Chapter 339

The interior space of the magic suitcase: Lockhart's magic research room.

Lockhart stood alone in the center of the vast, dimly lit room. The polished stone floor beneath him was etched with a grid of thin, glowing lines, lending the space an almost surreal, geometric clarity. On the walls, countless magic tomes hummed softly, each exuding a faint aura of energy—some pulsated with deep crimson light, others glowed faintly blue or green. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old parchment, ink, and faint traces of alchemical herbs.

Before him floated a large, burgundy-covered book, its pages lined with intricate symbols and inscriptions. The book hovered at eye level, allowing Lockhart to read the entire page with only a slight incline of his head. Occasionally, he murmured to himself, his fingers tracing the faint glyphs suspended in the air. At other times, he would pause, furrowing his brow as if pondering some deep mystery, before finally muttering under his breath and flicking a finger to turn the page.

The burgundy book bore the title in silver script: A Preliminary Study of Chaos Magic.

"Chaos magic is the power of magic," he read aloud softly, "not of will, nor of belief."

…

"Illusion and matter, dreams and reality—both are equivalent in the hands of those who wield chaos magic."

…

"The power of chaos is vast, yet inherently twisted. Those who reach toward it will find themselves unmoored; their minds and souls edging closer to the brink of madness."

Lockhart murmured to himself, scanning the text, piecing together the remnants of what he'd learned in the past, trying to merge the knowledge into a cohesive understanding.

"Flame," he whispered.

A small sphere of flame flared into existence before him, hovering mid-air. Any ordinary sorcerer would have immediately noticed something strange about this flame; no magical energy radiated from it, as if it existed by some natural, unexplainable means. Lockhart observed it for a moment, nodding slightly as he adjusted the formation.

Then he uttered, "Water."

At his command, a glistening stream of water appeared beside the flame, drifting in mid-air, shimmering and pristine.

Lockhart's gaze shifted between the flame and the water, a determined glint in his eye as he uttered a third word: "Life."

Instantly, the flame flickered with renewed intensity, crackling energetically, while the water rippled and swirled as though alive. Lockhart's eyes glinted with a faint, golden light as he focused his will. The flame began to contort, limbs forming as the fire took on a roughly humanoid shape, its tiny flame-eyes blinking up at him curiously. It swayed and hopped in place, a childlike quality to its movements.

Beside it, the water stream shifted, forming a small, transparent figure mirroring the flaming one. The two little elemental beings noticed each other, extending their tiny arms. When they touched, instead of evaporating, they merged together, creating a small translucent figure with glowing tendrils of fire swirling within it, like veins filled with molten energy.

Lockhart watched, silent and tense. He released a measured breath, the faint white mist dissipating as it passed over the small creature.

As he looked on, the creature's form began to change; it took on a plastic-like sheen, a milky translucence replacing its fiery veins until it resembled nothing more than a doll of white plastic.

Lockhart's expression turned grim. Once again, failure, he thought.

Each attempt followed the same pattern. Bringing forth the elements and infusing them with vitality was straightforward, but guiding them into sentience—to bridge that final threshold—always led to unintended mutations. This time, his work had yielded nothing but another lifeless shell.

Chaos magic, he mused, touches not just energy, but the underlying concepts of reality itself.

His mind flicked back to the chaos magic texts recommended by the Ancient One, and to the memory of Master David's work on it. Unlike ordinary magic, chaos magic wasn't bound to a singular purpose or energy source; it wove through the raw fabric of existence, transforming concepts into reality. While most magic dealt with the energies of fire, wind, or light, chaos magic allowed him to shape the very idea of those elements, bypassing energy and channeling concept itself.

For example, a flame granted the concept of eternity would burn indefinitely, so long as the concept remained unbroken. But typical magic relied on a constant influx of energy; chaos magic, in contrast, anchored the existence of things in the very framework of reality.

But bringing forth true life within these concepts proved complex, each trial revealing new layers of instability. Frustrated, he glanced at the plastic doll, its shape unresponsive. Lockhart sighed, summoning a small flame to reduce it to a pile of ashes that scattered into nothingness.

He returned to the burgundy tome, the warnings of past Kamar-Taj sorcerers echoing in his mind. Chaos magic, though powerful, was treacherous. It demanded an ironclad mind, as any error in invoking a concept could lead to disastrous, unintended effects. Many sorcerers had lost their minds, succumbing to distortion and madness.

Lockhart knew he was different. After undergoing a transformation that had deepened his understanding of the soul, he could grasp some of these elusive concepts more easily. His unique wizarding talent, intertwined with chaos magic, offered an edge he could not ignore.

And yet, the mystery remained. Concepts like fire, water, life, and creation pulsed through his mind, elusive yet tantalizingly close. With a determined glance, Lockhart returned to his studies, ready to probe even deeper.

His thoughts were interrupted by a warm sensation on his right arm. Glancing down, he noticed the golden dragon mark flickering softly. A message pulsed into his mind—an update from Rumlow, his contact within S.H.I.E.L.D.

Since gaining control of Sitwell, Lockhart had subtly woven a network within Hydra. With Sitwell's cooperation, he'd managed to bring other agents into his influence, including Rumlow. Although Hydra kept its members isolated, with minimal contact, his influence within the organization was growing steadily.

Lockhart's ambitions with Hydra remained secondary to his study of magic. If he could reach the strength of the Sorcerer Supreme, even Hydra would be but a stepping stone in his path.

Eastern Europe, Sokovia

A dilapidated city sprawled under the bright afternoon sun, its streets crowded and dusty. Smooth roads were rare; most were covered with uneven dirt, and the few asphalt roads were filled with cracks. A thick haze of dust hung in the air as vehicles sped by, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.

Along the crowded main road, vendors had set up makeshift stalls. Middle-aged shopkeepers sat on crates or leaned against their stands, either fanning themselves in the heat or engaging in idle conversation. The city bustled with noise—the sound of bargaining, laughter, and the occasional argument.

A battered car attempted to inch forward in the congested traffic, its driver honking impatiently. Frustrated drivers leaned out of windows, their voices raised in annoyance. The relentless heat seemed to amplify their agitation.

At the heart of the jam, two cars lay crumpled across the road, evidence of a recent collision. A small crowd had gathered to watch, while two rival groups of men argued loudly, each side brandishing crude weapons and shouting over the other.

Nearby, a few officers in police uniforms loitered casually, watching the scene unfold with little interest. Vendors and pedestrians looked on as if this were a regular occurrence, their faces showing neither surprise nor concern.

Amid the chaos, few noticed the young girl of fifteen who moved quietly from stall to stall, accompanied by a boy around the same age. They slipped through the crowd, occasionally reaching out to swipe a piece of fruit or a loaf of bread from an unwatched stand, slipping their finds into a small, bulging bag.

"Pietro, hurry up," Wanda whispered urgently, her eyes darting around. "We've got enough for now. Let's go before anyone realizes."

Her twin brother, Pietro, glanced at his bag and nodded. "Alright," he murmured, pulling his bag closer.

Though the stall owners' attention remained on the gang confrontation, Wanda knew their luck wouldn't last. She increased her pace, guiding Pietro along as they weaved through the crowd and slipped into a narrow side alley.

Once in the relative safety of the alleyway, the two stopped to inspect their spoils. They exchanged grins, brightened by the success of their scavenging.

"Look what I managed to grab!" Wanda held up a small jar, her eyes glinting with excitement. "Your favorite—chocolate."

Pietro's eyes widened, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Wanda, can we have some now?" he asked, his voice barely concealing his eagerness.

She glanced around to make sure they were alone, then nodded. "Alright, just a bit. We need to make it last."

They settled against the alley wall as Wanda opened the jar, revealing small, round chocolate balls inside. She poured a few into Pietro's hands, and he devoured them eagerly, savoring each piece. She took one for herself, letting the sweetness melt on her tongue, a rare moment of comfort in their challenging lives.

But as she dug further into the bag, Wanda's smile faded. Her hand closed around a thin magazine she'd picked up, the cover emblazoned with a face that was all too familiar.

Glaring at the image, she turned to Pietro, holding up the magazine's cover with a scowl. "Remember this face, Pietro," she said coldly, her voice hardened by anger and grief. "Tony Stark. Iron Man. He's the one who killed our parents. The reason our family was destroyed."

Her words hung heavy in the air, a bitter reminder of their past.

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