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10: Marvel's Green Lantern, The First Sorcerer Supreme
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 18:54:44 +0000 UTCThe wind carried the acrid stench of smoke and death. Ash drifted on the breeze like gray snowflakes, and the air itself trembled with something worse—something unnatural: a current of corruption, bitter and sharp, laced with the unmistakable touch of the Dark Dimension.
Agamotto slowed his stride, his cloak swirling in the soot-tinged wind. He closed his eyes. His staff, warm to the touch, pulsed faintly as he reached out with his mind—not for life, but for the echo of what should not be. The taint of Dormammu’s realm was thick in the fabric of this place. He had been tracking the dark sorcerers for weeks, ever since he had first felt their flickering presence while studying under the mystics of the Mundas tribes. Now, he feared, he had arrived too late.
He crested a rise in the blackened hills and saw a settlement.
It lay in ruin. Smoldering huts sagged inward. Shattered carts and charred remains littered the ground. The cries of the survivors filled the air. A boy, no older than ten, carried what could only be his father’s body in his trembling arms. A woman sat in the mud, cradling a bundle of blood-soaked cloth. The air pulsed with agony, and, worse still, the oily shimmer of eldritch energy danced across the ground like heat mirages.
“I am too late,” Agamotto whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow.
As he approached, the crunch of his boots on scorched earth drew attention. From behind a broken palisade, seven men emerged—tired, bloodied, but brimming with desperate fury. They bore simple weapons: spears fashioned from copper and bone, axes notched from overuse, and knives still slick with blood. They shouted in a tongue that scraped the edges of Agamotto’s memory.
He raised a calm hand and focused. Mystic glyphs shimmered at his throat as he cast a soft spell of translation.
“Peace,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I am a friend. I mean no harm.”
The men surrounded him quickly, forming a loose semicircle. Their hands tightened around their weapons. One of them, a tall man with soot-covered skin and war paint smeared down his cheeks, stepped forward.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Agamotto,” the sorcerer said gently, lowering his staff. “I mean you no harm. I seek only to help.”
Agamotto stepped closer, careful not to provoke fear. His eyes scanned the burning remains, glowing faintly. The taint of the Dark Dimension was still fresh, like an oil slick on reality.
“What happened here?” he asked softly.
The same tall man spoke. “Beasts,” he spat. “They looked like men… but they were animals as well. They came from the forest—eyes red as blood, shadows given life. Their bodies were like smoke and fire. They killed everyone who stood in their way. We do not know what we did to anger the ancestors… what we did to—” His voice broke.
“You have done nothing. These are the works of dark spirits…”
“I can help the wounded,” Agamotto added, stepping closer.
The tall warrior narrowed his eyes. “You are a wise man? A healer?”
Agamotto hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “Yes… I am.”
With cautious eyes still trained on him, the villagers allowed Agamotto to pass. He walked slowly into the remnants of the village, taking in the devastation.
He moved from person to person, kneeling beside the wounded—children burned, men and women with deep lacerations, elders coughing from corrupted air. With each one, Agamotto whispered soft incantations beneath his breath, words that only the winds and spirits could hear. His hands glowed faintly with healing light—subtle and veiled—masked behind gestures that looked like prayer or ritual. The villagers would not know it was magic, and that was the point.
They had seen too much death born of sorcery. They did not need to fear the same from a stranger offering help.
With each wound he mended, Agamotto also purged the lingering taint of the Dark Dimension, drawing it out like venom from a wound. It slithered into his staff, which glowed briefly with the absorbed corruption before purifying itself in silent pulses of golden light.
He worked for hours without pause. When he was done, the land itself had begun to feel lighter. The foul air grew clean, and the oppressive stillness began to lift.
He did not stay long. After seeing the villagers safe, he slipped away, for he still had to hunt the dark sorcerers; it was his purpose, a journey that had begun ten years earlier.
Agamotto came from a tribe of peaceful folk—monks, many outsiders called them—who dwelt high in the great mountains. All of it was taken from him when one sect among them succumbed to Dormammu’s call. They had once been kind and wise, but temptation devoured them from within. Agamotto was the only survivor. He remembered clearly how he lost everything he loved.
That day he swore he would never again allow such darkness to take root.
The years since had been hard. He had studied with mystics, battled spirits, bled in foreign lands, and stared into voids that whispered promises he dared not heed. He had grown in power, yet it was not enough—at least not yet. When he was ready, he would not merely fight Dormammu’s followers; he would seal Dormammu and others like him away from Earth forever, keeping this world beyond their grasp.
Another day of traveling found him hidden among tall, twisted trees at the foot of a stone ridge. In the distance yawned a cave, its mouth like a wound in the mountain’s heart. Faint violet and red light—residue of dark rituals—glimmered at the entrance. And before it, he saw them.
His breath caught.
The figures looked like men, yet not. Humanoid but twisted—hulking, misshapen forms clad in reptilian armor, their eyes glowing like burning coals.
“By Vishanti…” Agamotto whispered. “What is this?”
Could these men have been changed by Dormammu himself? How deep did their depravity run?
Suddenly, one of them turned and spotted him. Agamotto cursed his mistake. They screamed and charged.
Instinct guided his motion. He flung out a hand.
“By the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak—be restrained!”
Ribbons of glowing red force spiraled through the air, wrapping the closest corrupted men. The ground quaked as the bands struck, binding limbs, neck, and torso.
But then—
Crack!
The bands shattered. The corrupted men roared and surged forward, immune to what should have bound them.
Agamotto’s eyes narrowed. These were no ordinary dark sorcerers.
Shrieks pierced the air as the creatures lunged, claws outstretched, crimson eyes ablaze with hate.
Agamotto spun his staff into a defensive stance and raised his other hand, fingers forming intricate gestures. His voice rang with authority:
“Flames of the Faltine, scorch the wicked!”
Blue-white fire burst from the circle of his hand, roaring in a pillar that washed over two charging foes. They shrieked as flames consumed flesh and soul alike, then crumpled to ash.
The rest came on, undeterred.
One hurled a spear-like shard of condensed shadow, hissing with the essence of the Dark Dimension. Agamotto sidestepped and countered.
“Reversal of Raggadorr!”
He sliced a sigil in the air. The shadow bolt froze, twisted, then reversed with doubled speed, slamming into its originator. The impact shattered the creature’s shoulder, sending it to the ground howling.
Yet still more advanced.
Three of them now surrounded him. One closed in with terrifying speed. Agamotto narrowed his eyes.
“Talons of Tyor, tear the soul from flesh!”
A glyph blossomed in the air before him, and from it spectral claws rippled with orange light. They raked the lead attacker, tearing not only its body but its astral form. The creature screamed—a choked, gurgling sound—convulsed, and fell dead.
The remaining pressed their assault, one hurling fire, the other shaping a dark spell. Agamotto’s eyes widened; there was no time to dodge.
“Veil of Valthorr, shield me from ruin!”
His voice boomed, and a dome of overlapping hexagonal glyphs shimmered into existence. The twin blasts struck the barrier, erupting in heat and black fire. The shield held—but only just. Agamotto gritted his teeth as cracks spider-webbed across the sigils.
Then—
A thunderous crack echoed across the battlefield. One corrupted sorcerer flew backward as a golden fist smashed into its chest, caving it in with radiant force.
Through the smoke stepped a tall figure: bronzed skin, short dark hair, eyes blazing with power, fists aglow with golden energy.
Beside him landed a woman clad in radiant white armor, golden hair streaming behind her. A sword gleamed in her hand like a fragment of the sun. With swift, graceful strokes she cut down another corrupted being—first severing its arm, then plunging the blade through its heart.
Agamotto, momentarily startled, seized the opening. Staff raised, he joined the newcomers in a final counter-strike. The trio moved as one: the man’s golden punches cracked ribs and armor; the woman’s blade danced with divine precision; Agamotto’s spells tore at their enemies’ souls.
The last of the corrupted collapsed with a hollow cry, its body dissolving into ash and smoke. Silence settled over the clearing.
Agamotto straightened, breathing hard, staff still glowing faintly. He regarded the two strangers, curiosity glinting in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said simply, nodding in respect.
The man cracked his knuckles and surveyed the smoldering remains. “We’ve been tracking these strange Deviants for days,” he said grimly, his voice rough.
The woman turned her golden gaze on Agamotto. “I am Thena,” she said, lowering her glowing blade, “and this is Gilgamesh.”
“What are you?” Agamotto asked. “Are you, like me, practitioners of the mystic arts?”
“We are Eternals,” Thena simply replied.
Recognition flickered in Agamotto’s eyes. Legends spoke of the Eternals—beings of great power who once walked the Earth.
“I thought you monks never left your great mountains,” Thena remarked, studying him.
“I…I’m the last of my tribe,” Agamotto answered quietly, sorrow threading his words.
Thena’s expression softened. “Then I am sorry for your loss.”
He inclined his head in thanks, then frowned. “You said you’re Eternals, but I thought your kind departed long ago.”
Gilgamesh laughed and folded his massive arms. “Many did, but some of us stayed—to hunt.” He nodded at the steaming remains. “Deviants: plenty still lurk in the shadows…and underground mostly underground.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Agamotto said slowly. “But the old tales claimed the gods destroyed them for their cruelty and misdeeds.”
Gilgamesh chuckled.
“‘The gods’ may have crushed their empires,” Thena said with a wry smile, “but many Deviants survived—underground, festering, still dangerous.” Her gaze drifted to the cave mouth.
“Do you know why these Deviants seem different? They’re usually not this hard to kill,” she added.
Agamotto’s expression darkened. “They’ve aligned themselves with Dormammu, the Destroyer of Worlds.”
Thena’s brows knit. “That explains it. They’ve fallen even further than I imagined they could have.”
“They still die the same, dear—just a bit harder,” Gilgamesh muttered.
“No,” Agamotto said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. If enough of them pledge themselves to Dormammu and succeed in summoning him, he will devour this world—this entire dimension.”
Gilgamesh’s face turned solemn. “Well… that’s not good.”
Thena lifted her sword toward the cavern. “Then we end it here. Whatever they’re planning—whatever remains—stops now.”
Agamotto raised a hand. “Wait. We need to learn more first. If they’re truly aligned with Dormammu—”
He couldn’t finish.
The air split with a violent crack, and portals burst open all around them.
Figures emerged—towering, misshapen Deviants wrapped in smoky tendrils of shadow. Their blood-red eyes glowed, and twisted limbs throbbed with arcane runes. Some wore the same reptilian armor as before; others seemed clad in darkness itself. The taint of the Dark Dimension oozed from their skin like a disease.
Radiant energy flared around Agamotto as glowing mandalas spun over his forearms, and his staff levitated behind him, pulsing with light. Thena raised her golden sword, and Gilgamesh’s fists blazed with golden power.
“This was a—” Agamotto began.
“—trap,” Thena and Gilgamesh finished together, eyes narrowing as the corrupted horde closed in.
=====
The forest trembled as shadows spilled from every corner, thickening like smoke. The corrupted Deviants encircled them—twenty—no, more than forty, perhaps even more—twisted bodies writhing with the taint of the Dark Dimension. From behind every boulder, tree, and slope they emerged, their glowing crimson eyes piercing the gloom. Arcane runes pulsed along their skin.
“Oh, look at that—they’re even less intelligent than before,” Gilgamesh muttered.
“This is not the time for jokes, my dear,” Thena replied, quickly assessing the situation.
Then, from the mouth of the cave, a greater horror appeared.
Marching in grim formation, more than fifty Deviants stepped into view—larger, more heavily armored, each bearing plates etched with burning red sigils. They parted as a towering figure emerged behind them.
He was unlike the rest.
His body was encased in purple armor shaped like overlapping mandalas—dark, angular, alive with malevolent energy. His eyes burned like twin embers, and crackling ribbons of chaotic magic shimmered around his hands. He walked with the calm of a man who believed the battle already won.
“Ahhh,” the leader breathed, spreading his arms wide, his voice a rasping thunder. “All three hunters, cornered like prey. You’ve made this far too easy.”
Agamotto stepped forward, golden glyphs spinning over his palms. “You’re playing with forces you don’t understand,” he warned, voice calm but stern. “You court destruction—”
“Silence. I will not be lectured by a lesser being,” the leader snarled.
His burning gaze shifted to Thena and Gilgamesh. “And as for you, Eternals… it will be a pleasure to erase you from this world. My fallen brothers and sisters scream for vengeance.”
Gilgamesh growled; Thena merely narrowed her eyes.
The leader raised his arms, power crackling. “Dormammu will come. The pact will be fulfilled. My emissaries already move across the globe, awakening our hidden kin to his glory. Soon even the great Celestials will tremble before our might.”
Thena rolled her eyes. “Will you please stop talking?”
She hurled her blade, a streak of golden light. With a casual flick, the leader caught it midair and lifted it above his head, grinning like a predator.
“Kill them.”
The corrupted horde roared in unison and charged.
The battle had begun.
Dozens of corrupted Deviants surged from all sides. Fire laced with shadow burst from their hands, streaking toward Agamotto and his Eternal allies.
“By the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak, be restrained!” Agamotto cried.
Ribbons of glowing crimson magic spiraled from his hands and wrapped around five charging Deviants, snapping them to a halt in mid-air. The bands coiled tighter, constricting until the creatures screamed and disintegrated in flashes of cursed smoke.
But more took their place.
Thena danced through the horde, her golden blade flashing like liquid light. She carved down two in a blink, ducked a bolt of dark energy—and gasped as a third struck her shoulder. She staggered, her blade flickering.
Gilgamesh, fists sheathed in golden energy, roared and smashed a snarling Deviant’s face, caving it in. He turned—only to be struck by a barrage of dark fire. His armor cracked, and he dropped to one knee.
Agamotto’s eyes widened. “Veil of Valthorr!”
A dome of hexagonal glyphs shimmered around Thena and Gilgamesh just in time, absorbing a storm of shadowy projectiles. The veil pulsed, buckled, but held—for now.
The Deviants circled them like wolves. One stepped forward and unleashed a torrent of black flame.
“Reversal of Raggadorr!” Agamotto roared.
The blast twisted mid-air, reversed course, and struck its caster with twice the force. The Deviant exploded in a cloud of bone and ash, yet the others did not slow.
One after another they hurled corrupted spells, darkening the sky with arcane fury. The veil cracked.
Agamotto raised both hands, a new spell forming between his fingers. “Flames of the Faltine—scorch the wicked!”
Blue-white fire burst outward in a wide arc, igniting half a dozen Deviants, burning through their bodies and into the foul spiritual essence beneath.
But still more came.
“Spear of Seraphim, strike true!” Agamotto cried, summoning a searing white spear. He hurled it, and it streaked toward a tall Deviant channeling power near the cave entrance. The spear exploded against its chest, collapsing part of the cliff with the creature beneath the rubble.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Gilgamesh bled from several wounds, and Thena had dropped to one knee. Agamotto felt his energy draining; the shield flickered. All around them the Deviants chanted, weaving a vast summoning spell.
The eternals had paid dearly for underestimating their foes.
They were outnumbered.
Outmatched.
The barrier would not last another minute.
Agamotto stepped forward, arms spread wide, and summoned every drop of power he had.
“Chains of Krakkan—bind the void-born!” he roared.
Dark, glistening chains erupted from the earth, piercing stone and air alike. They phased through solid matter and wrapped around the chanting Deviants—binding limbs, sealing mouths, shackling thoughts. The incantation shattered; the summoning was halted.
The backlash was fierce. Agamotto staggered, blood trickling from his nose, vision blurring as he retreated inside the shield beside Thena and Gilgamesh.
“We need to retreat,” Thena whispered.
Agamotto forced one more spell through trembling lips. “Arc of An’arach—strike across the veil!”
A blade of pure energy carved through the air, splitting into a dozen slashing waves that phased through rock and flesh alike. Deviants collapsed in silent heaps, their corrupted souls severed.
Yet more poured from the cave. Outside the dome, the remaining horde massed for a final assault. The shield cracked again—harder, deeper. Agamotto dropped to one knee. Gilgamesh tried to rise and failed. Thena’s blade flickered out.
They were going to die.
====
Gilgamesh coughed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth as he clutched his side. “Damn… not like this,” he muttered, his voice thick with pain and fury.
Thena knelt beside him, her white gold armor cracked, hands pressed over the deep wound in his ribs, glowing faintly with what little healing energy she had left. “We should have been more careful.”
She glanced up. The shield was crackling, and Agamotto stood hunched and shaking, both arms raised, fingers trembling as he held the Veil of Valthorr in place. Glyphs of shimmering orange light spun around him, cracking and shuddering under the unrelenting pressure of the Deviants outside.
Gilgamesh looked to him, teeth gritted. “Sorcerer… any more tricks up your sleeve?”
Agamotto didn’t look back. “None, I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “I’m holding the last of my strength in this shield.”
Outside the barrier, the corrupted horde—runed in purple and black—closed in for the final blow. Their leader, the purple-armored Deviant whose ember eyes burned with fanatic rage, raised his hand to give the signal.
This is the end, Agamotto thought, sorrow flooding his heart. The world will be consumed by Dormammu.
He prayed to every god he knew—from his own tribe, and from every culture he had encountered—for help.
And then the sky changed.
A sudden boom cracked the heavens. The wind died. The clouds turned black as iron.
Thena looked up sharply. “What… is this?”
Agamotto’s eyes widened. “This isn’t me,” he whispered.
The Deviants paused, glancing skyward; even their leader hesitated.
A green pillar of light split the clouds above.
It surged from the ground—Agamotto could not sense it, and he was certain it was not mystical.
The thunderheads shifted, green veins of light coursing through them. Lightning flashed emerald and then it fell.
BOOM.
The first bolt struck the center of the Deviant ranks, vaporizing a dozen in an instant.
Then another. And another.
Green lightning rained down.
Dozens of bolts slammed into the field like judgment from the cosmos itself. Every strike found its mark. Each Deviant touched by the light screamed—then vanished, their corrupted forms burned from existence, body and soul alike.
Their leader wheeled around, raising a hand in defiance. “No! This isn’t—!”
CRACK.
A bolt of emerald lightning smote him, vaporizing him where he stood.
It was over in moments.
Smoke curled from scorched earth. The surrounding trees were blackened silhouettes. Where a horde of Deviants had stood, only silence remained.
Thena stared.
Gilgamesh coughed again, muttering, “That… wasn’t you either, huh?”
Agamotto said nothing. His hands dropped as the last embers of the shield flickered out. Ragged breath tore from his lungs; his robes were scorched and torn, yet he hurried to Gilgamesh’s side.
“Hold still,” he murmured, pressing glowing fingers to the Eternal’s wound. “By the Grace of the Seraphim—mend and restore.”
Soft golden light flowed from his hands. Gilgamesh winced, then grunted gratefully as flesh knitted together beneath Agamotto’s touch.
Thena stood guard, sword in hand, her gaze turning northward. “I feel them,” she said quietly. “Two… coming from the north.”
Gilgamesh sat up with a groan. “More enemies?”
“Perhaps our saviors,” Agamotto answered, scanning the horizon.
Then they heard voices—muffled, approaching.
“See? I told you it would work.”
“Well, you proved me wrong, Odin. That was amazing.”
“Think of the other combinations we could try!”
“I have a few in mind already—wait, don’t speak so loud… I think they can hear us.”
“Oh, right.”
Thena rolled her eyes and called out, “We’ve already heard you. If you’re not enemies, approach without fear.”
A pause…then, from between the trees, two figures emerged.
The first newcomer was tall and broad-shouldered, a red cloak draped over a blue tunic. In his hand he held a hammer that still crackled with lingering lightning.
The second figure hovered just above the ground, encased in glowing green armor. An emerald-and-white symbol blazed on his chest. He floated and looked down at them eyes sharp as they took in every detail.
The green-armored man offered a friendly smile. “Hello,” he said.
Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow. “And who are you two?”
The hammer-wielder stepped forward. “I am Odin Borson, Prince of Asgard,” he declared, his voice resonant with noble pride. “And this,” he added, gesturing to his companion, “is my battle-brother Grænlaðr.”
“Green Lantern,” the other man corrected with a grin. “Or just Lantern, if that’s easier.”
He glanced at the scorched battlefield. “You looked like you could use some help.”
Agamotto blinked, taking in the two arrivals—Eternals, Deviants who worshiped Dormammu, and now these strangers from wherever they came from.
“This,” he said wearily, “truly is the strangest day of my life.”
.
.
Max is on earth finally and have met some locals.
Comments
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
