In New York's infamous warlock haven, the No-Door Pub, every patron wore a tense expression, stealing glances at anyone who had just entered. Unlike the time when Stephen Strange assumed the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme and promptly lost control over the magical world, the current Sorcerer Supreme inspired genuine fear. Ever since her command was issued, the No-Door Pub—a hotspot in the magical gray zone—had seen its clientele cut in half. The few wild mages who still dared to show up had mostly registered themselves.
These guests weren't all master sorcerers, but they could sense the storm brewing in the magical realm. So when Solomon walked through the door, a few familiar wild spellcasters immediately gathered around, eager for intel. The Siberian Count Coez elbowed his way to the front, reeking of body odor and exuding physical bulk. "This is a real man," he said loudly, jabbing a thick finger at Solomon. "You wouldn't believe it, but I watched this kid grow up. He used to be this tall—barely a finger high! Now he's taller than me. Must've learned my training methods—winter swimming, wrestling wild boars, uprooting trees barehanded... You weaklings couldn't dream of it."
"For Merlin's sake, Count Coez! We don't care why you're so huge! Ask what matters!"
"Alright, alright." Coez nodded reluctantly. "Kid, we all want to know what's up with the Sorcerer Supreme's order! Not that we're unwilling to comply, but it came out of nowhere. Did the Supreme foresee some great catastrophe? Don't give me that look. They call me a prophet back home, but I can't predict squat."
"We know," muttered a British wizard nearby. "You're just a brute."
As always, the No-Door Pub was lively.
Fistfights were allowed—but no magic. Coez quickly overwhelmed both the British and an American wizard, pummeling them effortlessly until the bartender split them up with a club. Only then could Solomon breathe freely, finally escaping the overwhelming stench radiating from Coez—he had half-thought a talking bear had entered the bar, considering the man smelled exactly like one. "I'm just here to post a notice," he told the bartender. "The Ancient One's given everyone plenty of time. As long as you don't break Kamar-Taj's laws, you'll be fine."
"The No-Door Pub also welcomes mystics of Kamar-Taj," the bartender said cautiously, lifting his head to study Solomon. "But everyone's on edge. Half our regulars are gone. Most of them moved to the black market dock in the New York sewers. That place doesn't welcome you or any Kamar-Taj mystics."
"I know."
Solomon used a small spell to affix a parchment, bearing Kamar-Taj's crest, to the damp, moldy wall between ads for virility potions, wanted posters, and love elixirs. Anyone who tried to remove it would have to tear down the wall itself. Once finished, he waved a thick stack of identical parchments at the crowd. "I'll be heading there shortly," he said with a wicked grin. "That place needs cleaning out anyway, and I don't mind someone being brought to justice immediately."
"The Ancient One's will." Coez rumbled. "Kid, need help?"
The Siberian "prophet" had clearly grasped Solomon's true intent in heading to the black market. Any sorcerer with arcane vision could see the obscene wealth strapped to Solomon's person—iron-black gloves, blood-red sacred cloth, and all manner of magical gear sparked painful brilliance to the magically attuned. The sewer black market was notoriously seedy. For the penniless scavengers down there, Solomon's gear was like treasure from another world. Kamar-Taj mystics had entered the black market before, but none had ever arrived dressed like this.
And then there were the blades at his waist, the large-caliber pistol strapped to his thigh. It was clear Solomon had come prepared—hoping someone would try something.
"I won't need help," he said. "There will be blood tonight, but not mine."
The title of Sorcerer Supreme carried weight because of steel and spell, but not everyone respected authority.
Once the notice was up, Solomon had another job to finish. He had already taken payment from Kunlun, and he couldn't keep delaying. Today, he had to wipe out the Hand operatives snooping around the dragon bones. It was the final day of the Christmas holidays—a day that future New Yorkers would remember as "Blood Night in Hell's Kitchen." But the truth was, the bloodshed in Hell's Kitchen paled in comparison to the carnage in the sewer black market. The Finbowent incident had remained a secret thanks to Kamar-Taj's containment, but this time, Solomon would make his name known in the open.
The black market existed in a hidden half-dimension tucked between spatial seams. Its entrance was located in a decrepit section of the sewer system, accessible only by a ferry operated by a specific boatman. Without him, one would be forced to wade through literal sewage. No one knew when this place had been founded, or by whom, but it had naturally become a haven for those evading Kamar-Taj or engaging in dark dealings.
It was a shadow under the Sorcerer Supreme's shining rule.
Kamar-Taj typically ignored such places—not out of any misplaced respect for "freedom," but simply because the Ancient One didn't care about trivial matters. But once her command was issued, even the most remote and lawless corners would be forced into submission. Solomon had come to reestablish Kamar-Taj's authority and restore the Ancient One's light to these darkened spaces. He was the last to depart. Other mystics, like Kaecilius, had already begun cleaning up Europe's magical black markets.
The Ancient One, showing rare kindness, had left the New York assignment to Solomon—so he could be home for dinner.
The so-called boatman was a voodoo revenant shrouded in a tattered black cloak. It had served this market since its founding and still followed its final command. Solomon didn't have a coin of passage—none of the pub's patrons dared admit they had ever visited the black market, so none offered him one. Everyone knew they had been there, but saying it aloud was another matter.
"Take me," Solomon said, stepping onto the little boat hung with death-wind lanterns. Even without a coin, the boatman pushed off.
The warm yellow lantern light swayed as the ferry creaked forward, its skeletal pilot paddling in rhythm. Shadows twisted grotesquely across the arched red-brick ceiling. Though the current was sluggish and reeked of rot, the boat moved quickly. In the unseen corners beyond the reach of light, creatures from childhood nightmares lurked—monsters under the bed, twisted into reality. Their silhouettes emerged from wall cracks, rusty grates, and the filthy, inky water. They hissed and whispered, their noises merging with the current's gurgle.
The farther they traveled, the fewer traces of modernity remained. The brick ceiling gave way to rough-hewn stone. The grates became rotting wood. Whole swarms of black serpents slithered onto the boat, their glistening heads peeking over the sides. The stench thickened, nearly choking.
It was like sailing through a nightmare—but Solomon looked completely unfazed.
(End of Chapter)
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