Rain of Fire.
Unlike the rigid game mechanic Ryan Mercer remembered from World of Warcraft, the spell behaved far more naturally in reality.
A warlock shaped the spell through will alone. He could compress its area into a tight killing zone, dramatically increasing the density of the falling hellfire, or spread it across a wider battlefield at the cost of impact concentration. The only true limitation was the number of infernal meteors his magic could sustain.
At Evenson’s current level of power, that number was sixty-six.
They didn’t descend from the clouds.
Thirty meters above Obadiah Stane, sixty-six blazing fragments of brimstone erupted into existence all at once, forged directly from Evenson’s magic. There was no warning. No whistle through the sky.
Only sudden annihilation.
Stane had just enough time to slam his armor shut before the inferno swallowed him whole.
Evenson had deliberately narrowed the spell’s radius to barely ten meters. Instead of blanketing the area, nearly every burning fragment struck the Iron Monger armor directly.
From his distant vantage point, Phil Coulson lowered his binoculars in disbelief.
He couldn’t feel the heat from where he stood, nor could he hear much over the distance, but he didn’t need either to understand how devastating the attack was.
The flames themselves inspired instinctive fear.
Even watching them through a camera lens stirred an almost primal urge to look away and run.
The asphalt surrounding the impact zone had already softened into bubbling black liquid.
Then came a furious scream.
Obadiah burst out of the sea of hellfire.
He was alive.
The engineers who had built his armor were nowhere near Tony Stark’s level of genius. They couldn’t create something sleek, elegant, or versatile.
What they had built was a monster.
It was enormous, brutally powerful, absurdly durable, and carried enough firepower to level a city block.
Those same qualities had allowed it to shrug off Tony’s repulsors and missiles.
Now they had saved Obadiah’s life again.
The instant he cleared the flames, the armor split open.
His visual systems had been damaged earlier by Tony. With the suit sealed, he was practically blind.
The armor hissed as superheated steam vented from dozens of exhaust ports.
Obadiah stumbled forward, his skin flushed a deep crimson, looking less like a triumphant warlord and more like someone who had climbed out of an industrial furnace.
Watching from the ground, Tony swallowed.
Yeah... definitely adding thermal insulation to the next version.
Steam continued to pour from the battered armor while arcs of electricity snapped across damaged circuits. Melted metal dripped from several joints, but despite its condition, the massive suit remained fully capable of fighting.
Obadiah scanned the darkness.
Someone had ambushed him.
Someone who had nearly cooked him alive.
A slow, deliberate tapping echoed through the night.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A lone figure emerged from the shadows.
He carried a staff crowned with a suspended skull, its metal haft striking the pavement with every measured step.
"Who are you?" Obadiah demanded.
The stranger looked nothing like a soldier.
He looked like a sorcerer torn from ancient legend.
A robe of deep violet and sapphire flowed around him, embroidered with glowing runes. Floating blade-like pauldrons hovered above his shoulders instead of resting upon them. Behind him, darkness twisted into a slow-moving vortex, shedding drifting black motes like embers in reverse.
A crown-shaped hood framed his head.
His face was the most unsettling feature of all.
There was no flesh beneath the hood.
Only two glowing golden eyes suspended within an ethereal blue haze where a face should have been.
A low, humorless chuckle drifted through the silence.
"You should have been reduced to ash," the figure said calmly. "If not for that oversized turtle shell you’re hiding inside."
He turned slightly.
"Not you, Mr. Stark."
Tony managed a tired shrug.
"Fair enough."
After all, he was standing inside a suit of armor too.
Obadiah’s expression darkened.
"So you’re one of Stark’s people."
The casual exchange was enough to convince him. Whoever this bizarre sorcerer was, he clearly knew Tony. That alone made him an enemy.
With a snarl, Obadiah swung up the massive rotary cannon mounted on his arm.
"I don’t care what you are."
The barrels spun.
"You die."
A sharp crack answered him.
Instead of a storm of bullets, the weapon spat a shower of sparks before falling silent.
Obadiah froze.
Only then did he realize what the inferno had done.
Every external weapon mounted to the Iron Monger had been cooked beyond repair.
The Gatling gun hung lifeless.
Missiles, targeting systems, auxiliary mounts... all gone.
"AAARGH!"
Roaring with fury, he ripped the ruined cannon off his armor and hurled it aside. The twisted mass of metal crashed across the pavement as he charged.
Raw force had always been the Iron Monger’s greatest advantage.
Its servos could lift vehicles with ease. Its hydraulic strength could send a car flying like a bowling ball.
Whatever strange tricks this wizard possessed, Obadiah believed one solid hit would reduce him to paste.
The hooded figure didn’t move.
He simply lowered the butt of his skull-topped staff onto the pavement.
Tap.
"Pain."
The word stretched into the night like a curse.
The effect was immediate.
Obadiah’s body lurched violently.
A scream caught in his throat.
The agony didn’t come from nerves or muscles.
It came from somewhere deeper.
His soul.
Every fragment of thought was swallowed by unbearable torment. His charge collapsed instantly, momentum carrying the massive suit forward as it slammed into the pavement.
The armored giant skidded several more yards before finally grinding to a halt.
Right at the warlock’s feet.
Obadiah writhed helplessly.
The pain refused to plateau.
Every passing second intensified it, stripping away anger, pride, and even coherent thought until only suffering remained.
His armored fingers clawed uselessly at the pavement.
With immense effort, he lifted his head.
His face was twisted beyond recognition.
"P... please..."
Each word cost him dearly.
"Spare... me..."
He gasped for breath.
"Whatever... Tony... can give you..."
"I’ll give... more..."
The warlock looked down at him in silence.
Then he spoke with almost casual indifference.
"I’m afraid what I want isn’t something you possess."
The staff struck the ground again.
Tap.
"Weakness."
The second curse settled over Obadiah like chains.
Every ounce of strength drained from his body.
He could no longer scream.
He couldn’t even tremble.
His muscles refused to obey while the agony continued to consume him from within.
Pain without release.
Suffering without escape.
There were no words capable of describing it.
The warlock slowly raised one hand above Obadiah’s helmet.
"It’s over."
His voice was quiet.
"Your soul belongs to me."
A faint violet radiance seeped upward through the armor.
It gathered above Obadiah’s head in wisps before flowing into the warlock’s outstretched palm.
Obadiah watched it happen.
He understood exactly what it meant.
The terror in his eyes lingered only for a moment before exhaustion and resignation overtook it.
Death, at least, would finally end the pain.
The last strands of violet light condensed into a flawless crystal resting in the warlock’s hand.
He examined it with the practiced eye of a collector appraising a rare gem.
"Corruption."
"Greed."
"Selfishness."
"Hypocrisy."
"Arrogance."
A faint note of satisfaction entered his voice.
"An excellent specimen."
He turned the crystal between his fingers.
"It should fetch a respectable price."
With that, he looked toward Tony.
"Mr. Stark."
Tony had finally managed to drag himself back to his feet.
The warlock inclined his head slightly.
"You owe me a favor."
"Don’t forget it."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking into the darkness.
Tony steadied himself against a twisted slab of concrete.
"Hold it!"
The armored billionaire’s voice carried across the ruined street.
"Who the hell are you?"
Even now, he couldn’t resist adding, "For the record, I had this under control."
The hooded figure didn’t slow.
"When it’s time for you to know," he replied, "you’ll know."
His tone remained calm, almost amused.
"And one more thing."
He continued walking without looking back.
"No one owes me anything."
The words had barely left his mouth before the shadows stirred.
Darkness pooled around his robes like living ink. It climbed his body in silent waves until it swallowed him completely.
A heartbeat later...
...he was gone.
Only the scorched pavement remained.
Tony stared at the empty street for several long seconds.
"So that’s not creepy at all."
His attempt at humor fell flat.
Whoever that man was, he wasn’t using anything remotely similar to the technology Tony understood.
No reactor.
No weapons platform.
No visible equipment beyond the bizarre staff.
Just... magic.
Real magic.
That realization lingered far longer than the battle itself.
Several blocks away, Phil Coulson finally allowed himself to exhale.
"Looks like it’s over."
Satisfied that neither Tony nor the mysterious newcomer intended to continue fighting, he lowered the camera he’d been using to record the entire encounter.
He carefully packed the equipment back into his vehicle.
This mission had produced far more questions than answers.
A warlock-like figure.
Impossible fire.
Some form of soul manipulation.
And an individual powerful enough to neutralize Obadiah Stane in seconds.
Director Fury was going to have an interesting night.
Coulson reached for the driver’s door.
"Leaving already?"
The quiet voice came from directly behind him.
Every instinct drilled into him over years of S.H.I.E.L.D. service exploded into action.
His pistol cleared its holster in a blur.
He pivoted in a single fluid motion, muzzle already trained on the unseen speaker before a full second had passed.
The night fell silent once again.
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