Dinner time was the only point in the day when Salomon and the two witches gathered around the same table. The rest of their time was spent in the bedroom, on the balcony, in the bath, the grand hall, the alchemical laboratory, or out in the forest clearing. They were practically glued to each other at every moment, striving for the perfect fusion of body and soul—in fact, that goal had long been achieved. The ritual could begin at any moment, but neither the witches nor Salomon brought it up, as if they still hadn't done enough. Every day, after preparing the meal, Deina had to hike up her maid skirt and run around the estate in heels, searching for her master's current location, like a nanny chasing down children to feed them. Between preparing meals and desserts with the Sisterhood's maid staff, she also had to feed the playful bear cubs frolicking in the woods and chase away the little lambs that always tried to sneak into the garden. The fluffy white lambs and the chubby brown cubs got along surprisingly well.
As the estate's de facto manager, Deina knew they were conspiring together to destroy the lawn.
The cubs wanted the honey in the garden, and the lambs were eager to sample the tulips, roses, and lilies in the greenhouse. But their evil plot was thwarted like clockwork every evening by Deina, who would grab the bear cubs by the scruff and gently shoo the lambs out with her foot. Yet the little animals never gave up—they returned every morning to try again.
To outsiders, Salomon might appear overly indulged in pleasure. But as his personal maid, Deina knew the truth: intelligence reports from Immortal City and Kamar-Taj continued to flow into the estate without pause. When the sunlight reflected off the Thames, assault transports would lift off from the estate, filled with reviewed documents bearing Salomon's annotations. Deina's first and most important task every morning was not preparing breakfast or collecting laundry—it was to receive the nightly delivery of paperwork from the Sisterhood, a stack that would take dozens of people an entire day to get through, and deliver it to her master.
Salomon would take twenty minutes to process them—usually after brushing his teeth, before breakfast.
When Stephanie and Diana from Immortal City received the documents for the first time, they immediately understood. They had once thought these files would take Salomon days to sort through. But now they saw that his past "demonstrations" of document processing had never shown his full speed. In fact, that method was just him slacking off. To spend more time with the witches, Salomon would do anything. Stephanie was quietly fuming—and began assigning him even more documents awaiting review. As head of domestic affairs and Salomon's chief secretary, she had the authority to do so—especially since the intelligence division's agents and the Mars Forge's technicians were currently developing cyber viruses to infiltrate NATO's military networks in preparation for electronic warfare. This would prevent NATO from interfering in the Latvinia conflict. Even if they did intervene, Immortal City's information war advantage could still suppress NATO's air superiority and drag their "peacekeeping forces" into a brutal ground war. Given the importance of the mission, Stephanie believed Salomon could handle a bit more to prevent backlog.
"We should send all the documents in this building to the Oxfordshire estate!"
"Miss Malick, isn't our job to process these documents? That's our authority!" The young Diana grew a bit agitated. "We have to stand up for gender equality…"
"Shut up. Have you ever seen Hillary Clinton revert to her maiden name? It's a business, not an ideology, you fool! If the Sovereign so wishes, no one in this entire building would have work left to do—because he can do it all himself!" Stephanie wasn't so easily swayed. Yet she knew this vacation was inevitable. Before it even began, Bayonetta had called her and shared a private conversation she'd had with Salomon's adoptive mother.
They had both agreed that the pressure weighing on Salomon's shoulders was immense.
In pursuit of that great dream—to save all of humanity's lives and future—Salomon had to bear the consequences of every decision alone. Even if his choices were the right ones in the long run, thousands of innocents could still die. And he had to remain utterly devoid of sympathy. Not even prophetic magic could foresee all possibilities; and even if it could, some decisions still had to be made.
Bayonetta knew full well her husband was a profoundly kind person—compared to those politicians, he was the kind of man who would lie down in the mud just to pull a suffering soul—like the Sisterhood's girls—out of hell and offer them hope and strength for a new life. For someone that kind to make those decisions, the pressure would inevitably build. If things continued like this, it was only a matter of time before he suffered psychological damage. Bayonetta had decided it was her duty to help Salomon relieve that pressure. During one of their picnics, she repeated all of this to him.
Salomon, however, simply smiled and shook his head. He told the witch frankly that his mental endurance wasn't that fragile—and that he had no regrets about the choices he made.
But Bayonetta knew he was lying. She knew this boy like the back of her hand.
Stephanie, however, didn't know Salomon's true feelings. She still believed she had neglected his mental health. But she would never admit that in front of her subordinates—after all, the Liszt family had always been subordinate to House Malick. Even if Diana was the Liszt family heir and her future right hand, Stephanie still had to project a leader's resolve, just as her Sovereign did for her.
"He's such a lazy worm! We're about to go to war in Latvinia, and he runs off to vacation in Oxfordshire?! Diana, these documents are yours now. Get out—I'm reviewing the Praetorian Guard's intel. That's above your clearance!"
The crackling power halberd swept down again at a speed too fast for the human eye to catch, cleaving the Ghost Rider in two at the waist. Orange-red sparks erupted as the blade drew a deadly arc. Constantine lowered the halberd and used the last of his momentum to spin the weapon, flipping it up from beneath for another strike. But just as he was about to cleave Ghost Rider apart once more, he felt as if his halberd had sunk into a swamp—no matter how much force he used, the blade couldn't make contact with Ghost Rider's legs. Even his crimson cape seemed frozen in the air, and the Praetorian Guard himself was as immobile as an insect trapped in amber.
A deep, bestial growl rumbled from Constantine's throat, like a lion caged in armor.
He watched helplessly as the bisected Ghost Rider hit the ground, white bone and flame twisting together—and in the blink of an eye, it reassembled. The reborn Ghost Rider was seething with rage, but just as he prepared to attack again, he stopped and stood utterly still. If not for the fire still burning across his skeletal frame, he'd look exactly like a medical anatomy model. Even a fool would realize something had just happened—let alone Constantine, whose powered armor radar clearly identified a third party entering the battlefield. The moment the suppressive force vanished, Constantine instantly turned his halberd toward a section of the collapsed wall and aimed, his finger ready to trigger the pulse-firing mechanism and unleash both his explosive rounds and his fury.
"Explain yourself!" he growled coldly, his fury restrained but palpable. "Or I will charge you with treason!"
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