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The facts were clear, there was no way out.
What made it terrifying was that Ronan hadn't realized that at first.
He'd chosen a location that was nearly impenetrable, a vault-like chamber deep within the Kree command flagship. Slouched in his chair, frustration clouded his mind. The Instructor… once a name whispered across the galaxy, had vanished for years without a trace.
And now, out of nowhere, he reemerges, flanked by abominations and monsters, coming straight for him?
Ronan's thoughts churned. This time, the mission had to be decisive. If they didn't seize control of Xandar now, the window of opportunity might never reopen.
It was humiliating, sure, but he'd already given the order. The surrounding warships had been instructed to turn their weapons inward and protect the flagship first.
He remained in this fortress of steel and shields, waiting for his elite units to respond. Soon, he'd crush the Instructor and his creatures in one swift, surgical strike.
Resolved, Ronan waited... and waited, for the transmission, for victory.
But the news never came. Instead, Arthur did.
When Arthur stepped inside, he saw Ronan seated regally, a massive warhammer leaning beside him. It wasn't Mjolnir; Thor's hammer was forged short for control. Ronan's was a long-handled, spike-bladed war hammer, a brutal relic designed for wide, sweeping devastation.
Ronan rested his chin in his palm, posture statuesque, like a dark philosopher. His mind, however, was racing.
How had this man bypassed every defense?
Their eyes met. Ronan's narrowed, while Arthur gave a lopsided grin. "So… we finally meet."
"Instructor?"
Ronan's voice was deep, gravelly, commanding, charismatic in the way only a villain's could be.
Arthur nodded slowly. "Yep, that's me. Last time we crossed paths, your face took up an entire viewscreen. I was in the middle of putting your sister down. Ring any bells?"
Ronan's eyes flashed. "You dare mock me?"
Arthur shrugged. "Just reminding you of the facts."
Before Ronan could react, Arthur snapped his fingers. Instantly, Ronan's pupils lost focus, his expression distorting as he roared, "You'll never win!"
Arthur said nothing. He simply observed from a safe distance, waiting.
Moments later, Ronan let out a guttural laugh. "So... you've chosen to submit to me?"
Arthur scratched his cheek, amused. "Hard to say what kind of dream he's caught in."
Ever since uncovering Ronan's situation, Arthur had been planning a gift for Thanos.
That gift was Ronan, delivered, bound, and broken.
But control wasn't guaranteed. Not yet.
Arthur had once faced the Mandarin, stripped him of his Ten Rings, and through his Disassembler System, absorbed their abilities. One of those powers: Psyche of Enlightenment.
A high-level cognitive hack. It could fabricate convincing illusions and subtly nudge or dominate the minds of others.
That was Arthur's trump card. The only problem? Ronan had the kind of ironclad will usually reserved for protagonists, someone who, even after a full brainwash, could shatter the spell through sheer rage and resolve.
Arthur wasn't sure it would work.
But now, it looked promising.
As if cued by an unseen signal, Ronan unfastened his chest plate, closed his eyes, and stood still, like he was ready for some sacred ritual.
Arthur smirked and let him continue dreaming in that manufactured fantasy. Then he pulled out a tiny blade and pressed it to his own finger.
His skin, fortified by energy, resisted the cut. So, he infused the blade with transparent force, disassembler energy, to pierce through.
"Not many people would go this far against themselves."
Arthur had to use enough force to kill someone… just to nick his own skin.
Blood welled up immediately. He used it to draw symbols across Ronan's chest.
When Arthur had first arrived in this universe, he'd acquired a bizarre, seemingly useless bit of dark magic, Mind Control.
Powerful, yes. But it had a fatal flaw: it only worked if the subject was willing to accept it.
Arthur had written it off. Useless unless he ran into someone with no mind of their own.
But when he unlocked Light of the Mind, a new path opened.
Deception.
That was the real spell.
Ronan sat motionless, eyes shut tight, completely unaware, or so it seemed. But just as Arthur was halfway through etching the final glyph, Ronan's hand suddenly shot out and clamped around his wrist.
"When this ritual is done," Ronan asked, voice low and steady, "how much of your power will I inherit?"
There are no wrong versions in The 1619 Codex.
Arthur's Light of the Mind wasn't about controlling every detail. It simply seeded the desire, and the dream would build itself around it. A self-sustaining illusion. All Arthur had to do was set the target, and the subject's subconscious would fill in the blanks.
When Ronan had unfastened his chest plate earlier, Arthur assumed he was expecting some carnal fantasy.
Apparently not. Turns out, the zealot wanted more power.
Before Arthur could reply, Ronan abruptly released his grip. A smug smile crept across his face.
"Xandar. Thanos. They'll all fall at my feet. Even the Kree Empire… I've never bowed to them anyway."
"Ambitious," Arthur muttered.
Channeling the colorless energy of the Disassembler, Arthur continued tracing the arcane circuitry across Ronan's chest. This wasn't ordinary magic, it was etched into his soul, a hybrid script of mysticism and technology. Executing it now was as easy as muscle memory.
In the blink of an eye, the design was complete.
Arthur began the incantation, voice steady, words layered with meaning:
"Deep into the darkness of darkness, surging tides of pulsation, gaze upon the crimson pale…"
Each syllable resonated through the ritual circle, tethering Arthur's consciousness to Ronan's.
His spirit brushed against Ronan's, faintly disoriented but strikingly cooperative, as if eager to bond. It anchored in place almost instantly.
With every line spoken, the glyphs on Ronan's chest pulsed, bright flashes of crimson, and when Arthur whispered the final words, he finished with a quiet but firm command:
"Now open your eyes."
Ronan's eyes snapped open, and instantly, the markings on his chest ignited. Dozens of red threads burst from the center, weaving through the air like veins of liquid light, crawling over Ronan's body like a living net.
It resembled a blood-woven web, sinister and unrelenting, latching onto him, cocooning him in its grip.
Eventually, the glowing strands fused with his skin, absorbed completely, until only a single, pulsing red thread remained, linking him to Arthur.
A faint red dot appeared on Arthur's palm.
"Another red mole," he muttered.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at Ronan, who now returned the stare in eerie silence.
The ritual was complete. The control spell had taken full effect.
Ronan realized too late, he'd been tricked. But he couldn't speak, couldn't lash out.
Inside, part of him was screaming, furious, betrayed, mentally flailing against invisible chains. But outwardly, the other part of him, the one Arthur now commanded, remained still. Calm. Ready. Waiting for orders.