Hellfire blazed atop Robbie Reyes' skeletal skull.
But in the hearts of Phil Coulson and his crew, Ronan's words lit a different fire—one that torched their worldview all over again.
Way back when Thor crash-landed on Earth, folks thought they'd met a mythic thunder god.
Legends of him had echoed for thousands of years, after all.
Then it turned out these "gods" were just aliens—long-lived, crazy strong.
Sure, not far off from what people pictured as divine, but it got a scientific spin.
For modern humans, aliens were easier to swallow than gods.
So when Thor's real deal dropped, the whole "God will descend" hype in the West fizzled out.
But new cults popped up like weeds.
Some claimed God was from another dimension, creator of humanity—only, from a higher plane, humans were just seeds spilled by accident.
Kinda bumped God down from deity to "higher-dimensional being."
Neat theory—some bought it, but only some.
Now, Ronan landed another gut punch.
Hellspawn.
This world did have a Hell!
So… what about Heaven?
"Wait, you're saying he's… from Hell?"
Leo Fitz jumped in first, skeptical as hell.
A science guy through and through, he wasn't buying it.
He'd seen wild stuff, sure, but it all fit in science's box.
Inhumans? Just gene mutations.
Thor and his crew? Aliens—humans had been betting on that for ages.
They'd been right.
Ronan didn't bother answering Fitz.
He raised his other hand, a dark red rune array flaring to life.
Looked like he was about to throw down.
"Hold up!"
"We still need Robbie for something!"
Coulson shouted, trying to stop him.
Too late—his words barely hit the air.
Ronan's rune-charged hand slammed into Robbie's chest.
Boom!
A dull thud rang out.
The sharp sound, plus Robbie's body flying back, made Coulson's team gape.
Done!
If Robbie died, their shot at squeezing info from his uncle was toast!
But then—something they didn't see coming.
A second, ghostly Robbie peeled out of his body.
This one was nastier—wreathed in roaring flames, face flickering fast between Robbie's and a skull.
"Ha ha ha ha ha!"
"We're bound by a soul pact—kill me, you kill him first!"
"Come on, Kamar-Taj mage!"
"Let's see if you'll off this human!"
"Even if you do, my stench'll taint everyone on this plane!"
The airborne Robbie cackled, voice flipping between his own and a raspy growl.
Looked like they were fused— inseparable.
Ronan just smirked.
"Classic demon move."
"Using human lives to scare me off, huh?"
He eyed the cocky demon, cool as ice.
The demon, though, thought he'd nabbed Ronan's weak spot.
He figured Ronan wouldn't dare.
Simple logic.
He'd heard from Hell's grapevine about Kamar-Taj mages.
One of their gigs? Keeping Hell's creeps off Earth, stopping crises.
So, tons of demons played the hostage card—human lives as leverage—to slip away.
Solid tactic.
When big human casualties were on the line, Kamar-Taj mages hesitated.
Gave demons a getaway window.
These mages were human too—each with their quirks and limits.
Kill one demon, lose hundreds or thousands of lives?
Might feel righteous in the moment—saving the many.
But after? Guilt sticks around for life.
Maybe no one blames you—even the victims' families get it.
You can't forgive yourself, though.
That's why plenty could learn healing spells at Kamar-Taj but flunked as combat mages.
"Cute plan."
"Too bad…"
Ronan shook his head, flashing the soul-form Robbie a mocking grin.
If the demon had hijacked the whole plane, Ronan might've brainstormed harder.
But its mistake? Hiding in Robbie's soul.
Ronan's hands formed seals at his chest, a rune array blooming.
The demon's laugh hitched.
Was this mage about to sacrifice the guy?
If so—
Before it could process, the array shot into Robbie's soul.
Sparks flared, spreading from the runes.
Next second, agony hit.
"AH!!!!"
A scream—Robbie's or the demon's?—ripped through the cabin.
The demon felt its soul scorching, torn apart by some insane force.
But Robbie's soul? Untouched.
"Impossible!"
The demon's last words.
How could Ronan pull this off?
Its soul was tangled with Robbie's—bound by contract.
No splitting unless it chose to!
As flames ate the demon's soul away, Ronan's lip curled.
"Nothing's impossible."
"You said you'd leave pollution?"
"Burn it all clean, then."
His words answered the demon—and cleared the air for everyone else.
The screams weakened; the team's thoughts spun wild.
They'd just watched a demon die by this kid's hand.
Terrifying—both the demon and Ronan's moves shattered their reality.
As the screams faded, Robbie's soul drifted back to his body.
He didn't wake—just slipped into a deep sleep.
Ronan glanced at him, confirming no demon stink lingered, then stepped out.
A golden portal flared; he strolled out of the pod like it was nothing.
"Ward… the fuck?"
Fitz's eyelid twitched.
Forget the dead demon—his focus veered off.
Why could someone waltz in and out of their "unbreakable" pod?
Wasn't it supposed to be invincible?
No—Ronan hadn't even attacked it.
He just… bypassed it?
Fitz's stare at Ronan got weirder.
"Anyone wanna haul him out?"
"He's just a regular dude now—no need for this hardcore lockup."
Ronan grinned at the group, landing on Fitz last.
His gaze burned like fire.
Fitz knew Ronan was trolling!
That line? Pure shade.
Fitz had just bragged about the pod's defense—only for Ronan to punk it.
"I'll do it."
Mack glanced at Coulson, got no pushback, and stepped up.
Lugging bodies wasn't for everyone.
Coulson and May? Too senior.
Fitz? That scrawny frame—nah.
So, Mack it was.
After he hauled Robbie off, the team snapped out of it.
"You're Mr. Fantastic?"
May's face twisted, recognizing him.
That golden circle? S.H.I.E.L.D. had dissected it plenty.
Plus, Mr. Fantastic and their squad had some beef.
"You?"
Fitz clicked it too.
Last time he'd felt death's breath? Mr. Fantastic!
But this young? No way.
"Nope, not Mr. Fantastic."
"Call me the Supreme One!"
Ronan laughed, shaking his head.
Since the Ancient One split, he could finally flex his new title loud and proud.
Mr. Fantastic? Old news.
"Supreme One…"
Coulson chewed on it, gears turning.
In a way, "Supreme One" was Ronan's first self-claimed tag.
Mr. Fantastic? Just a nickname others slapped on.
Big difference.
A self-given title might not just be flair—it could signal his real status.
And that name? Screamed heavy hitter.
"Alright, Phil, I nixed a threat for you—where's my thanks?"
Ronan didn't care what they were mulling.
His plan was done.
State the goal, set terms, show muscle.
Sure, Coulson flipped the middle step, but it didn't derail him.
Message clear: flex done, now we deal.
"No, that wasn't my trade."
"And one big thing—"
"Without that demon, we can't handle those ghosts."
"We just lost our only edge."
Coulson had trained under Nick Fury longest—mastered the haggle game.
Fury always figured he'd win those back-and-forths.
But he never banked on Ronan—guy didn't play by rules.
"Doesn't matter—as long as you get me that book."
"Those ghosts you mentioned? I'll throw you a bone."
Ronan smirked. For the Darkhold, a little help was no skin off his back.
Dealing with evil souls? Kamar-Taj was the gold standard.
"You've got a way?"
Coulson shot back.
Then realized—dumb question.
Ronan's chops? A few ghosts were nothing.
His moves were already leagues beyond them.
Coulson's original play? Threaten Robbie.
Like, if Robbie swung, he'd crash the plane from thousands of feet up.
They'd die—Robbie too.
Classic Fury move: trade lives with an unbeatable foe.
Worked on Robbie.
Ronan? Coulson couldn't even say it.
"Yup. What you just saw? That biker's soul form."
"I can make those invisible ghosts visible—and juice your weapons with magic."
"They'll hit souls forever."
"But all this help? You get me that book."
"Or else…"
"You'll turn into wandering ghosts—trapped, restless, forever!"