Just as his master had always insisted and repeatedly emphasized, the Monarch was a human.
This belief wasn't born of blind loyalty—his Monarch encouraged him to think independently. After seeing the Monarch for the first time in the Eternal City's arena, witnessing that radiant form that was nearly blinding, Zero dared to affirm this himself. When the light had subsided and he'd forced open his tear-filled, scorched eyes, he had seen on his Monarch's noble and beautiful face emotions that only mortals could possess—sadness, impatience, humor, and loss. Each of those feelings had served to remind Zero that his Monarch was merely a mortal blessed with extraordinary power and intelligence.
Now, it seemed, his Monarch was immersed in the mortal nature he had once embraced. Zero, however, could not imagine how his Monarch was supposed to bear the weight of the future with a human soul.
What Zero didn't know was that while he was thinking independently, his Monarch was immersed in the contemplation of information theory.
Solomon's hostility toward the Eternal One had completely dissipated—not because of the Sorcerer Supreme's persuasion, but through his own study of information theory during his graduate research. From a microphysical perspective, an electron is simply an electron in a continuous iteration of subtle change; every generation of electrons differs slightly, and stable, immutable electrons do not exist. The degree of difference between successive generations of electrons depends on minute decisions.
These micro-decisions constitute complex thoughts—the kind shared by humans and other mammals. From communication to genetic foundations, from macro to micro physics, every facet of existence affirms the primacy of information. In this view, Solomon himself was merely one electron, a minuscule manifestation of the universe's will, carrying a faint trace of information.
This wasn't some fanciful theology—it was philosophical reflection grounded in science.
Once this mental knot was untied, Solomon felt greatly relieved. He kissed the two witches beside him—who were too tired to get out of bed—then dressed and went out.
"Thank you," Solomon whispered so softly that his voice was drowned in the sharp hum of machinery. Holding a bouquet in his hands, his face glowed with human warmth—but only one person saw that expression. Vanessa had just woken up, and the vivid colors struck her blurred vision.
"Don't worry. Wilson Fisk has already been here." The Arcanist didn't open his mouth, yet his voice echoed clearly in Vanessa's mind. She recognized the voice and allowed her tense spine to relax. "Water? Even just to moisten your lips."
Vanessa sighed with relief and closed her eyes again. Solomon brought a cup of warm water to her lips, helping her swallow a few sips.
"What are you thanking me for, little Baroque boy?" she rasped.
"You defied fate, Vanessa. You were supposed to die here, but you survived, abstract artist. How many poisoned people have you seen live?"
"Say something nice," she said with a weak smile, eyes still closed. "I knew there was something off about Minerva inviting me for a drink. I know you both have your peculiarities—same with those orphanage kids."
"This was your first brush with death, Vanessa. But there'll be a second, and a third. As long as you stay by Wilson Fisk's side, danger won't end—it will pursue your soul like a greedy she-wolf." The voice rang in Vanessa's mind as clearly as if from Solomon's lips. "I can precisely predict when you'll next face death. If you insist on staying the course, no matter how many times you escape, I'll always end up holding your funeral. I even know what that funeral will look like."
"That your superpower? Seeing death? Minerva taught you well. I didn't know you were well-versed in The Divine Comedy," Vanessa chuckled faintly. "You know I won't change my mind, boy. Would you give up your two girlfriends?"
"I…"
"You'd make the same choice I did, wouldn't you?"
Had Vanessa opened her eyes, she would have seen the sudden flash of unforgettable hesitation on Solomon's face. The abstract artist seemed to forget she no longer had the strength to speak aloud. The poison had taken its toll—she was exhausted. She thought she had spoken, but she had only voiced the words in her mind.
And yet Solomon still heard her question—and answered.
"If it's between duty and life… I can't choose, Vanessa." His voice was full of sorrow, and Vanessa suddenly felt that sorrow like a burning knife slicing through her mind, jolting her awake.
As an artist, Vanessa possessed exceptional empathy and imagination. These qualities were a tremendous gift for an artist—but for a sorcerer, they were the seed of corruption. She saw a torrential rain fall over a dark city, wet streets littered with corpses. Then came an inferno of burning bodies streaming with endless blood—she could almost smell the charred flesh. Then she forgot what she had seen—left only with a searing brand of an impression scorched into her mind.
Her gift didn't allow her to see much, but even so, she knew something was wrong.
"I must choose the former," Solomon said. "Even if there are a thousand reasons to choose the latter, I must choose the former."
"Why, boy?" she asked him in her usual tone. "Why not choose life?"
"Because the former means billions will survive. So I have no choice." The flash of dejection vanished quickly, replaced by firm resolve. "I envy ordinary people. They get to bow their heads and enjoy their flawed but human lives, instead of raising their eyes and seeing the grim cosmos and the threats lurking beyond the veil."
"You'll become a hero?"
"No. I'll become the world's cruelest murderer, the most cunning king, the most ruthless politician. You can attach every vile descriptor of humanity to me, because I will commit all those sins—and I will pay for them all."
Silence fell upon the hospital room. Solomon turned the bouquet toward Vanessa. A long moment passed before he spoke again.
"If Wilson Fisk wants to send you out of the country, go. I'll have my people protect your safety, but that's all. I will not help Wilson Fisk."
"Why?"
"You've asked too many questions today, Vanessa. Fine, I'll tell you—because I already handed Fisk's criminal records to the people who needed them. Even though there's no death penalty in the U.S., losing Fisk will ruin your life. No matter how much you love him, he's still a rotten gangster. No one escapes their sins—not even me. The fires of revenge against him will eventually reach you, and burn you to ash. Or worse—you'll live."
Solomon stood, carefully wiping dried blood from his knuckles with a damp cloth. Once everything was in order, he buttoned his suit.
"His bodyguards are due for a shift change," he said. "They've done a fine job protecting you—they asked about my identity so many times I had to kill them to get in. Don't show sympathy now—I never saw you show any to their victims!"
"You're so sharp-tongued, Solomon," Vanessa said, staring at his back.
"Can't help it. Mocking others is one of my few pleasures," Solomon replied, kissing her on the forehead. "Sister Vanessa, even you can't escape my venom. Get well soon. I broke the neck of another idiot who tried to kill you on the way here."
"Can I at least know who's after me? I could tell you a hundred terrible prophecy stories. Don't keep being stubborn—some things are better known sooner than later."
"You still haven't given up on helping him, have you?" the Arcanist said with a helpless shake of his head. "It's not stubbornness—it's just unnecessary. Wilson Fisk will figure out who's behind it, but not yet."
"And how am I supposed to explain the deaths of the bodyguards?"
"You don't need to explain anything. Don't worry. If Wilson Fisk finds me, I'll reward his investigative skills by breaking one of his legs."
(End of Chapter)
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