was to smuggle the alien technology onto the black market."

He considered it for another moment.

"But if this Toomes really is as capable as you say..."

A faint smile appeared.

"Then we should definitely try to bring him over."

"Don’t worry."

Salorass narrowed her eyes.

"If nothing has gone wrong, my people should already be negotiating with him."

Evenson nodded.

"Good."

A sanitation worker.

A man who had nearly lost everything.

A man who had never been important enough for anyone to notice.

And yet, in the aftermath of the Battle of New York, he had put himself in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Sometimes, history wasn’t moved by kings or heroes.

Sometimes, it was moved by the guy carrying a trash bag.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!