The madwoman widened her foolish-looking eyes, as if her mind couldn't comprehend what the person in front of her was doing, unable to understand why her good friend Solomon would put everything aside and try to pierce through the fog of her soul with that gaze that reached into the very core of her being.
What he received in return was nothing but bluntness—cold and plain like a slab of pure marble.
There was no damp filth hidden in the folds, only simple and direct thoughts. This poor woman's brain had been fried; her soul had been thoroughly cleansed by a great power, and her personality had been crushed into fine dust by an overwhelming truth. Solomon had no idea what she had once been like, what kind of personality she once had. All he could see was the dust on the marble, as if even a slightly heavier breath could wipe it away.
It was because of him that she had become like this. That thought suffocated Solomon.
This woman had been turned into what she was in order to deliver a message to him. If he could gain the support of the universe, then the madwoman would become his assistant, interpreting premonitions and visions for him. He was furious—far more so than during those missions where he couldn't save everyone. Everyone he had ever killed had deserved it, every sacrifice he'd made had been justified, every punishment he'd inflicted had been deserved.
But this—this woman—constantly reminded him that if he failed to complete his great plan, then everyone might end up like her: puppets and tools for some deity. He knew full well that this debt was his to pay. He would take care of her, because it was a debt he owed.
He wanted to stay away from her—not out of disgust, but despair. The kind of despair a fatalist feels when confronted with destiny. It flowed through his body like scalding poison, burning his veins, making him want to vomit, with the smell of ash filling his nostrils.
Every advanced civilization, upon reaching a certain stage, inevitably came into contact with the spiritual realm. The Shi'ar Empire, close to the "Veil of Dreams," imposed harsh rule, revered two primordial gods, and banned artistic creation to keep its people away from the infinite malice lurking beneath the fabric of reality. The Skrulls, even before losing their homeland, worshiped their own gods and embraced corruption without hesitation—until their so-called gods were killed. Even as exiles, they clung fanatically to their "oracles," delusionally hoping to revive their species on Earth. The Kree attempted to solve the problem through science, tracing back to the genetic engineering by the Celestials that created their ancestors, and creating a super-AI to rule the Kree Empire—hoping that controlling the physical universe would solve the problems of the spiritual one.
There were also many lesser-known races—some embraced the spiritual realm and were proud of the gifts granted by the other world; some fought against it with all their might and were ultimately annihilated, leaving only orphans behind; and others simply turned a blind eye, passively awaiting destruction.
Solomon had learned from the lessons of these alien races and carved out his own path.
"I thought we agreed to watch the show together, Solomon?" the madwoman shifted nervously on the couch. Her dusty persona reacted with a mild response. "Are we playing a staring contest?"
"Yes," the Arcanist forced a smile. He blinked, regaining his composure, digging despair and emotion out of his mind, crushing them like a cookie between his fingers, and discarding them like trash. He straightened his spine again—he would never concede, even if his opponent was a so-called god. That was the purpose for which he was created, his eternal duty. Like a miser waving his sword, he tried to drive away any creature that touched or tainted the purity of the human race.
He held no respect for the Inhumans—they were nothing more than a band of mongrel slaves. He disdained the Asgardians who called themselves gods—nothing but beings of the physical realm with crazed divine blood. He despised the Eternals created by the Celestials—mere tools to maintain control, walking and talking wrenches with no trace of nobility in their thoughts.
His watch would last longer than that of the Sorcerer Supreme. His burden far exceeded all the responsibilities Kamar-Taj had borne through the ages. The Ancient One had already revealed to him that the plan would not be easily completed—not just fifteen hundred years; he would suffer the agony of immortality in the mortal world, sacrificing everything for this species.
That was why he so greedily craved everything he loved about his current life.
He had repeatedly questioned whether his actions were worth it, yet countless prophecies and visions reminded him that he had only one choice. A sorcerer who didn't believe in fate ultimately stepped onto the path of destiny—it was the darkest joke he had ever known.
"You lost!" the madwoman shouted joyfully like a child.
Solomon still wore a smile, but its meaning was completely different now. His plan might need some adjustments, but he was certain he would find a way. Just as he had told the Ancient One—if the gods who controlled human fate were reduced from many to one, then his plan would be meaningless.
"Yes, I lost," he said softly. "So what does the winner want?"
Zero, of the Imperial Guard, furrowed his brow.
His longsword was placed on the nearby weapons rack. His light armor was covered in marks left from the time he had fought his way out of the Shi'ar Imperial Library. His grenade rifle had been disassembled into hundreds of parts, which he carefully cleaned with a soft, grease-stained cloth.
On the cabinet beside the weapons rack sat the trophy from his last trial. Treated with arcane methods, the storage cabinet preserved the trophy indefinitely—a skull resembling that of a human but with birdlike hollow bones, whitened flawlessly by acid washing. The removed, pointed crest feathers were glued to the top of the skull, indicating the status its owner once held.
His loyal servant "Old Cluck" had unfortunately died the moment he completed his mission—killed by the Shi'ar noble he had sought revenge against. Zero regretted not being able to recover the servant's body.
Now he believed Old Cluck's story.
Old Cluck had indeed once served as an elite soldier of the Shi'ar Empire. Even after prolonged malnutrition and illness, he had, in his final moments, killed the noble's bodyguard with the small knife Zero had given him, buying Zero enough time to retreat to the spaceport.
Zero lowered his head and continued cleaning his weapon. The terrifying techniques his master had taught him were the most universal language in the cosmos. Thanks to his genetically enhanced strength, he had wielded that heavy grenade rifle with deadly efficiency during his capture of the merchant ship, quickly hijacking the small freighter and reaching the designated extraction point.
As long as he could complete the next trial, he would earn the golden armor that was rightfully his, gain a name, and become a true member of the Imperial Guard.
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I Am Zeus, KING OF GODS (Chapter 120)
Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 391)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 471)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 677)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 1059)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1418)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1422)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1452)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1504)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld!(Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 703)
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