He could smell the fear in these bastards—the cold sweat on their backs was the withdrawal effect of the addictive drugs, the aftermath of overstimulated receptors. That was normal. If he hadn't secretly dumped large quantities of his personally concocted alchemical narcotics into the ship's water circulation system, these smugglers would never have had the guts to follow him in raiding the casino. But now that the effects were wearing off, they couldn't return to their former cowardice. Their blood had already been tainted. Fueled by alcohol and an atmosphere of escalating crime, their insatiable craving for drugs and money would drive them to keep plundering, fully transitioning into a new profession.
He deliberately left the bloodstains on his clothes—reminding these scoundrels that while they might dream of betraying their captain in exchange for a pardon or reduced sentence from Xandar, they shouldn't forget that he and his sword were far closer than Xandar ever would be.
Merlin's original plan had been to hitch a ride on a smuggling ship to reach that place. But reality was that there were no longer any routes leading there. That place had many names: the Dream Veil, the Source of Nightmares. Countless civilizations had given it ominous titles in their own languages. Some believed a colossal black octopus resided there, one that reached into dreams and lured people into the abyss of madness. Myths and legends repeated tales of its horrors. In order to maintain this carefully cultivated aura of dread, Solomon decided to seize control of this ship and lead these rabble down a path of bloodshed.
Pillaging as they traveled, resupplying along the way—only by doing so could they reach that fragile boundary between the Prime Material Plane and the Outer Dimensions.
Merlin had no sympathy to spare; he was indifferent to everything. Only Dave failed to understand why Solomon was doing all this.
"Are you really trying to empathize with aliens, Dave?" Solomon remarked casually. "If they're capable of communication, then naturally, peaceful coexistence is possible. But the people on this ship? They're desperate criminals who care more about money than their own lives, with moral compasses scraping rock bottom. Their inner demons have already been unleashed. If it weren't for my control, they'd be doing far worse things. Death is the best outcome—for anyone, including these bastards."
"You're still going to kill people."
"Heh." Solomon playfully winked, trying not to let his intensity crush Dave. "If the Xandarian government knew what I've done, they'd probably commend me—because that corrupt casino tycoon evading taxes is finally dead! Because I wiped out a whole network of officials in his pocket! You need to go through some real hardship before you can grasp the cruelty of this universe. I only care about humans, not aliens. And I certainly don't want you sympathizing with those who will one day become our enemies. Remember your place, Dave—you and I are human. If humanity is to rise to galactic dominance, then human chauvinism is a necessary phase of that conquest. Believe me, even Asgard ascended the same way."
"You're planning to start a war."
"I have to start a war. If humanity is to rise, war is inevitable." Solomon rolled his eyes and gestured toward Merlin, who was lazily watching an adult channel from Xandar. "Educate Dave properly." But the half-blooded Nightmare pretended not to hear him, too engrossed in the pale-skinned beauties on screen.
"Thanks to the Celestials' genetic engineering, many alien species can be considered human subtypes, making peaceful coexistence possible. So the future war won't be as bad as you imagine." Solomon turned to leave the cabin. "But I hope you shed your naivety soon. Balthazar's teachings were confined to Earth. Now you have a chance to see further. If you remain this weak, then the title of Swordbearer doesn't suit you. You are unworthy of wielding the Blade of Terra."
Solomon was certain Dave would understand what that meant. The brutal reality of En-Galle and the lessons of the Merlinian Order would make sure of it.
He remained optimistic about the upcoming battle. No matter how many cybernetic enhancements those aliens had undergone, they couldn't possibly be his match.
He happened to know a few ancient naval warfare techniques that worked surprisingly well in space combat—at least, better than the cowardly smugglers understood. Granted, these tactics were filled with Asgardian recklessness and an oddly cheerful sense of humor, including, but not limited to, stuffing gunpowder into launch tubes, lighting the fuse, and firing soldiers like torpedoes. Or installing a ram on the ship and using a boarding corridor built into it to jump directly into the enemy vessel.
He decided to increase the dosage for the crew, giving them the courage to carry out his most insane plan.
Which plan?
Obviously, the one where they'd be shot out of the launch tubes like human torpedoes! He had no intention of keeping these unreliable crew members on board.
Right now, he missed the Sisterhood deeply—those loyal artificial beings who would have carried out his orders without hesitation.
Closing his eyes, Solomon reached out to the flame flickering atop the ship, communicating with it.
His faithful Phoenix would never stray far. Even in the vastness of space, it would do everything in its power to aid him.
————————————
Lara Croft couldn't read the Greek inscriptions on the tombstone buried deep within the Prophet's ancient crypt. Right now, she only wished she had a Greek language expert by her side—someone like her handsome benefactor, Mr. Damonet.
On almost the same day Solomon left Earth, Lara arrived at her own destination. Despite being fired upon by an armed helicopter, she had survived. Even after plummeting off a cliff, she had survived. The sheer improbability of her survival was almost startling. If not for the pain from her wounded arm and aching spine, she might have doubted whether everything that had just happened was real.
She was now on the northwestern border of Syria, a land ravaged by war. The arid landscape stretched endlessly, its every surface baked into shades of ochre by the relentless sun. Even the dust in the air seemed to steal the moisture from her nostrils.
Thirst was the dominant force here.
The few animals that called this place home had shrunk in size, evolving hardened shells and venomous defenses. Lara coughed out sand and, ignoring the pain, pressed forward.
She wanted to conserve her medical supplies for more serious injuries.
The gilded Maltese cross she had just found would make an excellent gift—if she could make it back. The artifact was exquisitely crafted: four wedge-shaped arms, each adorned with gilded figures in robes, with four small rubies embedded between them. It was unmistakably Byzantine, dating back to the tenth century. The discovery further convinced her that she was on the right track.
And she was right.
The faded mural depicting the Prophet performing miracles for the common folk matched the descriptions in her father's notes almost perfectly. This was the very site Sir Richard Croft had spent his life searching for—the tomb of the Immortal Prophet.
Other murals depicted the Prophet negotiating with foreign armies, persuading them to lay down their weapons and become his followers. Every image of him was crowned with a halo.
Lara brought her glowstick closer, studying the murals. That was when she noticed something was missing.
There were no depictions of gods.
No religious gestures.
Only golden angels, gazing down from the clouds.
Golden angels in armor.
Even with her extensive knowledge of art history, Lara could tell something was off. Yet despite this inconsistency, the artists of the past had insisted on including these figures—characters that had no place in the Bible.
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