While Merlin was scheming about how to play tricks on his so-called successor, Dave, the Ancient One had already received Solomon's report.
She couldn't blame Solomon for using Wanda Maximoff to test his own nature. The stigmata were both a gift and a curse. Vishanti remained deliberately vague about their true essence, so Solomon's attempts to investigate through indirect means were understandable. More importantly, Solomon never caused unnecessary trouble—this was what reassured the Ancient One the most. Though his outward behavior was often laced with absurd humor and unconventional ideas, he was inherently steady, always prepared with contingency plans. That was why she trusted him to conduct his own experiments.
The Ancient One didn't tell Solomon what Merlin had done last night. She also didn't tell him that Wanda's dream had nearly been drawn into Chthon's En-Galleth dimension.
In the end, things had turned out well. The power of the stigmata had naturally repelled Chthon, delaying Wanda's corruption once again.
"I'll inform Merlin," the Ancient One said. "But what exactly do you want from the Earth Mother?"
"I need Gaea's help to decipher knowledge about life, Master," Solomon replied.
If standard spell scrolls were like compressed magic files, then the knowledge Yog-Sothoth had given him was like an uncompressed, disorganized data dump—out of sequence, filled with jumbled characters, practically unreadable. If Solomon could fully sort through the information from Yog-Sothoth and the Black Goat of the Woods, he could complete the biological research project himself.
It wasn't that he couldn't decipher the knowledge—just that it was taking far too long.
And he was running out of time.
Even the strongest human had limits. Even he needed external help.
So far, Solomon had endured an overwhelming amount of spiritual contamination from Yog-Sothoth. His subconscious was constantly tormented. Combined with the interference from the stigmata, no one could be certain when—or if—he would go mad.
The Ancient One looked into Solomon's eyes and saw the unwavering determination within them.
He could still hold on.
Because this was his mission.
He only needed a little help.
The Ancient One was both pleased and pained. Assigning such a terrible task to Solomon was deeply unfair, yet he had never once complained, allowing endless spiritual corruption to erode his mind.
His dark humor, the absurd jokes, the snarky remarks—these were just coping mechanisms, ways for him to interact with people normally. Nick Fury had always been the unfortunate target of his sharp tongue.
Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone, Solomon subconsciously sought out Fury. He knew Fury was irreplaceable—perhaps the only one who could endure his relentless sarcasm and shameless antics.
Not even the witches could handle that.
Perhaps this was just a one-sided example of men's friendship.
Even if Fury often pulled his gun on Solomon in frustration, it didn't change the fact that they shared the same scent of madness.
"I'll let Merlin know, child," the Ancient One said. "But are you sure about this?"
"Yes, Master. This is my plan." Solomon was confident. "You know I never let a loophole slip by. I always have a backup plan."
"As long as you're happy. I'm dying soon anyway—you can do whatever you want." The Ancient One waved him off. "Oh, and Frigga invited you and the witches to Finland for lunch. Make sure you go—her bear steaks are excellent."
Dave's Unexpected Night Out
Dave had been experiencing some strange occurrences lately.
First, he encountered an odd old man on campus.
Even from a distance, Dave could smell the magic on him.
Not wanting to attract trouble, he deliberately took a long detour, tucking his enchanted ring out of sight.
Yet, no matter which route he took, he kept bumping into the old man.
Just as Dave decided to give up and confront him, his vision blurred—
And the next thing he knew, he was in a noisy nightclub.
Wearing an expensive suit.
His hair, perfectly styled.
Gone was his usual physics nerd appearance. Now, he looked like a wealthy, well-groomed elite.
More alarmingly, he found himself holding a glass of brandy, seated in a VIP booth surrounded by a few stylishly dressed women—one of whom was practically leaning against him.
Dave was frozen in place, wide-eyed, unable to move.
The woman nearest to him spoke, but her voice was lost in the pounding music.
Panicking, Dave patted himself down.
No wallet.
No phone.
It made sense—his clothes had been changed, so his belongings wouldn't be where he had left them.
This had to be the work of that old man.
But before he could even process why this was happening, a wave of sheer terror washed over him.
"What did you say?!" Dave shouted over the noise, frowning.
"You stopped talking! You've been spacing out forever!"
"I…"
He racked his brain, trying to think of a way out.
There was no way he could afford this place.
Even as the Merlinian School's successor, Balthazar had left him nothing but responsibilities.
And as a Ph.D. student, he had no stable income.
Luckily, Becky never minded that, but he definitely couldn't afford to do anything she would disapprove of.
The women were confused—why had this previously confident, charming man suddenly turned into a stammering mess?
"I…"
Dave swallowed hard, his throat dry.
In a desperate attempt to buy time, he took a sip of his drink—only to immediately choke on the alcohol, coughing violently.
After a few painful moments, he gently pushed away the hand of the woman trying to pat his back, then folded his hands properly on his lap, his discomfort nearly splitting him apart.
"I… I'm really sorry," he stammered, looking like he might bolt at any second. "My wallet and phone…"
His face was burning red.
But the women assumed it was just from coughing.
"It's fine," the nearest woman said with a chuckle. "You seem young—I understand."
"N-No, that's not it. I was just—oh, never mind."
Dave knew he had been magically pranked.
Only a powerful sorcerer could bypass Balthazar's protective spells.
His face felt like it was about to catch fire.
Suddenly, a strange sensation prickled at his instincts.
He turned, peering through the crowded club—
And saw him.
A tall, silver-haired old man in a sharp suit, wearing a plaid scarf.
No one else seemed to notice how oddly dressed he was.
Instead, people were gathered around him, chatting enthusiastically, as if he belonged there.
Magic.
Dave's stomach dropped.
"Sorry, I just saw someone I know," he blurted.
Wait. That was a stupid excuse.
"I promise I'll be back!" he added quickly. "I just need to make a call—ask my friend for help."
He actually did need help.
He still remembered Solomon's phone number.
And right now, Solomon was his only way out.
But before that—
He needed to find out who that damn old man really was.
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