"Isn't this a little too vicious?" the Ancient One asked, frowning.
It wasn't because the Gothic script was hard to read, nor because the incense smoke curling through the dimly lit meditation chamber stung the eyes. It was simply that the plan Solomon had handed over was a little too complex—and undeniably cruel.
"I don't want to end up with a Sorcerer Supreme candidate who's bitter and misanthropic. What if Stephen Strange learns magic and decides to take revenge? Or worse, what if he becomes some kind of superhero, ignoring extra-dimensional threats just to run around playing vigilante on the streets? Either option is a puppet outcome—the kind the Vishanti would want, not me."
"'When virtue does not match the position, disaster follows. With small virtue but great rank, little wisdom but big ambition, weak strength yet heavy burden—failure is inevitable,'" Solomon replied, accepting the plan the Ancient One had only skimmed. After Natasha Romanoff left, he had added an appendix—detailing over three hundred ways to cause irreversible psychological damage without endangering the target's life. One hundred and five of those were magical curses Solomon could personally cast.
"If Stephen Strange can't realize that the root of all his misfortunes lies in his own arrogance, then he was never fit to become the Sorcerer Supreme," Solomon said. "Coincidentally, I know another decent candidate. Though he's just as irritating as Strange, I rather admire that detective living in London. If Strange fails, maybe we should change targets. I doubt the Vishanti would mind. After all, the two even look alike—and are equally insufferable."
"Seems like no matter what happens, your sense of humor is unshakable," the Ancient One said dryly, glancing at her disciple across the table.
Mordo, as Kamar-Taj's observer, had already delivered the accurate casualty reports. The Ancient One understood all too well what had happened when the mission, which should've mobilized all of Kamar-Taj, was handed over to the Eternal City instead. Armed only with weapons and courage, those mortals had achieved a staggering victory. But the price was steep. Even one of Solomon's personally crafted artificial humans had perished, not to mention the many fallen soldiers. According to Mordo, the Eternal City's funeral had lasted a full week—not including those executed later during post-battle investigations for succumbing to mental corruption.
The Ancient One knew Solomon had memorized every name. But he refused to show his sorrow, because he believed those soldiers had died following his orders, facing enemies of mankind. Though the sacrifice was necessary, that didn't mean he could forgive himself—or that he wouldn't issue similar orders again. Even if future battles risked the total annihilation of the Sisterhood, if such sacrifice meant saving more lives, he wouldn't hesitate—not even with his own life. This, too, was a principle the Ancient One had taught him.
Yet the Ancient One didn't want Solomon to stay in his current state forever. More precisely, she didn't want his emotions to dull too quickly. In the future, when loss became frequent, she feared he might grow numb. That fate may be inevitable—but for now, she needed a Solomon who still felt. The Witch was the only one who could ease his emotional pressure. The Sorcerer Supreme needed her to act as Solomon's outlet.
"You don't have any pressing duties in the Eternal City right now, do you?"
"Not at the moment. We're entering the development phase—Stephanie can handle it all."
"Then after you finish cursing Stephen Strange," the Ancient One said, "you can take a vacation. I trust your magical skill."
Solomon raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. Vacation wasn't a concept he was familiar with. As a mystic, he was on call 24/7, 365 days a year. After all, extra-dimensional threats didn't follow Earth's schedule. He hadn't had a real break since his teenage years.
"Bayonetta said you wanted to experience a bit of pastoral life," the Ancient One added. "And I think you truly need a break. Otherwise, once your work in the Eternal City is done and you settle into the Sanctum, you'll end up neglecting the Witch. So I've decided to ease your burden a little."
"Won't the mystic families read into this?" Solomon asked. "You didn't keep your recruitment of Strange a secret. They may not have the strength to rebel, but they're certainly capable of sabotage. Compared to those old geezers, Whitehall's civil servants are gentlemen."
"Don't worry. I'll leave you a clean Kamar-Taj," the Ancient One said with a smile. Her words were deadly serious, though there wasn't a trace of bloodthirst in the wrinkles at the corner of her mouth. She had already issued a decree to the magical world: every practitioner heard it through the Sea of Souls—register with Kamar-Taj or face the consequences. Any spellcaster with a hint of prophetic magic knew a harsh era was coming. Black tides were rising in the Sea of Souls, and even Kamar-Taj had to prepare.
Aside from dark mages and those living too deep in the mountains to reach a registry site in time, most of the scattered spellcasters had reported in. But there were still fools who challenged Kamar-Taj's authority.
Kamar-Taj had yet to act—but anyone familiar with the Sorcerer Supreme's methods knew a purge was coming. The magic black markets in New York's sewers had already ramped up trading. Every dark mage was scrambling to stockpile supplies before winter fell and they had to vanish—hoping to ride out the storm born of the Supreme's fury. And that storm would sweep through Kamar-Taj itself. The Ancient One was merciless to outsiders—and even harsher with her own. From now on, Kamar-Taj's doctrine and educational methods would undergo radical reform. Solomon saw it clearly: all of this was to prepare for the next era. Any who opposed it would be buried six feet under.
He would be part of that process. He knew he had to solidify his place in Kamar-Taj and take on the authority and responsibility the Ancient One intended to leave him once she relinquished her title.
She had even shown him the crown—the one he was destined to wear.
That crown was part of the Ancient One's private collection. It wasn't kept in the Sanctum or the Himalayan headquarters, but in Athena's possession. The Ancient One had even used spells to obscure her own fate and forbade Solomon from trying to divine the manner of her death. Whenever he brought up her retirement plans, she always responded vaguely, as if there were something he would not be able to accept.
"I've already had Mordo pass the message along," she said as she slowly stood. Even among mortals, the Ancient One was tall. Her profound mystical cultivation allowed her to appear utterly ordinary—unlike Solomon, who seemed to fill every space he entered.
This was the result of Kamar-Taj's fusion of a hundred schools of thought—a state of "mingling light and dust," known as Xuantong.
Xuantong, or "mystic unity," referred to the harmonized state where all elements blend as one. To reach this level required one to "blunt the sharp," and "untangle the knots." Blunt the sharp meant to learn from experience without becoming a blind follower. Untangle the knots meant embracing both shadow and light, observing issues from every side. Through cultivation of the self, refinement of temperament, and enhancement of one's moral and spiritual foundation, one could reach the serenity of the Hidden Sage—the kind who, as the Dao says, "attains the Way among the armies." Whether it was called magic or Daoist practice, the essence remained the same. The highest level of mastery looked ordinary—exactly like the Ancient One.
It was something Solomon had not yet achieved. He was still sharp, still radiant with talent.
"But I believe they'll follow orders," the Ancient One concluded. "Some of those old relics still remember what I'm capable of as the Sorcerer Supreme."
(End of Chapter)
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