The Sanctum Sanctorum—the very nexus of arcane and mystical power on Earth.
Protected by layers of formidable enchantments, it was a place no ordinary person could step into uninvited. Many occult scholars had sought the secrets of sorcery, but none ever imagined that one of the greatest magical strongholds in the world would lie quietly on an ordinary street in New York City.
[Those mist barriers didn't slow you down at all.]
"Yes. They didn't stop me—or more accurately, they lacked will or consciousness of their own. If I had to guess, this mist is residual energy from a defensive ward that's been violently shattered. Whatever force broke it must've been powerful enough to reduce hardened magical energy to vapor."
Alex muttered to himself as he ascended the steps. The mist didn't stir at his presence—it was as though he didn't even register.
[But it's still effective, isn't it? No one's stumbled upon this place for years. There must still be enough latent force to keep regular people away.]
Miss Minutes floated just behind Alex, her glowing form surveying the abandoned sanctum.
"Yes, it's still doing its job. The residual arcane field is still rejecting non-sorcerers."
Alex smirked, continuing his explanation.
"If I were truly a regular person, this place wouldn't have let me through. But even though I've sealed away all my magic, I'm still a sorcerer by nature. That paradox confuses the wards—I guess I just glitched the system."
He reached the entrance without resistance. The brass handle was dull, the ring-shaped knocker sagging limply on the ancient door, flecks of corrosion eating into its edges. Even without the Eye of Agamotto, Alex could tell the magical sigils etched into the metal had long lost their power.
He lifted his hand, gripped the handle, and gave it a gentle push. A low creak echoed out as the door slowly gave way.
Only a narrow gap opened, but from that sliver alone came a chilling draft—like stepping into a room with the AC dialed down to subzero. The cavernous space inside echoed with a deep groan, like wind whispering through a canyon.
Alex hesitated.
Push it open or close it?
Beside him, Miss Minutes picked up on his reluctance and gave a dramatic shrug.
[It looks abandoned… but you know magic. Who's to say some ancient horror isn't sealed away in there? If Pietro were here, we could just send him in first to scout.]
At that, Alex's expression changed.
He smiled.
That alone made Miss Minutes visibly shiver.
[W-wait… my Lord… what are you doing?]
"I just think," Alex said with a grin, reaching out and seizing her shimmering body, which suddenly turned solid in his grasp, "that you've got an excellent idea."
[W-WAIT—]
Too late.
"Off you go!"
With a practiced flick, Alex hurled Miss Minutes like a glowing frisbee straight through the crack in the door. Her golden-orange aura lit the pitch-black interior for a moment, revealing a dusty corridor and hints of ancient relics.
Alex didn't close the door behind her. He left it open just enough and leaned in, pressing his ear to the wood, listening for any signs of trouble.
After a few tense seconds...
Retching sounds echoed from within.
She was dizzy—but not dead.
"I'm going to assume that's our all-clear."
With that, Alex nodded, placed his hand firmly on the door, and pushed it wide open. Then he stepped into the Sanctum Sanctorum.
A chill wind swept in from the front—cold, but harmless. No magical traps sprang to life. No arcane defenses activated. The grand hall of the Sanctum Sanctorum was deathly still.
[My Lord, allow me to remind you once again... this is not how I was meant to be used.]
Miss Minutes drifted toward Alex with dazed, spiraling eyes, still recovering from being hurled like a frisbee into the ancient sanctum.
Alex ignored her.
Instead, he reached into his coat, pulled out a flashlight, gave it a shake, and flipped it on.
A bright white beam sliced through the oppressive darkness. The moment the light hit, the shroud of blackness seemed to retreat just enough for him to take in his surroundings.
Scattered throughout the room were artifacts and mystical constructs—sigil-etched relics, ritual components, and arcane devices. Dead center stood a grand dual-spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. Along the far wall, a dusty cabinet contained strange, pickled limbs of unknown magical creatures.
"You know," Alex muttered, sweeping the beam across the room, "I've always wondered something. Why is it that, in every story, when someone enters a dark and creepy place, their first instinct is to pull out a flashlight? Don't they realize that the moment they turn it on, whatever's lurking in the dark will see them first?"
[So? What's your conclusion now?] Miss Minutes asked, floating beside him.
"Now?" Alex smirked. "Now I know that even if it gives away your position… stumbling around in pitch-black unknowns is way worse."
Maybe it was just because it was the middle of the night outside, or maybe some darker enchantment was at work, but even with windows all around, the Sanctum remained locked in total darkness—like the building itself refused to let in light.
Alex's flashlight beam caught on shattered glass strewn across the floor. It looked like a battle had broken out here. Magical items lay discarded in corners and under debris, but they were inert now—nothing more than ordinary relics, their enchantments long faded into silence.
Alex casually picked up a wooden stick from the floor. Judging by its design, it must have once been a sorcerer's staff—but now, it was no different from firewood.
"What the hell is this…"
His brow furrowed as a ripple of unease passed through his mind.
To be honest, when Alex first discovered that the Sanctum Sanctorum existed in this universe, he felt a deep sense of unease. In his understanding, there was no version of the X-Men universe where Doctor Strange—or sorcerers, for that matter—should exist.
And yet, here it was.
The Sanctum Sanctorum stood before him, real and unmistakable. That contradiction sparked a curiosity deep inside him.
The history of sorcery dated back far beyond that of mutants—ancient, vast, and deeply rooted. If sorcerers had once been active in this world, that would mean this universe had once been under their protection. If that were true, then there's no way it should have fallen into such a chaotic and broken state.
Unless… something had happened to the sorcerers.
Climbing the staircase to the second floor, Alex found the damage there was even worse. Everything was shattered and tossed across the floor. The once-elegant carpet was tainted with traces of dark magic, and faint sobbing echoed through the air.
"Necromancy?" Alex muttered, frowning. Ever since he absorbed the powers of the Shadow King, he had become incredibly sensitive to such energy. The atmosphere here reminded him uncomfortably of Emma's orphanage.
Pressing forward, he stopped at the threshold of a small corner room.
He reached out and slowly pushed the door open, raising his flashlight and shining it inside.
With a soft creak, the hinges groaned, and the beam of light pierced the room's shadows. But the moment the scene became visible, Alex's hand trembled violently. His pulse spiked, and a cold sweat broke across his forehead.
There, in the center of the room, a figure sat silently in a chair, back turned to the door.
Alex couldn't see the person's face. But in such a pitch-black, long-abandoned sanctum, the sudden presence of another human figure was enough to jolt him like a lightning strike.
He instinctively took two steps back, feeling his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to calm his breathing.
Alex steadied his flashlight and aimed the beam back at the figure. The silhouette remained motionless. He glanced toward Miss Minutes.
["No signs of life detected."]
Hearing that, Alex nodded thoughtfully.
Even the undead, she once told him, registered some form of "life" to her perception. After all, to a higher-dimensional construct like Miss Minutes, a soul was still a continuation of existence.
If she claimed there was no life here, that meant it wasn't just physically dead—there was nothing, not even a soul. No presence, no echo, no imprint.
Feeling a bit more at ease, Alex drew his sidearm, preparing for the worst as he cautiously moved into the room.
Keeping to the wall, he circled around to face the figure. It turned out to be a man—long deceased, his body completely desiccated.
Alex couldn't immediately identify who the corpse had once been, but the cause of death seemed evident: a gaping wound in the abdomen. He couldn't sense magic anymore, but judging from the nature of the wound, it looked like the kind of corruption left by a spell like Winds of Decay, a destructive black magic.
The corpse had dried into a grotesque mummy-like state, yet his clothing remained completely intact. Either some kind of magical protection had been cast on them, or the fabric was made of some unusual material.
The dead man sat frozen in the posture of his final moments—upright and rigid. In his hands, clutched tightly, was a book bound in black leather. At first glance, it resembled a spellbook.
Alex leaned forward and carefully pried it from the cadaver's grip.
Signaling Miss Minutes to watch for any danger, Alex took a seat at a nearby desk and began flipping through the book under the flashlight's pale beam.
To his surprise, it wasn't a spellbook at all—it was more like a journal.
---
"January 1, 2000"
"A mystic and scientist named Huey Everett once proposed a fascinating theory: the existence of a finite or infinite collection of possible universes—an ensemble of realities that coexist alongside space, time, matter, and energy."
"In short: the multiverse theory."
"The past, present, and future of our universe are fixed—a linear wavelength unchangeable by outside influence."
"But recently, according to my mentor, the Ancient One…"
"…our history is being rewritten—by something unknown!"
......
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