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- Somewhere Between Time and Memory -
Long before Aryan ever set foot in Kamal Aasthaan's halls, another battle had already cracked the walls of reality. Few remembered it clearly, fewer still spoke of it. But its echoes were everywhere — in shifting timelines, in faint scars across the multiverse, in the strange arrivals of people and worlds that didn't quite belong.
It had begun with two men, both not truly bound to their time.
One was Kang the Conqueror, the restless tyrant who treated time as a weapon, bending centuries like a strategist moves pieces on a board. His ambition was not simply to rule a world, but to capture every possible version of reality. To him, history was clay, and the multiverse, his unfinished empire.
The other was King Vikramaditya. Not the one of bedtime stories or ancient epics, but a man reborn into that role — a reincarnated soul who carried memories, wisdom, and strange advantages not of this world. Like Aryan, he too had come with gifts, cheats, and powers that made him more than mortal. For his people, he had been a savior, a king who could stand against impossible storms.
When Kang allied with a being older and far beyond comprehension — the Beyonder — reality itself shuddered. The Beyonder cared little for kingdoms or causes. For him, existence was an experiment, and Kang was simply another instrument to stir the pot. Together, they tore at the multiverse's fabric, pulling and twisting until the rift was born.
That was when Vikramaditya stood against them.
The battle was not one of swords or armies. It was thunder against thunder, time unraveling and reweaving in desperate bursts. Entire ages blinked in and out of existence as their clash spilled across the timelines. Stars dimmed, rivers of destiny bent, and the ground beneath them broke into fragments of forgotten futures.
And though Kang was cunning, though the Beyonder's shadow lingered, Vikramaditya triumphed.
But victory had its price.
The scale of the wounds left behind demanded repair. Not even the Cosmic Entities, nor the Sorcerer Supreme of that age, nor the Cosmic Tribunal could fully stitch it back together without his help. Vikramaditya, bound to the rift by his own actions, poured his very life into mending what had been broken.
By the time the breach closed, he stood victorious — and hollow. His once-immense lifespan had been cut short, burned away in payment to the cosmos. He smiled still, for his people were safe, but deep in his eyes lingered the quiet sadness of a man who knew his end was not far.
Before his passing, Vikramaditya left behind gifts — not treasures of gold, but legacies hidden in the flow of time. Artefacts, knowledge, and power meant for another who would walk a path like his. Meant, one day, for Aryan.
But scars never vanish overnight. Some stitches held fast, others frayed. And where reality had been weakest, timelines drifted close together, sometimes merging, sometimes colliding. Ancient sorcerers knew this. Cosmic watchers knew this. And so, they divided the burden of balance among themselves.
Among them stood Merlin, keeper of secrets, wanderer through centuries. He had seen the rift's scars heal and tear again, and he had taken it upon himself to watch for the next unraveling. Alongside the mystics of Kamar-Taj, he guarded the fragile weave.
—
- London, United Kingdom -
- November 2, 1939 -
So when the air of reality trembled once more, Merlin knew. Another world had slipped. Another thread had stitched itself into this timeline. The Kingsman, with all their sharp suits and oaths of honor, had been carried into this reality like driftwood in a storm.
Merlin studied the merge and found no great danger in it. These agents could live, fight, and adapt. In fact, they might even become his tools in keeping the balance.
But where Merlin went, so too did his shadow.
For far away, another presence stirred — one that had hunted him for centuries. Morgan le Fay.
Her hatred was not new. Her vendetta had burned through ages, twisting her, consuming her. And now, aided by the whispers of the Darkhold, she had finally traced him. Not in Avalon, not in the hidden realms of fae, but here, in a London tailor's shop.
When the Kingsman saw her enter, they did not know her name, but they felt her weight. A power that unsettled even trained men. Her eyes carried temptation, her voice shimmered with forbidden allure, and the shadows of her presence curled around them like smoke.
They confronted her, blades of steel and words of protocol ready. But against her dark charms, they faltered. One by one, their will wavered. Her whispers slid into their thoughts, bending them like reeds in a river.
She was not here for them, not truly. They were pawns caught in her web, placeholders until the real prey appeared.
And soon enough, he did.
The door creaked, and the air shifted. Merlin stepped into the chamber, his cane tapping softly against the polished floor. His kind eyes hardened as they met hers.
"Morgan," he said, voice steady. "Leave these men. Your quarrel is with me, and me alone."
Her lips curved, half a smile, half a sneer. "Ah, Merlin. Always shielding others, always playing the guardian. Do you know how long I've hunted you?"
The fire in her eyes glowed with centuries of resentment. The Darkhold's power pulsed through her words, promising ruin.
The Kingsman stood caught between them — knights in suits, trapped in a battle of legends and sorcery older than their imagination.
And as Morgan's laughter rang low and dangerous, the room itself seemed to shiver. The scars of the rift had drawn them all here. The war of ages past was not done. It had only just arrived at Savile Row.
—
The tailor's shop fell away. Walls of oak and mirrors shattered into ripples, folding in on themselves like water pulled into a whirlpool. With a sweep of his hand, Merlin dragged Morgan into the Mirror Dimension, away from the streets of London, away from the unsuspecting world above.
Here, buildings bent like wax, streets twisted upside down, and fragments of light scattered endlessly, as though reality itself had been broken into a kaleidoscope. Only reflections remained, a stage where no bystander would be harmed — or so Merlin had hoped.
Morgan landed softly, her cloak whispering against the shifting glass floor. Her eyes glowed faintly with the Darkhold's touch, a steady storm hidden behind calm poise.
"Morgan," Merlin began, his staff steady in his hand. His voice was firm, but beneath it lingered something more fragile — regret. "Stop this now. The Darkhold isn't a tool, it's a chain. You think you're wielding it, but it's already wound around you. It is corruption, whether you see it or not."
She laughed, sharp and bitter, the sound echoing in a hundred mirrored walls. "Corruption? You always talk as though you know best. As though you alone see the truth." Her gaze narrowed. "Tell me, Merlin… was I not more capable than Arthur? Did I not have the wisdom, the power, the vision to lead? Yet you — you stood in my way. You propped him up as king while I was cast into the shadows. My dreams, my ambitions… all denied by you."
Merlin deflected a slash of her black fire, the glass wall behind him warping from the impact. His face tightened. "That was never the reason, Morgan. You could have been a queen, a leader, a light. But power was all you saw, and that hunger blinded you."
Her eyes blazed. "You think me blind? No, Merlin. I see clearer than anyone. The Darkhold did not consume me — I consumed it. I bent it to my will, mastered it, dominated it. Chthon himself could not twist me. I am proof that it can be controlled. By me, and me alone."
Her hand rose, and the Mirror Dimension trembled. The air darkened, thick with shadows that screamed without sound. In a single gesture, she forged a cage of living darkness around him — its bars woven from the agony of a million souls she had harvested across centuries. Their whispers brushed against Merlin's ears, cries of despair fueling the prison.
Merlin staggered as the bars tightened, not just restraining but pulling — siphoning. He felt his strength ebbing, his very essence being drained thread by thread into her. The cage was not a prison; it was a conduit, turning him into fuel for her endless hunger.
Morgan stepped closer, her face illuminated by the glow of the dark lattice. There was no madness in her expression — only pride. "Do you see now? This spell… I built it with care, with dutiful sacrices of hundreds of thousands of innocent souls over the centuries. And it was made especially with you in mind. It feeds on your power, your life, and makes me stronger. Every second you resist, I grow. Tell me, my old teacher, my hated jailer — who holds the chain now?"
Merlin's breath came ragged, his staff dimming. Still, he found the strength to speak, his voice breaking with sorrow more than pain. "I always knew you were gifted, Morgan. Brighter than most I ever taught. But this… this brilliance turned dark, it could have been the world's salvation. Instead, it's its burden."
Her eyes softened for a flicker, then hardened again. "Spare me your pity, old man." She leaned in, her whisper cold. "Do not waste your final thoughts on regret. You should instead worry for your pawns back in the real world."
The Image of the Kingsman agents flickered briefly in the air — sharp suits, tense faces, unaware of what fate had been decided for them. Morgan smirked.
"Do not fret," she said smoothly. "I will use them well. For my purposes."
Merlin's grip on his staff tightened, though the drain was relentless. The Mirror Dimension groaned under the weight of their duel, shards of reality bending like breaking glass.
And as Morgan's laughter rose, the reflection of the world cracked just a little further, heralding the storm to come.
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