The incense burned low in the ceremonial chamber. Flames flickered in brass bowls around the room, casting long shadows that danced with the silence. Mark sat cross-legged, his posture straight, but his fingers fidgeted in his lap.
The Ancient One, as always, sat across from him. Unblinking. Still as a mountain. Timeless.
He swallowed hard.
"I need to ask you something."
The silence between them bent like a bowstring. She waited.
"I know things," he began. "About this world. About what's coming. Who's going to die. What villains are waiting. I know how Spider-Man gets his powers. I know who becomes a hero, who turns villain. I even know when the Snap happens."
She inclined her head slightly, saying nothing.
"I'm not asking if I can be a hero. I'm asking if I'm allowed to change things. If I should. Like… what if I warn Stark about Thanos? What if I stop Peter Parker from getting bitten, or take the bite myself?" His voice grew tight. "What if I save people who were supposed to die? Can I do that and not destroy everything?"
The Ancient One's expression remained unreadable. She poured tea in both cups, slow and deliberate.
"Time," she said, at last, "is a delicate thread. But not an unbreakable one."
She handed him a cup.
Mark waited. "That's not an answer."
"No," she agreed. "Because the answer would change depending on how much you're ready to carry."
He frowned. "So what—there are fixed points? Like events that have to happen no matter what?"
She sipped her tea. "Some events... have gravity. They exert pressure across timelines. They want to happen. They recur. The Snap is one of them. The rise of certain heroes. The fall of certain ones. Not because they are destined, but because the universe needs balance."
"Balance," Mark echoed bitterly. "Thanos' favorite word."
"Even a tyrant can stumble upon a truth," she said quietly.
Mark leaned forward, more intense now. "Then what about Peter? If I find that spider first—if I let it bite me instead—do I stop him from becoming Spider-Man? Or would the universe just… find another way?"
The Ancient One's gaze sharpened. "You are not Peter Parker. You were never meant to be. The spider might bite you, yes. You may even gain his powers. But what makes Spider-Man is not the bite. It's the loss. The responsibility. The choice."
She paused.
"If you take his place, you may find yourself in his tragedy. Or cause it to fall on someone else."
Mark stared at the tea, heart sinking. "So I'm not meant to do anything."
"You are free to do anything," she corrected, "but you must accept the consequence."
He looked up. "So that's it? I have knowledge of the future, but every step I take could break the world?"
Her voice softened. "You misunderstand. The world is always breaking. Your choices simply determine how."
He stood, frustrated now. "Then what's the point of having this knowledge at all? If I'm not supposed to fix anything, why reincarnate me here?"
"You were not sent," she said plainly. "You arrived."
That stopped him cold.
"What?"
"You arrived. Of your own will or by some cosmic ripple, I do not know. But you were not summoned. You were not chosen. You are here… as many others are."
Mark felt the breath leave his chest. "So I'm not special."
"You are unique. But uniqueness is not permission."
A long silence followed. Fire cracked in the braziers.
Then she added, softly: "But perhaps... you were given memory so that you would remember who you are—not to rewrite the world, but to better walk through it."
Mark sat down again, quieter this time. "So if I see someone about to die—someone who died in the movies—I can save them?"
"Yes. But know that some are meant to inspire others through their sacrifice. Take away their death, and you may take away someone else's purpose."
His mind reeled. "So there's no clear rule?"
"No," she admitted. "Because the universe is not a machine. It is a garden. You may prune it. Cultivate it. Even graft yourself into it. But every action bears fruit… whether sweet or bitter."
He sighed. "I don't want to be a god."
"Then don't pretend you can see the whole board," she said gently. "Play your piece. Not in fear, but in clarity."
Mark looked down at his tea. Cold now. Untouched.
"But if I do change something... and things get worse…"
"You will bear it," she said, standing. "As we all do."
Later – Kamar-Taj Courtyard
Mark stood in the stone courtyard alone, eyes on the mountain horizon. The wind howled past the open arches.
He felt smaller than ever. But also, for the first time, grounded in the truth: he wasn't here to play puppet master. He wasn't here to save the MCU like a player fixing a broken game.
He was here to live in it.
Maybe he'd save someone. Maybe he'd fail. But whatever he did… it would matter.
Even without a cape.