The middle-aged man was one of Malcolm's most loyal subordinates. The bar where Thea had gotten drunk earlier belonged to him. Over the past few years, he'd followed Malcolm out of Star City, which was why they hadn't crossed paths again. Though she didn't know his name, Thea still recognized him.
"Yes, you have good eyes..." The middle-aged man wiped cold sweat from his forehead. The courage that usually let him take on ten men with just a knife had been completely shattered by Thea's scrutinizing gaze. He couldn't explain why—it was simply fear.
"What happened?" Malcolm traveled constantly, wandering across the globe. To be honest, Thea worried about him. This world ran deeper than most people knew. In Star City, Malcolm was nearly invincible, but outside? That was another story entirely.
The middle-aged man quickly recounted everything he knew.
"Get to the point—do you understand what that means?" Thea forced down her impatience. She'd listened to him ramble for five minutes about Malcolm's recent activities—how they'd cut off some punk's finger for information, how local gangs had chased them across the city. He went on and on without reaching the crucial detail.
"The point? We didn't find anything important. It's just that the boss missed our weekly check-in, so I knew something was wrong and came to find you." The middle-aged man finally reached the key information, making Thea sigh with relief. Malcolm's subordinate had loyalty in spades. As for competence? That was debatable.
"You know the relationship between me and your boss, right?"
"I know. You're father and daughter."
"Good. That makes this easier. Do you know who Malcolm last made contact with?"
The middle-aged man thought for a moment. "I think he was looking for some brotherhood leader?"
Thea felt lost at that. In America, brotherhoods were everywhere. There was the Defias Brotherhood from video games, the Brotherhood of Mutants from the other universe. The major ones could overthrow governments; the minor ones might just be voyeur clubs formed by basement dwellers.
"The Haitian Brotherhood! At a small tavern in New York." The middle-aged man finally provided a concrete target.
"Haitian Brotherhood? Papa Midnite's place?" Thea asked doubtfully.
"Miss Queen is wise. Yes, exactly that place!" The middle-aged man said obsequiously.
Papa Midnite was a well-known voodoo warlock in the dark world, his relationship with Constantine equal parts enemy and ally. He wasn't exactly good, but he wasn't purely evil either. He operated more as an intelligence broker in the magical community.
Thea had spent considerable effort investigating modern magicians. The infamous Constantine, Zatanna touring the world with her stage shows, the Archmages and Grand Alchemists of the Cult of the Cold Flame—including this Papa Midnite—she'd researched them all.
This was the twilight age of magic. Magic's glory had faded, replaced by technology that filled every street and alley.
Natural magic concentration in the environment was extremely low. Magic had fallen to an awkward position, almost like martial arts in the modern world.
No accumulation was possible—or rather, accumulation was simply impossible. As long as you knew the incantations, that was enough. Your spell power wasn't great, but neither was anyone else's. High-power spells existed in books, but few had the mana to cast them.
The most obvious example was Constantine. He drank, gambled, and smoked every day, never seriously meditating, yet his spells could match the Archmages of the Cult of the Cold Flame blow for blow. His personal cleverness and wit played a role, but so did the fact that his opponents weren't much stronger.
Thea had once observed Mister E of the Cult of the Cold Flame from a great distance. This Archmage, who guarded against divination curses and never revealed his true name, was a thousand times more diligent than Constantine.
He skipped breakfast. After dressing, he practiced Tantric yoga. At noon, he performed a spiritual vision technique from the ancient Indian Shakti sect. In the evening, he even worked on Daoist practices like the Three Flowers Gathering at the Crown, Five Qi Returning to the Origin, and the Great Heavenly Circulation. Ancient and modern, Eastern and Western—anything related to meditation, this man practiced it all. When Thea first witnessed this, she'd laughed out loud.
In ancient times, such practice would be suicide. Death would come faster than cutting your own throat. But in modern society, with magic power so scarce, the old gentleman achieved nothing beyond straining his eyes.
This diligent practitioner's ultimate fate was defeat by Constantine, who didn't train at all. His soul was sealed into a treasured sword, becoming a bargain-bin "wise mentor" spirit.
From this, you could see why magical practitioners were so rare in the modern age. Every one of them trained themselves into injuries. In another hundred years, magic would exist only in storybooks and children's tales.
This was also why Thea had focused on Shazam and Black Adam instead of these practitioners. Their magic contained too many impurities. Absorbing and converting their power wasn't worth the effort—she'd grow stronger faster just by basking in sunlight.
As for this Papa Midnite the middle-aged man mentioned, Thea didn't take him too seriously. At least the Cold Flame members still dreamed of reviving magic's ancient glory. This one? He led street thugs to carve out territory in New York's slums and collected protection money. Whatever hidden strength he possessed would be severely limited.
Under the middle-aged man's bewildered gaze, Thea's vision left Star City and flew straight to New York, searching for Papa Midnite.
After some effort, she found the intelligence broker. Papa Midnite stood bare-chested, wearing a black trench coat covered in trinkets, holding a kukri knife. His dark face was giving orders to his underlings.
A faint magical signature—that was him. Thea set up a soundproof barrier in her office, casually opened a pale blue teleportation portal, grabbed Papa Midnite by the collar, and—under the terrified stares of his subordinates—forcibly pulled him straight from New York to Star City.
Now that Thea's magic power had greatly increased, her technique was far more refined than when she'd rescued the former Secretary of Defense. She no longer felt half-dead after a single teleportation.
Papa Midnite reacted to the sudden change with an extremely ugly expression, but he still struggled to his feet and swung the kukri with fierce momentum, ready for an attack.
Unfortunately, neither person in the room reacted after his display. Malcolm's loyal subordinate stood frozen in shock. A living person appearing out of nowhere—was this real? How did this person just materialize? His worldview shattered like broken glass.
Thea maintained an indifferent attitude. She just wanted to ask a question. His overreaction—swinging that knife so tight not even water could slip through—was excessive. She'd wait until he calmed down.
At the same time, Thea couldn't help but think—another black man! She'd really encountered far too many...
Papa Midnite swung until his wrist ached without any enemy attack materializing. Only then did he spare attention to examine his surroundings.
Bright, clean windows—clearly a spacious office, and judging by the view outside, they were on a high floor.
Inside the room: a dazed middle-aged man and a cold, beautiful office woman. Papa Midnite's head spun. This environment didn't match his world at all. Had he forgotten to take his medicine this morning? How did he end up here?