Thirteen is a special number, holding various meanings across many cultures.
There were thirteen people at the Last Supper, after which Jesus was betrayed by Judas. In Persian tradition, people go outdoors on the thirteenth day to ward off misfortune, as ancient Persians believed the twelve zodiac signs governed the twelve months of the year, and after the twelfth cycle, the heavens and earth would collapse—making thirteen a symbol of chaos. In Taoism, twelve marks a full cycle, while thirteen signifies transcendence—stepping beyond the Three Realms and outside the Five Elements. In Buddhism, thirteen is also auspicious, representing completeness through its thirteen sects.
Solomon knew his fate was closely tied to the number thirteen—even the day he met Bayonetta had something to do with that number. His choice was based entirely on objective, magical reasons. The ritual he had written and designed himself was custom-tailored to channel energy toward him and no one else.
The ritual required two others alongside him, forming the three pillars. It was built upon ten sephiroth and three invisible ones—void, infinity, and infinite light—symbolizing the stigmata, or his soul. Preparation took twenty-two days, aligning with the twenty-two paths. The ritual itself had to last thirteen days—no more, no less—for his soul to safely return to the physical world.
No matter how advanced Immortal City's development had become, it could do little to help him in this matter. This was his own personal gamble.
If Stephanie knew what he was planning, she'd probably scream in outrage at his irresponsibility and beg him to just drop an eighty-megaton hydrogen bomb on Los Angeles. She didn't care how many people might die in LA—she only cared about the safety of her sovereign. Wu Guiyue, one of Kamar-Taj's Sanctum Guardians, had also advised Solomon to choose ninety-nine ascetic monks to share the burden of the ritual with him. If their lives could preserve his, they would willingly sacrifice themselves—that was their calling.
But such considerations no longer mattered to him now.
Bayonetta had Dana bring out a pot of beef stew, while she uncorked a bottle of wine from the cabinet. Nothing was more important than a family dinner—not even the end of the world. Solomon would finish his meal before heading off to risk his life. The beef had soaked up the brown sauce and was tender to the point of falling apart. The carrots were exceptionally sweet. The witches sipped red wine and quietly chatted about amusing stories from the past: artistic salons with Athena, drunken escapades with Sameen Shaw and Ms. Root, and how Shaw's little group had saved countless lives.
Bayonetta had grown her hair long again, black as raven wings. Jeanne too kept her long hair, but hers was whiter than the snow atop distant peaks—almost blindingly so. The witches seemed entirely relaxed, as if Solomon's coming ordeal was no more dangerous than shoveling snow. That night, they would perform a sacred ritual passed down from the Queen of Sheba—an ancient rite of blood, sex, and love. They would pour their emotions into the ceremony, offering themselves to Solomon to enhance his power.
Which was why the stew had been made extra spicy.
"Stop, Ifrit!" Constantine ducked his head, squeezing through the narrow entrance of the energy lab.
Hearing the rarely spoken name, the Spirit of Vengeance halted its movements, its burning, hollow eyes locking onto the Royal Guard. Ifrit was a jinn from Arabian mythology—genies bound to objects and forced to serve a master. The Spirit of Vengeance possessing Robbie Reyes was one such entity. Constantine had spoken its name to allow Robbie's consciousness to briefly overtake the spirit, restoring some logical thinking.
He had learned this ancient knowledge from his master before embarking on the mission. Today, the meaning behind the name "Ifrit" had long been forgotten—but the technique worked. The black-gloved hands of Ghost Rider were still clenched around the contaminated spirit, but he didn't continue with the burning Penance Stare.
Constantine made a gesture, drawing a sigil in the air with his fingers.
"What the fuck…" Leopold Fitz was cowering in the corner, legs buckling in fear. "Who the hell are you?!"
A translucent ghost was already terrifying enough—though not unheard of. Then a flaming skull barged in, dressed in an ill-fitting, obviously stolen biker suit. Then a three-meter-tall golden-armored giant burst in behind him, exuding a crushing presence. When S.H.I.E.L.D. assigned Fitz to this simple recovery mission, no one expected things to go so wildly off the rails.
"My master needs that spirit," Constantine said, casting a glance at the semi-transparent apparition. Even with its blurred features, he recognized it as one of the original founders of the energy lab. The spirit, hearing these words, looked as though it had received a divine pardon—his face lit up as if the Royal Guard were his savior. "He knows something my master wants. Only after he speaks can he die."
"Fitz! Get me out of here!" Mike pounded on the observation window. The spirit had locked him inside what used to be a decommissioned reactor core. While the reactor wasn't particularly large, if restarted it would produce enough heat to vaporize him. Even if he survived the heat, the radiation would kill him. The reactor was counting down to a restart or meltdown—Mike needed Fitz to disable it, fast.
Ghost Rider's flaming jaw clicked. He tilted his head slightly but didn't object.
"I'm on it!" Fitz crept along the wall, carefully skirting around the growing tension between the Royal Guard and Ghost Rider. He threw all his strength into twisting the intake hatch's locking wheel—but it didn't budge, as if welded shut. Desperate, he kicked the hatch twice, but still nothing happened. Panic surged through him—his heart was racing, limbs cold, ears pounding like drums. Mike tried to calm him down, urging him to think.
"I'm the one trapped, monkey boy," he said. "Don't panic. You're the smartest one here. You'll think of something."
"Not this time, Mike," Fitz gritted out. "You might die!"
"The machines in that room need inspection as well," Constantine's flat voice emerged from the grille of his helm. He stepped forward, towering over Fitz. "Please step aside." Without waiting for a response, he gently shoved Fitz away. The Royal Guard activated a switch, then plunged his crackling halberd into the heavy alloy hatch. The blade glowed red-hot where it touched metal, and Constantine carved through it like butter, cutting off the intake lock.
Fitz's jaw dropped in shock. Mike, now free, stared at the weapon in awe.
"Stop the reactor meltdown," Constantine said to Fitz. "Otherwise, you may die."
"Okay! Okay!" Fitz snapped out of his daze and dove for the control panel, working furiously. Mike stayed close behind him, eyes flicking between Constantine and Ghost Rider—still tense, no sense of relief in sight. Although Ghost Rider had paused his judgment, Robbie Reyes didn't seem willing to let go of the situation. The golden-armored giant and the flaming skull remained locked in a silent standoff. The Royal Guard's halberd still crackled with electricity—always pointed directly at the Spirit of Vengeance.
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