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- Savile Row, London -
- November 3, 1939 — Midnight -
The street was hushed, its lamps throwing faint halos against the fog. A few cars rattled in the distance, but here, at this hour, London felt asleep. The only place alive was the tailor's shop — the Kingsman headquarters dressed in polished wood and quiet sophistication.
And then Aryan arrived.
There was no flash, no thunder. One moment the air was still, the next it rippled as he stepped out of nothing, as though reality itself had folded to let him through. His eyes swept the street once, calm and sharp, before he lifted a hand.
Golden seals bloomed across the cobblestones, intricate circles of light layering one over another until the shop and its foundations were swallowed in a dome. The barrier shimmered faintly, like glass kissed by moonlight, but its strength was absolute. No sound, no spell, no intrusion or escape would pass beyond it. If the coming fight turned catastrophic, London would never know.
"Done," he murmured, letting his hand fall.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped inside.
The door swung open silently, but the moment he crossed the threshold, Aryan's presence filled the room. His aura pressed outward, heavy and irresistible. Then he let his will slip free — Conqueror's Haki roaring like a storm.
The effect was Instant.
Every Kingsman agent above and below ground dropped where they stood, their bodies collapsing like marionettes with cut strings. The air buzzed as their consciousness snuffed out under the sheer weight of his spirit. Even the secret base beneath the shop fell into silence as hardened men, trained to withstand pain and interrogation, crumpled in a heartbeat.
Only one presence remained standing.
Morgan le Fay.
Her body shuddered under the wave of his Haki, but she refused to bend. Her eyes burned brighter, her lips curved in a smile that was too calm for the moment.
She had expected an intruder. She hadn't expected this.
The weight pressing on her was unlike anything she had ever endured, not even when she had devoured alternate selves armed with centuries of power. Merlin's pressure had once felt crushing to her — and Merlin was now in chains. But Aryan… Aryan stood above even that, a singular force whose existence did not fit into the rules of any world.
Still, she lifted her chin, unbroken.
—
Aryan's steps echoed softly as he descended into the hidden base. The so-called "unbreakable" security around him fizzled and died without resistance. Razor-thin lasers, coded enchantments, Fey locks, even Darkhold-bound snares — all fell apart as he brushed them aside. He didn't fight them, not really. He simply absorbed, redirected, or unraveled them like threads in an old tapestry.
When he finally entered the chamber, he found her waiting.
Morgan stood tall, her cloak trailing against the floor, her eyes glittering with something between defiance and hunger. The unconscious Kingsmen lay scattered around them, their bodies sprawled like dolls.
"It seems you were expecting me," Aryan said, his voice quiet but unyielding.
Morgan's smile deepened. "Of course I was. You were always going to come, weren't you?"
The tone of her words was strange — confident, yet threaded with something else. Possession. Desire. A note that shouldn't belong to the Morgan he had known from his knowledge of her from his past life.
Aryan narrowed his eyes, reading more from her than she realized. His [Analysis] skill was already in motion, his mind calm as Vaani's voice began to stream the results into his thoughts.
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[Target: Morgan le Fay]
Status: Fused with multiple alternate selves.
Power: Full control over Darkhold energies, enhanced Fey bloodline.
Threat: Extreme.
Additional Note — Caution: Subject has bound her existence to reality itself. Death may cause catastrophic destabilization. Further analysis required.
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Aryan's frown was immediate. Not because of her newfound strength. Not even because she had consumed her other selves, becoming something far beyond the Morgan of this timeline.
It was because of that last line.
Binding her death to reality itself… such an act wasn't just reckless. It was madness. If true, destroying her wouldn't just endanger this plane — it could tear the world apart.
—
Morgan, watching him, tilted her head slightly. "You're quieter than I imagined. No threats, no speeches. Just… calculation. Always calculating."
Aryan didn't answer right away. He could see it now — the flicker in her gaze, the way she looked at him. Not just with hostility. There was recognition. Longing, even.
She knew him. Not this version of him, but another.
Memories not her own whispered within her, taken from the future self she had consumed. A Morgan who had lived longer, obsessed deeper, and wasted countless years chasing Aryan's shadow only to be rejected every time. That Morgan had burned with obsession, and though this one was stronger, more complete, that seed had carried over.
Now, faced with the real Aryan, standing in the full weight of his power, she understood why her other self had never let him go.
Her smile softened, strangely tender for a heartbeat. "You were always beyond us. Beyond me. Even when I reached into the future, you were the one I could never bend."
Her words came with a warmth laced in venom, a dangerous cocktail of admiration and possession.
Aryan's gaze stayed steady, unshaken. Inside, however, his thoughts ran cold. He wasn't just fighting a corrupted sorceress anymore. He was staring at someone who had made herself a wound in the very fabric of reality. Someone who, if destroyed carelessly, could drag the world into ruin with her.
And yet she was smiling at him like a lover long denied.
—
Morgan's smile lingered, but beneath it her thoughts twisted.
It wasn't just her other selves whispering obsession into her veins. The moment Aryan had stepped into this place, she had tested him in ways he wouldn't notice — or so she thought. Glamour woven through every breath she exhaled, illusions spun like threads of silk, laced with the hunger of the Darkhold. She had tried to slip into his mind, to bend his will, to paint herself as irresistible. Again and again, her magic struck like waves against stone… and again and again, it broke apart, leaving nothing behind.
His spirit was a fortress, his soul locked in an unshakable calm. He hadn't just resisted her. He had noticed every single attempt.
When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the air like steel.
"No matter how many times you try, Morgan, it will be fruitless. My mind, my soul — they're not doors you can open. Not with your tricks. Not with the Darkhold. Not with anything you've stolen."
And then his aura swelled again. Conqueror's Haki rolled out like an ocean breaking its dam. The chamber groaned under the weight of it, walls trembling as invisible force pressed down on everything alive within.
For the first time, Morgan faltered. Her knees bent slightly, her breath caught sharp in her throat. Her body screamed at her to kneel, to submit, to surrender. Only her pride, sharpened by centuries of ambition, kept her upright.
Aryan's gaze stayed cold. "I also know what you've done. Binding your life to reality itself… clever, yes. But dangerous. If I strike you down without care, I risk tearing this world apart. That's why we're here. At a stalemate."
Morgan steadied herself, forcing her legs to lock, forcing her breath back into rhythm. His words stung — not because they weren't true, but because she could see it now, plainly. He had pierced through her secret. A safeguard meant to keep beings exactly like him at bay… and he had stripped it bare with a glance.
She was no fool. She still had more tricks, more anchors and bargains tied into the fabric of creation. But each one demanded a price she wasn't ready to pay. Not yet.
So, she shifted her smile into something softer, almost teasing. She stepped closer, her cloak whispering across the stone floor, until she stood near enough to touch him. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand and brushed her fingers under his chin.
"I should hate you," she murmured, voice velvet and venom. "Right now, there is nothing I would enjoy more than tearing apart those little bitches at your side, watching them scream before I claim you as mine. You know I could. But I also know what you are — what you will become. More terrifying than any future I have glimpsed. And I… am not foolish enough to think I can win today."
Her eyes gleamed. "So I offer you a truce. I will not interfere with your precious plans. I will even give you knowledge — of enemies that stalk you from the shadows, of forces you don't yet see. In return, you leave me to my own devices. Do we understand each other?"
Aryan's eyes narrowed. He didn't flinch at her touch, but neither did he entertain it. Gently, but firmly, he took her wrist and pushed her hand aside. His expression remained carved from stone.
"As long as you don't stand in my way, I will consider it."
No more. No less.
And then he was gone. One moment standing before her, the next vanished as though the world itself had folded around him. The barrier that sealed the shop melted away with his departure, leaving silence in its place.
Morgan stood there, her fingers curling into a fist at her side. A sigh slipped past her lips, long and quiet.
She hated it. She hated conceding anything. But she also knew the truth. If she hadn't offered the truce, Aryan would have found some way — some unpredictable, impossible way — to kill her despite her protections. He always did. That was who he was. Unconventional. Unstoppable. Terrifying.
Her eyes lingered on the space where he had stood, a strange mix of dread and desire burning in her chest.
"This isn't over," she whispered.
Not for her. Not for him. Not for the world.
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