MARVEL: The Guardian chosen by the Moon

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Black Forest, Germany

A thick mist curled between the gnarled trees of the German forest, plunging the night into an oppressive silence. A cold wind whistled through the branches, carrying inaudible whispers. Beneath a centuries-old oak, a shadow slowly materialized, undulating like a wisp of black smoke before taking tangible form. 

Pitch Black staggered slightly, bracing a hand against the tree's rough bark. His body was weakened, his very essence shaken by his recent defeat. His nightmares, his seeds of terror… all had been swept away in a single night. 

A bitter sneer twisted his face. "I fell into the same trap again… Too arrogant, too hasty." He closed his eyes briefly, letting shadows swirl around him like a protective cloak. 

His initial fury slowly cooled as he pondered. This was no longer the same world. Here, the rules were different. Jack Frost himself was proof that this universe operated unlike the old one. 

"New world, new rules…" He ran a hand over his chin, a smile finally stretching his lips. "If Jack can grow stronger here, so can I." 

He slowly raised his hand, sensing the energy currents around him. This world was steeped in stories, myths, and primal fears—terrors older than children's nightmares, visceral dreads humanity itself tried to forget. 

"This world will give me everything I need… if I take the time to understand it." 

He released his grip on the tree and straightened his shoulders. He had failed due to impatience. It would not happen again. 

He turned slowly, his shadow stretching beneath him as he dissolved into the night mist. 

New Orleans, Louisiana - Explosion at the Roxxon Drilling Station

The night was heavy, charged with strange energy. A storm rumbled on the horizon, rain hammering the industrial docks of New Orleans. Then, suddenly, a blast lit the sky. 

The explosion at the Roxxon drilling station spewed a plume of smoke and dark energy into the atmosphere. Waves surged under the impact, and in the murky water, two destinies collided. 

Tyrone Johnson had fallen into the river, desperate to reach his brother Billy, who had just been shot by police. The water was icy, but that wasn't what terrified him. It was the darkness. 

Around him, the shadows thickened. He was no longer just underwater. He was *elsewhere*. Trapped in an endless sea of black. 

Then, in the abyss, a light appeared. 

A frail but determined female hand emerged from the gloom. He instinctively reached for it. When their fingers touched, a spark ignited—an instant reaction between shadow and light. 

Their world shifted. 

Tyrone and Tandy Bowen washed ashore, gasping for air, drenched to the bone. Tandy stood first, scanning their surroundings. She shivered and spotted Tyrone's jacket nearby. Without thinking, she grabbed it, wrapped it around herself, and vanished into the night. 

Tyrone lay motionless a moment longer before opening his eyes. He was alone. All that remained of the strange night was a lone ballet slipper abandoned in the sand. 

Near the blast site, far from the rescue crews' spotlights, a shadow emerged from the haze. 

A man stood there—tall, elegant, his pristine black suit contrasting with the surrounding chaos. He wore a tilted top hat, a black tailcoat, and carried a cane topped with a grimacing skull. 

He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the raw magic in the air. 

A grin split his skull-painted face. Then, with a fluid motion, he wiped the paint away, revealing the face of a Black man with dark sunglasses—distinguished yet mischievous. 

He stretched, adjusted his suit, and rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with excitement. 

"Time to work…" he muttered before disappearing into the night. 

Boston, Massachusetts 

In a dim Boston alley, beneath the pallid glow of an old streetlamp, something appeared. 

A dagger. 

It lay there as if it had always existed. Its ancient blade, finely carved, barely reflected the light, while its hilt was adorned with strange, elegant runes. A dark, hypnotic aura radiated from the object, beckoning to be claimed. 

Then, the mist thickened. 

A sharp, shrill laugh echoed through the empty space. A figure emerged from the fog, floating slightly above the ground. 

His skin was golden and scaly, giving him a supernatural, unsettling appearance. His eyes glowed with a piercing golden hue, nearly hypnotic. He wore leather garments in black and deep red, richly textured, evoking a medieval being both elegant and sinister. 

He extended a clawed hand toward the dagger, fingertips grazing its ancient hilt. A carnivorous smile spread across his inhuman face. 

Then, in a blink, his appearance shifted. 

The scaly being vanished, replaced by a man of ordinary stature. He was slender, with neatly combed, shoulder-length brown hair. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit and a silk scarf knotted elegantly around his neck. His gaze was sharp, brimming with mischief, and a sly smile played on his lips. 

He picked up the dagger and twirled it deftly between his fingers. 

"Ah… It's been too long." 

His golden eyes scanned the deserted alley, his smile widening. 

"It seems this world still has a few surprises for me…" 

With the nonchalance of a businessman, he slipped the dagger into his coat and strolled away, footsteps echoing softly on the damp cobblestones. 

Toronto, Canada 

In Toronto's night sky, a moonbeam gradually concentrated, slowly taking shape. The silvery light intensified, condensing until it outlined the form of a sleeping young boy. 

His white hair glowed softly under the celestial light, his pale green eyes reflecting the stars that had witnessed his birth. Clad in light armor, a diamond dagger strapped to his belt, he stretched as if awakening from a long slumber. 

Then, soundlessly, he launched forward. 

His body left a luminous trail as he streaked across the city at high speed. A few residents glanced up, mistaking him for a shooting star. 

But he was no star. 

He sliced through the air, his gaze scanning the city below until he spotted a familiar figure emerging from a golden portal. 

Jack Frost had just reappeared, leaving the Ancient One and Kamar-Taj behind. 

Nightlight paused, hovering above the snow-dusted rooftops. His expression softened slightly, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. 

Then, silent as light itself, he followed, trailing Jack in the shadows.