The Witcher: Ascending Beyond Marvel

Arthur Avenue, Bronx, New York

Arthur Avenue is the most Italian-style street in the United States, a lively and picturesque avenue where tourism, leisure, and exquisite cuisine blend seamlessly.

By day, the street is bustling with life—tourists wander through, drawn by the old-world charm, while food lovers flock to the many eateries, savoring the finest Italian delicacies. The air is filled with laughter, the hum of conversation, and the rhythmic calls of vendors, creating a vibrant, ever-moving tapestry of sound and color.

But when night falls, the atmosphere shifts.

Shops shutter their doors, their lights flickering off one by one. The once-bustling street slips into silence, save for the dim glow of street lamps, their tired light struggling against the encroaching darkness. Shadows stretch long and deep, swallowing the pavement beneath their grasp. High above, the soft, golden glow from apartment windows offers the only warmth in the now-hushed cityscape—like distant stars scattered across the void.

Then, there was the house.

Buildings 6 and 8 had long stood side by side, seamlessly connected. But one day—no one could quite recall when—a small structure had appeared between them.

It bore the number 7 Arthur Avenue.

A shop. Unexpected. Out of place.

Its sign, old and weathered yet eerily pristine, read: Hogwarts Potion Shop.

In the dim light, the sign shimmered, exuding an inexplicable aura—something that made passersby hesitate, something that sent a chill crawling up their spines.

Some ignored it. Others watched.

And some made phone calls.

"Boss, the potion shop is open for business."

A moment of silence. Then a voice, calm and measured:

"Good. I'm on my way."

Another call. Another voice.

"Sir, the target has appeared."

"I'll be there soon."

Within ten minutes, sleek luxury cars—silent as shadows, fast as lightning—raced down the avenue.

Tires screeched, shattering the fragile quiet of the night. Smoke curled into the cold air as doors swung open.

From the cars emerged men of wealth and power, their tailored suits catching the faint glow of the street lamps. They were the kind of people who only existed in whispers, figures whose names appeared on stock market tickers and scandalous headlines.

A man with a well-groomed beard stepped forward, greeting another with a sharp smile.

"Mr. Carl, I didn't expect to see you here."

Carl returned the smile, but his eyes held the weight of calculation.

"Stephen, always the first to know."

The two embraced like old friends, but their hands gripped just a little too firmly, and their smiles never quite reached their eyes.

"You could've told me about this earlier," Stephen mused, voice tinged with mock irritation.

Carl chuckled. "Stephen, you may command Wall Street, but know that sudden wealth lacks roots."

Stephen's expression stiffened, just slightly, just enough.

But before he could respond—

A sound.

A deep, low growl of an engine.

The streetlights caught the glint of silver as an Audi R8 tore around the corner, its headlights slashing through the night like twin blades. The roar of the engine was unmistakable, a force unto itself, commanding attention.

The license plate gleamed with a signature—Tony Stark, scrawled in cursive, unmistakably arrogant.

Someone muttered under their breath. "Damn it. The playboy's here."

Tony Stark stepped out with the effortless charm of a man who owned the world. His suit was impeccable, his grin laced with mischief. But his first move wasn't toward the shop.

He turned, circled to the passenger side, and with a flourish, opened the door.

A tall, elegant woman stepped out, her golden hair catching the night air like silk. Her presence was luminous, as if she had just stepped off a movie screen and into reality.

"Tony, where are we?" Pepper Potts asked, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar street.

Tony flashed a grin. "Pepper, tonight's your birthday. And trust me, this place is something special."

Pepper's brows furrowed. "I thought we were going to Broadway."

Tony pulled her close, his touch practiced, his smirk unwavering.

"Broadway's predictable. You deserve something extraordinary."

Pepper sighed, but before she could protest further, she noticed the growing crowd—figures of power, men she had only ever seen on news broadcasts. Their presence deepened her confusion.

"What is this place?" she asked again.

Tony only smirked. "A secret."

Behind them, Happy Hogan, Tony's ever-loyal bodyguard, heaved a large, locked box out of the trunk. His face was flushed, his grip tight. Whatever was inside was heavy.

Tony snapped his fingers. "What are we waiting for?"

With an arm around Pepper's waist, he led her toward the shop, his steps brimming with unshakable confidence.

The others followed.

A man with a high hairline, eyes sharp with focus, muttered into his headset.

"Chief, they're all heading inside."

The response was calm but firm. "Follow them, Phil."

"Understood." Phil hesitated, then sighed. "But chief… I might come up short tonight. The lowest rollers here are billionaires."

A brief silence. Then a simple reply: "Do your best."

Phil exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Alright, alright."

As they neared the shop, Pepper's gaze fell upon two stone statues flanking the entrance.

Her breath caught.

They were terrifyingly lifelike—expressions frozen in fear, eyes wide with despair. Every detail, from the wrinkles in their clothes to the tension in their fingers, felt… real.

Too real.

For a moment, she swore they moved.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"What kind of store puts things like this at the door?" she muttered, inching closer to Tony.

He didn't answer. Didn't tell her the truth.

Instead, he gently pulled her hand. "Come on. Let's find a seat."

The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped them, chasing away the cold.

Pepper exhaled, watching the mist of her breath dissolve.

Then a voice—smooth, neither male nor female—cut through the air.

"Welcome. Find a seat."

Behind the counter stood a figure cloaked in dark robes, a pale mask hiding their face. Their fingers moved deftly over vials and ingredients, entirely uninterested in the powerful figures filling their shop.

Tony, unfazed, took a seat in the front row. He tugged Pepper down beside him.

Pepper watched the masked figure, her thoughts swirling. Something about that mask… She could see it clearly, and yet… she couldn't seem to recall its details.

She shuddered. "Strange mask."

And then, there was his indifference to Stark.

Tony Stark—world-renowned billionaire, former arms dealer, and genius scientist.

To the average person, meeting him was nearly impossible. To be in his presence, to even exchange a few words, was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Climbing into his circle meant a future of wealth and security.

Yet, this stranger…

He barely spared Stark a glance.

No awe. No hesitation. No interest.

It was as if Stark was just another face in the crowd—unremarkable, forgettable.

Pepper opened her mouth to ask Tony about it, but before she could, more people began streaming in. The moment was lost.

With a quiet sigh, she let it go—for now.

Then, the final seat was taken.

And without warning—

The shop's door slammed shut.

Cold. Unyielding.

Cutting off those who still lingered outside.

The masked figure finally looked up.

And in a voice like silk over steel, the figure spoke:

"Now, we begin."