Only a few can understand me, because most are trapped in the minds of mortals, unable to see the future, to weigh the pros and cons, to make the optimal choice. I possess the ability, therefore I must make the choices for them—even if those choices come with excruciating pain—no, stop! That is the kind of foolish arrogance I've always tried to reject.
Just like metabolism, Solomon chewed on this thought repeatedly before purging it from his mind, leaving not the slightest influence. Even though he was a created tool with a will of his own, even though he was enslaved by his grand ideals, he always remained vigilant against such thoughts taking root within him.
To this end, he made a point of periodically evaluating his own actions from an outsider's perspective.
Though this often made his introspection appear cold or emotionless, it was a form of wisdom the Goddess of Wisdom herself had taught him—far more profound than the banal truths printed in books that millions read but none understand. Only recently had he come to grasp the true meaning of the phrase "with great power comes great responsibility," and while he didn't agree with it in its entirety, it didn't stop him from placing himself in the lowest position when judging his actions—never gazing down from the clouds. If he didn't step forward, no one else could. But that didn't make him superior to others, nor did it grant him the right to act without emotion when making decisions.
"Your discipline has advanced once again, my disciple. While mental cultivation isn't our sect's primary focus, it certainly affects our environment and the fate we face," said the Ancient One, carefully examining Solomon's face and drawing a conclusion from facial divination.
In Daoist terms, it was "the vital qi of the whole body ascending as in the founding of a sacred capital, with all nations bearing tribute"—the luminous blooming of the Yellow Court, a precursor to the ultimate truth. After over a decade of training in esoteric doctrines, Solomon had returned to a childlike purity: clear, intelligent, and clean-hearted. The Ancient One was deeply satisfied with his condition—enlightenment may come in an instant, but its benefits last a lifetime. Without a doubt, this version of Solomon was the best among countless possibilities, the one most perfectly fused with the power of the Stigmata. It was proof that the Ancient One's choice and the price she had paid had not been in vain.
The meditation room remained dimly lit. Rare incense that sharpened the mind was being burned recklessly, but no one cared.
Kamar-Taj was the wealthiest sect in the magical world, bar none.
"I'm glad you can understand so much on your own, even if it renders your teacher quite useless."
"Don't say that. Without you, who knows which dimension I'd be drifting through right now!" Solomon made a goofy face, acting childishly—something he hadn't done since the age of twelve. "A recent encounter made me reflect on my actions. Even though every move I've made was the optimal solution, I had forgotten about the most important part of myself—my humanity. Even if I may one day abandon it, for now, it remains a vital emotion. That said, I won't let sympathy prevent me from making decisions, because I only act on the optimal solution. I must resist on behalf of those who cannot resist, survive for those who cannot survive—even if sacrifices must be made. Well, most of those sacrifices will likely be aliens, but that's part of the plan."
"You poor child… I don't want your soul to be shattered beyond repair," the Ancient One said, her expression turning grim. "With a mortal mind, shouldering all this is the most terrifying form of spiritual torment. You don't need to go to such extremes."
"I think I can handle it, Master. I can't just give up without even trying, right?" Solomon slowly drank a thickened mixture of honey and tea, as if announcing that his taste buds had officially died. "You know that's not my style. Besides, isn't this also a form of tempering in the mundane world?"
"Looks like you're ready to take over Kamar-Taj—and to become humanity's ruler," said the Ancient One.
The ornate wooden doors of the meditation room did little to block the silhouettes shifting outside.
Under the bright sunlight of the plateau, the golden armor of the Praetorian Guard gleamed like a second sun. The expertly cut gemstones refracted tens of thousands of rays of light. Constantine stood silently, holding his long glaive, his expression cold and resolute. He watched silently as agents in black tactical gear marked with the Immortal City's insignia moved back and forth, unloading crates of vital supplies from a drop-ship that had landed in the plaza. The spellcasters of Kamar-Taj, dressed in robes of various colors denoting their rank, stood by, ready to move the materials into the prison beneath Kamar-Taj.
These agents, assigned exclusively under the Guard's authority, were distinguished by a second emblem—besides the Immortal City's eagle: a shield and sword crest. They were named the First Confidential Division. Each of them was entrusted with the handling of dangerous magical artifacts. Their weapons and gear were the most advanced available to mortals, and their minds had been pre-conditioned to retain courage in the face of eldritch horrors. Their commanding officer was Andrew, a man promoted for his outstanding performance during the Battle of Finbowent. The rest of his unit were likewise mortals who had proven their valor and loyalty in that same battle.
The Praetorian Guard monitored everything and were prepared to kill anyone who violated the rules. Only the Guard, the Monarch, the Sorcerer Supreme, and Baron Mordo knew the contents of the high-security crates being delivered. All others were strictly forbidden from making contact.
These items were preparations for a potential catastrophic event yet to come.
Constantine knew just how terrifying the secrets his monarch was hiding truly were. Even the Guard itself was partially born of those ancient, shadowy horrors—and that was only what his monarch had chosen to reveal. The Monarch had promised him that the Guard would be the purest beings in existence, for they shared his soul and power, armored in the strongest armor and armed with the sharpest weapons. Constantine could sense the story behind the armor he wore and the weapon he held—formed from extraterrestrial ore that crashed into Earth eons ago, forged in the hellfire of a star, shaped by hammers accompanied by arcane chants and cosmic technologies few could understand.
And his armament did not stop at the physical level; it was equally formidable in the immaterial realm.
He vaguely remembered living in snow-covered mountains as a child—similar to the peaks he now gazed upon. But that memory had long been buried under countless alien kill trials and near-death experiences, like black stone hidden beneath heavy snow. He cast aside the memory that gave him headaches—those recollections were but tasteless water. His brain had been restructured to eliminate useless emotions. With his enhanced eyes, he watched the flow of people with singular focus, guarding his Monarch with unwavering loyalty. This was his only purpose after being torn apart, rebuilt, restructured, and exalted—a duty he would carry forever.
The next drop-ship would bring equipment capable of carving through rock, and the one after that would deliver heavy steel. The ancient temple's prison would be renovated. In the darkness, sorcery and technology would combine to guard the Monarch's secrets—secrets so cruel they had to be buried deep beneath the Himalayas.
After a moment of silence, Solomon asked a question.
"Master, why won't you let me foresee your... retirement plan?"
"Don't be so delicate. You're asking about my death," the Ancient One replied expressionlessly, shaking her head. This wasn't the first time Solomon had asked—and it certainly wouldn't be the last. "Because I don't want to torment you, child. When the time comes, you'll understand. Do nothing until then. Don't think about it. The more you ponder it, the more dangerous it becomes."
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