Marvel: My Genius Is Almost Frightening!

"Execute him!" barked the captain of the TVA execution squad, his voice sharp and commanding, echoing through the space like a gavel striking a death sentence.

The mission was clear: eliminate the anomaly, the so-called "Octavian," who had appeared in this timeline.

One junior officer, whose very existence seemed to revolve around bootlicking authority figures, snapped to attention.

His name was Aron, and if brown-nosing were an Olympic sport, this guy would've already brought home gold, silver, and bronze.

Aron straightened up, puffed out his chest, and said with enthusiasm that reeked of desperation: "Aye aye, Captain!"

He drew his weapon—a time stick, though it looked suspiciously like a cheap knockoff from the TVA clearance rack.

It wasn't one of those fancy models that could zap you into the void. No, this was the budget version, capable only of ending someone's life. Aron, however, wielded it like Excalibur.

While Aron oozed enthusiasm, the rest of the team exchanged glances that collectively said, "Ah, shit. Here we go again."

Aron's relentless sycophancy wasn't just annoying—it was legendary. He was the guy who brought donuts for the captain every morning but made sure everyone knew about it.

The guy who volunteered for overtime only when the captain was watching. Someday, Aron might be remembered TVA-wide, if not for his bootlicking skills, then at least for being a cautionary tale.

"Captain! I'll carry out this mission ri—" Aron began, his voice dripping with misplaced confidence. But before he could finish his sentence, the universe itself seemed to intervene.

BOOM!

In an instant, Aron's head exploded like an overripe watermelon under a hydraulic press. Bits of skull and brain matter scattered everywhere, painting the once-sterile scene with a grotesque masterpiece of gore. The rest of the squad froze, their faces a mix of shock and confusion.

Aron's body swayed for a moment, as if deciding whether to acknowledge what had just happened, before collapsing unceremoniously to the ground.

"...the hell just happened?" one officer muttered, eyes darting around the room like a squirrel on caffeine.

Octavian, meanwhile, stood nonchalantly amidst the chaos, examining his fingernails as though Aron's untimely demise was a mere inconvenience. He didn't even glance at the carnage.

Octavian sighed, his golden eyes flickering with mild disinterest as he glanced at the mess Aron had become. He muttered under his breath, "Another monkey down. Moving on."

It wasn't callous—it was just Octavian's way. Everyone else in the room? Monkeys. Noise. Barely worth his notice.

The truth was, Octavian hadn't even intended for Aron to go out like that. In his relentless pursuit to understand teleportation, he'd unintentionally created something akin to a fireball attack.

He didn't even know what to call it yet. "An accident with flair," he mused silently.

The TVA squad, however, wasn't processing this so casually. They thought they were dealing with an ordinary anomaly—a glitch in the timeline, a problem to be fixed with brute force and protocol.

They were about to discover, in the most humiliating way possible, just how far out of their league they were.

Then, without warning, Octavian's entire demeanor shifted. The once-majestic god-like figure, who seemed to view the world with cold, detached superiority, suddenly transformed into something entirely different.

His expression lit up with childlike glee, his grin stretching ear to ear.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! DID YOU SEE THAT?!" he bellowed, doubling over in laughter. "HIS HEAD WENT LIKE... BOOM! JUST SPLATTERED EVERYWHERE!" He even mimed the explosion with his hands, complete with sound effects, because why not?

The TVA squad, still frozen in shock, exchanged confused glances. Was this guy serious? One moment he was some terrifying demigod, and now he was acting like a kid who'd just discovered bubble wrap.

Octavian wasn't concerned with their reactions. He was too caught up in his excitement. The truth was, he hadn't intended to kill Aron—he'd been too busy trying to wrap his mind around teleportation.

He'd been exploring whether he could create a portal or perhaps manipulate space-time to his will.

(Spoiler alert: Yes, he could. He could do just about anything if he put his mind to it.)

In the process, however, he'd accidentally released a surge of energy. Apparently, that surge had a knack for turning arrogant fools into a Picasso of brain matter.

How did he did that though? 

Let's go back Some seconds earlier when bro was trying to comprehend teleportation 

As Octavian's mind wandered, his golden eyes sparkled with curiosity. The concept of teleportation intrigued him.

While the rest of the room dissolved into chaos, he delved into his thoughts, completely detached from his surroundings.

"Teleportation," he mused silently. "If I'm moving from point A to point B without traversing the space in between, then logically, I must either bypass the spatial dimensions or manipulate them.

But how? Bypassing space could mean folding dimensions, but if I fold them, what happens to the matter already occupying the folded space?

Would it compress or displace? Compression could result in an implosion, while displacement might leave a void. And would that void be stable?"

His thoughts deepened, unfazed by the flickering lights around him.

"Another option is breaking down my body into its most fundamental particles and reconstructing it at the destination.

Quantum entanglement could work—if I can entangle every atom in my body with a corresponding particle at the destination. But maintaining quantum coherence across such a distance without decoherence... hmm.

That would require near-absolute isolation from environmental variables, or perhaps a temporal lock to freeze the system in place during transit."

Octavian tapped his chin, glancing briefly at the orange portal the TVA squad had emerged from. "What about their method? These jokers are obviously bending reality somehow.

Could it be a localized wormhole? That would explain the appearance of the portal—a visual representation of space being bent to create a shortcut.

But the energy required for such an event... astronomical. Are they harnessing exotic matter?

Negative energy density might stabilize a wormhole, but how do they control it? Exotic matter is notoriously unstable."

He frowned momentarily, the spark of an idea flickering. "Unless... they're using dimensional anchors.

If the portal is fixed to specific coordinates in spacetime, it might reduce the energy requirements by anchoring the exit point to an already existing rift or weak point in the fabric of reality.

But that introduces another problem—entropy. Any manipulation of spacetime must account for thermodynamic consequences.

If they're not careful, they could cause a cascade failure of adjacent dimensions."

Octavian's mind raced faster, his thoughts layered with possibilities.

'Alternatively, if I bypass the physical entirely and treat my consciousness as data, could I upload it across a universal network?

No, too primitive. But if space and time are malleable, why limit myself to them? Perhaps teleportation isn't about moving at all but rather redefining where I exist.

What if I treat myself as a probability wave and collapse my wave function where I want to be? No, that's absurd. I'd need infinite precision to avoid scattering myself across multiple dimensions.'

He smirked faintly, the chaotic energy around him utterly irrelevant. "Maybe the answer lies in rejecting conventional physics altogether.

If reality is just a simulation, then teleportation is merely altering my coordinates in the code. The trick is accessing the framework.

That portal might be the key—if I can analyze its structure, I could hijack it or even rewrite the parameters to teleport wherever I please."

He finally muttered aloud, "It's not about where I am. It's about where I choose to exist. Fascinating."

But then, a devilish—cough!—angelic smile spread across Octavian's face as an idea took root in his mind. It wasn't just any idea; it was one of those "Why hasn't anyone thought of this yet?" moments.

His golden eyes locked onto the bootlicking joker, Aron, who was practically glowing with sycophantic energy. Octavian's gaze sharpened as he focused on the poor man's head.

"I wonder…" Octavian muttered to himself, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "If I can manipulate atoms the way I did to create my body, could I… rearrange them in real time? Take them from one place and, oh, I don't know, redecorate the environment with them?"

It was true, he'd already hijacked atoms from his mother's body to build his own. But that was an absorption—a one-way trip for the atoms, with no intention of putting them back together.

This time, he wanted to see if he could not just hijack atoms, but pluck them out of someone like pulling threads from fabric and rearrange them in entirely new and fascinating ways.

His eyes glimmered with curiosity as he fixated on Aron's head, the joker too busy polishing his captain's ego to notice he was now the guinea pig for a world-changing experiment.

Octavian directed a massive chunk of his life energy toward the task, honing in on the atoms in Aron's head. He visualized separating the molecules, like taking apart a delicate puzzle, while keeping them functional.

Could he sustain the head independently? Could he make it float around without a body? Could he—

BOOM!

Before he could complete the experiment, Aron's head exploded like a firecracker at a New Year's party. Blood, bone, and bits of brain matter painted the immediate vicinity, leaving the rest of the TVA squad frozen in a mix of horror and disbelief.

Back in the present, Octavian was staring at the aftermath, looking mildly disappointed but also amused.

"Well," he mused aloud, "that didn't go exactly as planned. Turns out, decoupling atoms from someone's skull might be a tad… unstable. Noted for future experiments."

.......

Suddenly… everything froze.

Not just Octavian, not just the TVA guards, not even just the atoms in the air—everything. Breaths hung mid-inhale, birds outside froze mid-flight, and even the very fabric of time and space slammed on the brakes like a kid realizing they forgot their homework.

Then, out of the stillness, golden threads shimmered into existence. These threads weren't ordinary—no, they gleamed like liquid sunlight, as if the sun itself decided to spin a bit of embroidery.

They appeared out of nowhere, floating serenely, almost lazily, toward the TVA guards.

At first, the guards were too frozen to panic. But if they could move, they'd definitely have been screaming their lungs out because the threads curled delicately around their necks, like a gentle caress—if your idea of "gentle" involved the Grim Reaper giving you a back rub.

Then, with a sudden, elegant SNAP, the threads tightened.

SHINK!

Heads rolled—literally. Every TVA guard's noggin popped off like bottle caps, their bodies collapsing like marionettes with cut strings.

The golden threads floated above the carnage, completely indifferent, as if to say, "Light work."

Meanwhile, in the heart of the TVA itself—yep, the big bad organization that controls time—the same thing happened. Time stopped across their operations. Not even their precious time sticks could wiggle.

Golden threads manifested here too, snaking through the infinite web of timelines like mischievous cats finding loose yarn.

The threads worked their way to the timeline where Octavian stood, gleaming brighter as they approached. With a swift, almost bored motion, they severed that timeline from the rest, like slicing a thread off a sewing machine.

Just like that, Octavian's timeline was no longer under the control of anyone in the Marvel multiverse. Kang? Nada. The Watcher? Irrelevant. Even the one above all? Ghosted.

When the threads finished their task, they zipped back to where they came from.

Far away, a man sat on a throne that was equal parts terrifying and majestic. His black hair shimmered like a void, and his golden eyes glowed like twin suns. He observed the chaos below like a bored gamer watching an NPC fight a boss they weren't ready for.

The man chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat. "Be grateful to me, my past self. You lucky monkey."

With a casual flick of his finger, the golden threads unraveled into nothingness, vanishing like they'd never existed.

{A/N: Is the MC frightening yet?

And Asurathoth, don't doubt this author. If I say I will give you guys a bonus chapter, I will give it.

Junior, thou hast eyes but cannot see Mount Tai. This author is really disappointed in you.

Just kidding.

Have a nice day, everyone!}