In Marvel With Unique Skill Great Sage (MCU)

In the middle of Afghanistan:

A vast, endless yellow desert stretched out beneath the unforgiving sun, merging into rugged rocky mountain ranges at the horizon. Sparse patches of withered grass only accentuated the desolation and stillness of the land.

In the sweltering heat, a shallow sandpit scattered with broken mechanical parts stood as the only notable feature in this lifeless expanse. 

Amid the wreckage, two figures—a tall man and a much smaller one—sat across from each other, their shadows barely clinging to the ground under the blazing sun.

"I am Tony Stark."

The taller man, face caked with blood and sand, sported a scruffy goatee that looked more pitiful than suave. Despite his disheveled state, his tone carried a faint arrogance, as though his name alone was enough to fill the silence between them.

"And you are?"

Tony Stark? The Tony Stark?

The smaller figure's eyes widened in disbelief. Iron Man himself—genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

The realization struck hard. This was the Marvel Universe, right at the starting line of its greatest saga—the events of Iron Man had just begun.

Relief surged through the smaller man's chest as he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

Sure, this world had its dangers—cosmic threats, power-hungry villains, and occasional alien invasions—but oh well like I can do anything for that…

"I'm Lemu… uh, Echeverría. Lemu Echeverría," he finally answered, plucking the name from the jumble of odd, unrelated words rattling in his head.

As for his real name? That carried a weight of its own—a name steeped in mystery and power, better left unspoken in this fragile reality.

The two men sat in uneasy silence, sizing each other up. The atmosphere was anything but cordial.

Lemu's amber-colored eyes scanned Tony from head to toe. Stark looked nothing like the genius-billionaire stereotype. His clothes were tattered, streaked with dried blood and dirt. 

His messy hair and patchy beard made him resemble a washed-up vagabond, rather than someone with a net worth that could rival a country's GDP.

Fallen from grace, eh, Iron Man?

Despite his shabby appearance, one detail stood out—something glowing faintly through the fabric of his chest. Beneath the grime-covered shirt lay a brilliant circle of light: the Arc Reactor.

A technological marvel worth billions—no, trillions. A device capable of revolutionizing the energy industry and ushering humanity into a new age.

And here it was, beating like a fragile heart inside the chest of a man who, at this moment, looked anything but invincible.

A treasure in plain sight…

Lemu's hand drifted subtly to the sand behind him, his fingers closing around a jagged shard of metal—scrap from the broken remains of Tony's Mark I suit. It was crude but sharp, more than enough to…

He hesitated.

If he took Stark out here and now—quietly, cleanly—he could claim the Arc Reactor for himself. 

No witnesses. No one would ever know. With that device in his possession, Lemu could leapfrog from the gutters of this chaotic world into unimaginable wealth and power.

The proposition was tantalizing.

Lemu's amber eyes darkened, a faint glimmer of killing intent flickering within them. The rational side of him whispered that time was running out. 

The U.S. military would undoubtedly arrive soon, and once they did, the window of opportunity would slam shut.

The question lingered: Should I do it?

The steel shard in his hand felt heavier, more decisive. The desert heat bore down on him, almost like it was urging him to make his move.

Seconds passed in silence.

Tick, tock, Lemu.

Tony Stark's bloodshot eyes scrutinized the person before him, sharp with suspicion and guarded curiosity.

The figure appeared no older than fourteen or fifteen—a teenager clad in a strange fur-lined coat, under which peeked a crisp white shirt. 

White bandages were wrapped neatly around their forearms and calves, adding an antiquated, otherworldly touch to the ensemble.

What stood out even more was the peculiar shade of their hair: pale blue, cascading just to the shoulders. 

Their face was delicately sculpted, almost unnervingly flawless—porcelain skin, bright eyes, and refined features that would have looked at home in a Renaissance painting. 

Even with a layer of desert grime, the figure exuded an ethereal beauty, one that felt oddly out of place in the chaos of Afghanistan.

Their amber-colored eyes locked onto Tony's chest, glimmering with what appeared to be equal parts curiosity and fascination.

Is she intrigued by the reactor?

The unexpected warmth in their gaze softened Stark's tension, though only slightly.

Grimacing, Stark coughed and shrugged off his work jacket, draping it over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the blistering sun. 

A sharp sting shot through his arm as the movement tugged at his injuries. "Ah, damn it," he muttered, sucking in a pained breath.

The desert around them shimmered under the relentless heat, the oppressive stillness broken only by the occasional whisper of a dry wind. 

It was likely mid-afternoon—three, maybe four o'clock. Far too early for any hope of the sun relenting.

After adjusting his makeshift shade, Stark's gaze returned to the teenager. His voice carried a note of quiet demand, though he made an effort to keep his tone even, masking his frustration behind a veil of civility.

"So, Echeverría," he began, "how about you answer a few questions for me?"

He gestured toward the open sky above them. "I was mid-flight—soaring along, minding my own business—when, suddenly, this black rift tore open out of nowhere. And then you—" his voice tightened slightly—"you fell through. Right on top of me."

Tony leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "Then, as if that wasn't strange enough, you conjured up some kind of… magical force to keep us both suspended in mid-air. And after that?" He paused, narrowing his eyes. "You dismantled my suit—piece by piece—like it was some cheap scrap heap at a junkyard."

There was no mistaking the weight in his voice now, the underlying tension carefully restrained.

"So tell me. Are you some time-traveling sorcerer from the past? A reclusive mountain witch? Or maybe an alien here for an authentic 'primitive Earth' safari experience?"