Ashes of the Supreme

Inside the Sanctum of New York, what was once a majestic and golden sanctuary now lay in ruins. The sanctum, which had long stood as one of the key anchors protecting Earth from interdimensional threats, had just been destroyed by a band of Dormammu's zealots led by none other than Kaecilius. With the magical nexus severed, the sanctum was no longer capable of fulfilling its sacred duty.

In the midst of the rubble stood Mordo, motionless and hollow-eyed, as if his soul had been sucked out. He was a man of discipline and order—rigid to the core. From the moment he had first stepped into Kamar-Taj, Mordo had revered the Ancient One with absolute devotion. To him, she had always been the perfect mentor—powerful, wise, and incorruptible. She was his guiding star in a chaotic universe.

But now, everything had changed.

Kaecilius's words still echoed through his mind like a curse:

"Do you know why the Ancient One lived so long? Do you know why she forbade you from reading certain books? It's because she secretly drew power from the Dark Dimension—from Dormammu himself!"

That mocking laughter. That sneering voice. It had cracked Mordo's world apart. The very foundation of his belief system—his loyalty, his discipline—had been built upon a lie.

What could be more crushing than finding out that your mentor, the person you trusted most, was secretly consorting with a cosmic horror?

A golden light shimmered across the debris-strewn floor as the new Sorcerer Supreme arrived—Doctor Stephen Strange, clad in his crimson Cloak of Levitation.

Once a world-renowned neurosurgeon, Strange had lost the use of his hands in a devastating accident. Desperate to heal himself, he had traveled across the globe and finally found Kamar-Taj. Under the Ancient One's guidance, he had awakened to a new destiny—one shaped not by scalpel and science, but by spell and sorcery. In mere months, he had surpassed most of his peers in magical talent, and he continued to grow stronger by the day.

At first, Strange had rejected the responsibilities of the Sorcerer Supreme. It wasn't until he watched the Ancient One fall to her death, and later spoke with her soul in the Astral Plane, that he finally understood the weight of the mantle—and accepted it.

Now, with Dormammu's cult preparing for the dark god's return, Strange knew the Earth needed every defender it could get.

"She's gone," Strange said quietly, walking to Mordo's side. His voice was soft but carried the weight of finality.

"Hahaha... yes." Mordo laughed bitterly, tears streaming down his face. "You were right. She wasn't the person we thought she was."

"She... was conflicted," Strange admitted, unsure if "conflicted" was even the right word for someone as enigmatic as the Ancient One. Still, that's what she had felt like to him—torn between light and shadow.

"Conflicted?" Mordo let out a derisive chuckle, as though Strange had told a joke. "Yes, that's a good word. She was conflicted all right. If she could draw on the Dark Dimension, why didn't she take all its power? Why not become the next god of darkness herself?"

His voice grew sharp with rage. "She warned us not to touch the dark. Told us to stay pure. Yet she fed on it herself! Lived for centuries while preaching against the very power that sustained her!"

Strange remained silent, unsure how to comfort someone whose entire worldview had collapsed.

He knew Mordo better now—had come to understand the man's mind. Mordo wasn't just a rule-follower; he was the rules. He didn't bend, didn't compromise. To see the person he revered most break those very rules? It was a betrayal too great to bear.

"HAHAHAHA!" Mordo cackled, his eyes wild. "Her hypocrisy gave Dormammu more followers than any other act. Even Kaecilius—Kaecilius!—was once her proudest student. We were all her pawns... on her little cosmic chessboard. What a magnificent Sorcerer Supreme!"

"Spare us the drama, Mordo."

A third voice rang out, calm but cutting. A golden portal opened beside them, and out stepped Gene Mason—his signature V-shaped visor glowing faintly.

"Perhaps the Ancient One made mistakes," Gene said, his tone as sharp as his gaze, "but you're in no place to judge her."

Mordo turned to face Gene—his former brother-in-arms. But there was no warmth in his eyes, no flicker of joy at seeing an old comrade again. Only contempt.

Gene Mason—the only mechanical lifeform ever accepted as a student by the Ancient One. A deviation. An anomaly. A walking paradox. To Mordo, Gene's very existence was an affront to the order of magic.

While Mordo adhered to tradition with religious fervor, Gene had always taken a different path—fusing arcane magic with raw technology, constantly challenging the sanctity of the rules that Mordo held sacred.

Yes, Mordo had talent. But he clung to structure like a lifeline, unwilling to take even a single step outside it. Even if it meant denying reality. Even if it meant blind obedience to a flawed ideal.

Gene, on the other hand, was a free radical—an artificial being with no fear of convention. He had no reverence for rules unless they served a purpose. Mordo had once warned him, time and time again, that playing fast and loose with magical laws would invite karmic retribution.

Gene had never listened. He had only ever smirked in response.

And truthfully, Gene didn't think much of Mordo either. To him, Mordo was a bottleneck—a man obsessed with obedience, who expected the universe to align with his personal dogma.

Gene's mind was like a superhighway—rapid, linear, unstoppable. Anyone who didn't follow his logic, his precision, was simply an obstacle in the way.

He had no patience for men like Mordo.

And Mordo? He could never accept that a "soulless machine" could wield magic better than most humans.

Their mutual disdain was absolute.

And now, with the sanctums failing and the shadows deepening, the tension between them would either ignite... or be forced to stand united against the darkness to come.

But one thing was certain—this was no longer a battle of faith or pride.

This was war.

And the enemy was already at the gates.

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T/N:

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