The man was charming, an old fellow with a tall, slender build and a face lined with gentle wrinkles. His voice was as warm as his gaze, and he was surrounded not only by elegantly dressed women with curls cascading over their shoulders but also by neatly attired, serious-faced men.
Just like his out-of-place attire, his choice of conversation was equally at odds with the chaotic nightclub.
He spoke of his travels, of mysterious encounters in foreign lands.
He was extraordinarily polite, never raising his voice, even in the face of skepticism. Instead, he dispelled doubts with a tone so gentle it bordered on unsettling.
He discussed the nuances of brandy, the vineyards that produced the finest wines, the masterpieces in the Louvre, and the duality of sanctity and corruption in the paintings of Valdés Leal, a Spanish Baroque artist whose works resided in Seville.
He spoke of the grotesque and deformed magical dwarves painted by the Spanish tenebrist Ribera. He analyzed the French Symbolist Gustave Moreau's obsession with mythology, drawing comparisons between the decadence of Rome and the rampant materialism of the modern age, posing soul-searching moral questions to his captivated audience.
His perspectives were always unique.
He found beauty in decay and filth, and ugliness in vibrant life.
His voice cut effortlessly through the pounding music, each syllable landing crisply in the ears of his audience.
To the women who leaned in close, he was utterly enchanting—
He complimented the smallest changes in their hairstyles, praised their makeup, their posture. He likened them to the noblewomen of Louis XIV's court. As they drowned in his torrent of admiration, their eyes began to perceive him as younger than before.
After critiquing the mundane world, he smoothly transitioned to the realm of the arcane.
His listeners leaned in with eager anticipation.
He spoke of the greatest alchemical secrets—the Red Lion and the Natural Tincture, known only to Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus. A substance so difficult to create that it required two perfectly synchronized alchemists working in tandem.
He claimed that, in 1698, traces of this Natural Tincture had seeped into the soil of southern Bavaria. People called it a miracle and built a church upon the site.
He recounted the legend of the First Honey Flower, a potion said to reverse aging. A royal physician of Louis XIV, Lislebrein, allegedly tested it and watched an old hen revert to a chick.
He spoke of how ancient alchemists believed in the spontaneous generation of life, referencing The Sphinx, a book by Émile Besnier that documented an experiment in which Count Johann Ferdinand von Kufstein allegedly created sentient beings in Tyrol in 1775.
He argued that modern science merely stumbled along the paths alchemy had once walked.
One day, he prophesied, modern humans would use their tools and technology to rediscover the lost secrets of the past.
As he began discussing the Rosicrucians, a shadowy secret society of alchemists, a voice interrupted him—
Dave.
The old man turned, smiling, and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Ladies and gentlemen, meet my student," he announced to the enthralled crowd.
Dave felt dazed, as if trapped in a dream. The old man did look younger than before.
"This young man studies true mysticism—the kind charlatans dream of grasping," the old man continued grandly.
"But he's a nerd!"
Dave was stuck.
The old man's iron grip on his shoulder was impossible to shake off.
The audience chuckled at Dave's obvious discomfort. The sheer shame of it all smothered his anger—there was no way he could throw a fit in front of so many people.
The old man gave him a shove toward the crowd and thrust a glass of strong liquor into his hand.
"It's time he learned to enjoy life, ladies."
And somehow, Dave swore—the old bastard was getting younger by the second.
Meanwhile, in Finland
"If you ask me," Odin declared between bites of meat, "Merlin is a troublemaker."
He stabbed his knife into another slab of bear steak, tearing into it with no regard for the juices dripping into his thick, graying beard.
Frigga shot him a glare.
He didn't care.
Chewing noisily, he continued, "Compared to him, Loki is just a child."
The King of Asgard grumbled, voice tinged with long-held resentment.
Only when Frigga slammed her hand on the table did Odin reluctantly set down his steak and pick up his utensils.
"The bastard has no conscience," Odin muttered.
"He's a reflection of human emotions—a mirror. A half-blood nightmare who feeds on dreams and emotions."
"Eat your vegetables," Frigga ordered.
Odin hesitated—
Then speared a mushroom with his fork.
Satisfied, Frigga nodded.
"If you ask me," Odin went on, chewing resentfully, "the current Sorcerer Supreme is far better."
Having fought alongside Agamotto himself, Odin was a veteran in these matters.
Solomon had to listen.
"Sure, Agamotto was a weirdo, and the Ancient One had a nasty temper, but they were still better than that chaos-loving bastard Merlin!"
The memory of all the trouble Merlin had caused sent a fresh wave of frustration through the All-Father.
"He even tricked me into letting him borrow Gungnir!"
Solomon choked.
Stephanie, who had been standing behind him, quickly handed him a glass of water.
Frigga narrowed her eyes.
She examined the girl who seemed inseparable from Solomon.
The Queen of Asgard did not ask for an introduction—she did not need one.
Her gaze swept over the girl's finely tailored clothes, her impeccable posture, her careful restraint.
This was no ordinary mortal.
More importantly—
Around her neck hung a magical pendant. A delicate silver chain adorned with a sapphire—radiating Kamar-Taj's craftsmanship.
It granted immunity to disease.
And it was unmistakably Solomon's handiwork.
Stephanie had no idea why Solomon had dragged her to Finland—
Until now.
Listening to the conversation, realization dawned.
Solomon wasn't just unusual.
He was connected to Asgard.
This revelation made her shiver with excitement.
Gideon Malick had once told her—
The U.S. government, along with the World Security Council, had debated whether Asgard posed a threat to Earth.
At the time, Nick Fury, then-director of S.H.I.E.L.D., had delivered a damning speech.
He had argued that the Bifrost—their interstellar troop deployment system—was unstoppable.
And according to his classified intelligence source—
(Which, Stephanie now realized, was Solomon.)
The Bifrost was a planetary destruction weapon.
Its technology was centuries ahead of humanity's.
And history itself suggested that Earth had been nothing more than an Asgardian vassal state.
Fury's speech had been a brutal wake-up call for America's ego.
But nothing had really changed.
Even after the Battle of New York, they hadn't locked down the city to prevent potential alien viruses from spreading.
Some politicians, desperate for votes, had even campaigned under the slogan:
"Peaceful cooperation with extraterrestrials!"
It had become just another politically correct buzzword, alongside diversity, gender equality, and anti-racism.
Meanwhile, fringe alien cults were exploding in popularity.
Some people wanted Asgardians to take over.
To overthrow the government.
Stephanie, internally, sneered at all of them.
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