Inside Temple Number Two, the air felt heavier than usual, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
As Thanos activated his Star Absorbing Technique, the aura around the Phoenix Force's successor began to thin out, like mist under a rising sun. Her power steadily receded—from the mid-stage of the Father's Life to the early stage, then down to the Sub-Father realm. Watching the shift, Thanos narrowed his eyes in quiet understanding.
So that's how it works.
Even the inheritor of the Phoenix Force couldn't directly devour a star's power in one gulp. If she could, he would never have siphoned it so easily. The stellar energy must be temporarily stored in her body, slowly feeding back into the host—strengthening her physique while also serving as fuel for her abilities. A dual system: combat output and long-term enhancement. Elegant. Efficient.
Unfortunate for her.
After a while, when he sensed that she had lost even the power of the Sub-Father stage, he lifted his gauntlet again. The Space Stone shimmered, folding space like silk being pinched between fingers, and he teleported them back to the Sun.
Absorb. Drain. Recover. Repeat.
The cycle went on without pause.
A week passed.
By the time Thanos felt faint cracks forming deep within his own flesh—tiny warnings from a body nearing saturation—he finally stopped. Even he required time to digest such violent energy. He returned to Temple Number Two in a flash of blue light.
The Phoenix Force inheritor hit the cold stone floor with a dull thud. What remained of her looked like a husk—skin pale and drawn tight over bone, eyes unfocused, barely aware of the world around her.
"Keep an eye on her," Thanos ordered flatly. "Don't let her escape. And don't let her die."
"Yes, Master."
As Deep Blue's calm voice faded, warriors of the Dark Order stepped forward, lifting the woman with mechanical efficiency and dragging her away.
Thanos was about to head for Earth when a soft, almost trembling voice stopped him.
"Mr. Thanos… thank you for saving me."
He turned.
Standing at the doorway was Wanda.
She wore a fitted combat suit that hugged her frame, crimson accents catching the dim temple light. Her posture was straight, but her eyes—those wide, fragile eyes—carried something far more vulnerable. Hope. And the faintest fear of having it crushed.
Thanos frowned slightly.
Why are you still here?
Shouldn't she have returned to Earth with Mr. Fantastic and the others by now?
Wanda shook her head quickly, strands of hair brushing her cheek. "I'm not going back," she said softly. "Earth is… horrible. Every day it's war. Experiments. People doing terrible things."
Her voice didn't waver—but it didn't need to. The exhaustion in it said enough.
Thanos recalled her past. In the films, her childhood had been rubble and laboratories. If not for Quicksilver, she might have shattered long ago. And in this universe, with Doctor Strange involved, her fate had been even crueler.
Rescued. Trusted. Betrayed.
Doctor Strange had handed her over to Thanos without hesitation—just to buy himself time.
For someone who had finally believed she'd found safety, that betrayal must have felt like the universe confirming her worst fear: that protection was a lie.
When Mr. Fantastic invited her back to Earth a week ago, she had refused.
Now she stood here instead.
An idea formed in Thanos's mind—quiet, deliberate.
Scarlet Witch.
Properly trained, properly guided, she could become something extraordinary. A weapon? Yes. But more than that—a symbol. A daughter raised under his protection would owe loyalty not from fear, but from gratitude.
He looked at her evenly.
"Be my daughter," he said.
"With my protection, no one will dare to bully you again."
There was a flicker in his eyes—almost amusement. The image of a future Scarlet Witch ripping Doctor Strange apart was… satisfying.
Wanda blinked.
"Really?" she asked, stepping forward slightly. Excitement and disbelief tangled in her voice. "I can… do that?"
Years of war and captivity had carved insecurity deep into her bones. She wasn't used to being chosen—only used.
Even Quicksilver, for all his love, could only encourage her to survive. Tomorrow had never been guaranteed, let alone safety.
Thanos nodded once, decisive.
"Deep Blue," he commanded, "from now on, Wanda is my daughter. She will receive the same treatment as Nebula."
He never hesitated once he decided.
"Yes, Master," Deep Blue replied without delay.
Wanda stood there, stunned for half a second—then a fragile smile spread across her face, tentative but genuine.
For the first time in a long time, she felt like tomorrow might actually exist.
When he said that, Wanda's composure shattered instantly.
Her eyes reddened, then filled. She tried to hold it back—tried to keep the image of the composed, powerful Scarlet Witch—but the tears spilled anyway.
"Father… waaah…"
The word came out broken and small.
She rushed forward and threw herself into Thanos's arms, burying her face against his chest like a child who had finally found something solid to lean on. Her shoulders trembled as she cried, years of tension and confusion pouring out all at once.
Thanos said nothing.
He simply rested one massive hand on her head and gently patted it.
This child had endured too much.
After a long while, Wanda's breathing steadied. She stepped back, wiping her face quickly, trying to regain her usual composure.
"Father," Wanda Maximoff asked softly, "what do we do now?"
Seeing the confidence slowly return to her eyes, Thanos allowed himself a faint smile.
"Now," he said, "we go to Earth and see whether they've been diligent… or complacent."
With that, blue light flared in his palm as the Space Stone activated once more. A portal tore open before them.
—
On Earth, the past seven days had been nothing short of catastrophic.
The war between the Allied Gods and Thanos had been brief—but not invisible.
Amateur astronomers and observatories across the planet had detected the battle nearly eight hundred million kilometers away. Exploding warships flared in the darkness like impossible fireworks, too bright, too structured to be natural phenomena.
Panic had begun to spread.
Then the second wave arrived.
Proxima Midnight descended upon Earth in a grand procession of cosmic warships, anchoring themselves in orbit like iron crowns over the planet.
And humanity, predictably, did not kneel quietly.
Rebellions erupted across continents. Resistance groups formed overnight. Governments fractured. Protests turned violent.
Under normal circumstances, Thanos's forces would have implemented their standard procedure: eradicate the native population, then colonize and rule efficiently.
But this time, there was interference.
Mr. Fantastic had intervened.
The reasoning was painfully simple.
He was human.
He could not stand by and watch Earth wiped clean.
So now, aboard a massive warship stationed in near-Earth orbit, a tense debate was unfolding.
On one side stood Reed Richards, flanked by the remaining members of the Fantastic Four—Thing, Human Torch, and Invisible Woman—along with several surrendered Earth representatives.
Reed had not been permitted to join the earlier cosmic battle, which was perhaps the only reason the four of them were still alive.
On the opposite side stood the conquerors: Proxima Midnight, Corvus Glaive, Nebula, and Loki.
The atmosphere inside the command chamber was colder than space itself.
"I oppose the extermination of humanity!" Reed declared, his voice echoing across the metallic walls. "Massacre does not create stable rule. It creates endless resistance and inherited hatred."
Proxima Midnight's eyes narrowed slightly, unimpressed.
Reed continued, forcing himself to stand tall.
Yes, he had surrendered.
Yes, he had chosen negotiation over glorious martyrdom.
But what was pride worth if Earth ceased to exist?
If bending a little meant billions survived, then bend he would.
After all, he thought dryly, I'm literally made of rubber. Rigidity was never my specialty.
The Thing crossed his rocky arms, grumbling but silent. The Human Torch hovered tensely, flames flickering at his fingertips. The Invisible Woman stood composed, though her eyes betrayed deep worry.
On the conquerors' side, Loki's lips curved faintly, as if he were enjoying the irony.
A rubber man arguing against annihilation in a room full of warlords.
History, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
.....
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