Baldur firmly rejected the offer of a private jet. If Rosa hadn't wanted to sunbathe in the Southern Hemisphere first, the Sage might've even refused Solomon's offer to book them a hotel. Though he struggled a bit with smartphones and modern communication tech, it wasn't because he was unfamiliar with technology—in fact, as a member of the Watchers of the World, the Sage came from a society that far surpassed contemporary Earth. He just needed time to adjust to modern society, not its gadgets. And truthfully, nothing he'd seen so far could rival the weapons and gear Solomon had showcased during the Battle of Fimbulwinter.
He had once assumed that modern human society would be filled with robots and spaceships buzzing through the galaxy. Instead, everyone was still running around on the ground. That was disappointing. In his eyes, present-day humanity was barely more advanced than the rural bumpkins who used to live near the Watchers' strongholds.
Solomon didn't linger at the airport. After seeing Baldur and Rosa off, he prepared to return to Kamar-Taj.
To save time, even the black suit he wore had been transfigured from his shroud-cloth robe.
Wearing a long blade at the waist while dressed in a business suit looked a bit absurd, but it was acceptable when walking through the VIP lanes at the airport, so the magus didn't care for fashion conventions. Bayonetta was quite displeased, of course, but Solomon still promised her before leaving that he'd be home that night to make up for the Christmas morning breakfast they'd missed. That, of course, was a euphemism. Normally, Diana had to change, wash, and air out their sheets every morning. But because of the Fimbulwinter affair, the sheets hadn't been changed in days.
Solomon wasn't worried about Rosa and Baldur touring the world together. Rosa had spent years at Kamar-Taj and knew full well what should and shouldn't be done. She could keep Baldur in check. While the Immortal City was still sorting out the aftermath of the Fimbulwinter battle, Solomon shifted his focus back to Kamar-Taj. Just before heading to the airport, his final directive was to purchase the now-buried town of Noahduen.
"Noahduen and its surrounding areas, along with their oil extraction rights—negotiate with the Kazakh government for investment authority in the Almaty region. Use it to establish a charity foundation to compensate for the damage caused by the Immortal City's war efforts," he said. "As for the excuse about the previous bioweapon leak… find a few experts to claim that the town was buried by a volcanic eruption from Mount Fimbulwinter. Then we'll enter Kazakhstan through a nonprofit organization hidden under the umbrella of the U.S. National Endowment for Democracy. There are over 30,000 American nonprofits operating in Kazakhstan—one more won't raise suspicion. After all, we're not there to subvert any governments. And those radiation reports? Just omit them. That place is a dead zone now—only our engineering teams and construction mechs are digging up munitions there. No one else is going near it."
"I don't think we need to offer further compensation to the locals," Stephanie said as she set down a relief supply list. "We waged war to save their lives and souls—we even saved the whole world. There's no reason the Immortal City should pay more. Besides, Almaty is a stronghold of Mobil Oil and Kazakhstan's former president. Pushing our way in will provoke serious backlash. It's not worth offending Mobil over a drop of misplaced compassion—it could cost us Earth's entire industrial output."
"You can call it hypocrisy, Stephanie, but I still don't want unnecessary casualties," Solomon replied.
They both knew his words—and this entire "relief effort"—were steeped in irony.
Throughout the Fimbulwinter campaign, according to the rules they themselves had laid down, Sophia and her kin had executed countless deserters. The mercenaries they'd recruited were mostly hardened veterans, usually hired to do dirty work. Their most "powerful" enemies had been African warlords commanding child soldiers. Some lost their nerve and ran; others succumbed to corruption on the spot, and the death squads shot them without hesitation. There were no funerals for them, not even a moment of mourning. During the postwar psychological assessments, Sophia and Victoria Hand received direct orders to dispose of the mercenaries in bulk. Apart from a handful who truly pledged loyalty to the Immortal City and accepted Solomon's ideology, the rest were dismissed under various pretexts—then eliminated without hesitation. The order bore Stephanie's signature, but both women knew the real author behind the Department of Internal Affairs was Solomon.
To Solomon, the Battle of Fimbulwinter was a pop quiz for the Immortal City—a comprehensive test of its military, logistics, and administrative capabilities. The results barely satisfied him. Only the Martian Foundry, devoid of any human sentiment, had submitted a perfect score—transporting war machines by rail, launching them via chemical rockets, and delivering them into Earth orbit via Kamar-Taj portals. All done on sudden notice. This proved that Malbus's foundry was always ready for war. The Fifth Pillar of Demons had even started designing spacecraft capable of directly deploying war machines.
In contrast, the performance of ordinary soldiers had been mediocre at best. Even with high-tech gear, they'd only just managed to avoid disaster. The Sisterhood's bravery was unquestionable, but Tita's command abilities still needed refining. Solomon, of course, knew what had transpired with Catherine and Vera, but he forbade anyone from speaking of it.
"Still, I want you to remember what we fight for. You and I—we're the bricks that build the future, only of different sizes."
With the Immortal City running on its own, Solomon turned his attention to a more delicate matter: Stephen Strange.
This operation was entirely arranged by Solomon himself. No one but the Ancient One knew what he had prepared. To ensure that Dr. Stephen Strange walked the preordained path, Solomon had prepared an extremely potent curse. As the most learned magus in Kamar-Taj, Solomon's curse guaranteed that Strange's hands could not be healed by any means. Once he retrieved the scroll bearing that curse, he set out for the hospital where Stephen Strange worked, ready to initiate contact with the arrogant narcissist.
His first approach would be informal.
"Hello," Solomon said, seated on a cream-colored sofa, glancing at his watch. "I have to be at a dinner table in three hours. I'm wondering—Dr. Strange doesn't plan on showing up, does he?"
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Damonet," the nurse said with an apologetic smile. "Dr. Strange has… a last-minute emergency surgery. So your appointment—"
"No worries, Ms. Palmer. I'll come back another time," Solomon replied without malice. "It's just a checkup. I'm not in a rush."
He knew exactly what Strange was doing. The so-called "emergency surgery" was a lie.
Strange never took emergency patients. He only accepted surgeries after thoroughly reviewing the case and confirming the odds of success—provided the patient was wealthy enough. This practice was frowned upon even in private hospitals, but given Strange's unmatched skill in neurosurgery, the administration turned a blind eye. Maintaining a 100% success rate had its benefits. Solomon looked at Christine Palmer with a gaze tinged with pity. Strange had already clocked out early, driving home with his new girlfriend.
"Have you heard the rumor?" Solomon asked suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Someone's planning to buy this hospital," he said with a pleasant smile. "No need to feel guilty or apologize, ma'am. I'm quite satisfied with your service. Until next time."
(End of Chapter)
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