To face the coming turmoil, the magical world had to be subjected to intense regulation—this was the consensus reached by the Ancient One and Solomon. Compared to ordinary people, spellcasters were more intimately tied to extra-dimensional forces and therefore more prone to corruption. Once a sorcerer fell, they could easily become a portal for entities from beyond to enter the physical plane—and the most terrifying part was that this corruption often happened subtly, without the victim's awareness. Some sorcerers had been compromised just by glimpsing a few cryptic words, only to be brainwashed that night by horrific nightmares. Upon waking, they would inexplicably become minions or devotees of extra-dimensional gods, setting traps for their loved ones or outright offering them as sacrifices.
Even after the Ancient One had firmly established her rule, such incidents had occurred more than once. At Kamar-Taj, cultists were likened to cockroaches—spotting one usually meant there was an unseen nest. After all, not everyone could face the dark dimensions with the same fortitude as Solomon, who could converse with Dormammu of the Dark Dimension as though they were equals. Books touching on such knowledge in the Kamar-Taj library were shackled in iron and bound by enchantments, accessible only with explicit permission.
The black market dealt largely in illicit magical components. Human bones, skin, nails, and internal organs were the most common items traded underground—and those from spellcasters were far more valuable than those from ordinary people, whether as ritual ingredients or research specimens. The origins of these body parts were always shrouded in mystery. With so many people dying each day under unclear circumstances, and Kamar-Taj's limited manpower, there was no way to track everything. Instead, they relied on the Eye of Agamotto's crystal orb and the planetary defense system to monitor magical energy fluctuations within the market, ensuring no large-scale summoning rituals took place.
Now, Solomon had stepped into this lawless territory.
Kamar-Taj mystics had been here before, but the ferryman always gave merchants ample time to hide their more questionable wares. All that ever turned up were cursed items—which, technically, weren't illegal. Some of these even circulated through human society and sparked urban legends, like the original gray-blue Hope Diamond, once owned by Henry Philip Hope and later sold by the Cartier family. It famously brought ruin to American mining heiress and socialite Evalyn Walsh McLean.
But this time was different.
The ferryman was no longer under his original enchantment—Solomon had overridden it with a superior form of black magic, forcing him to row regardless of payment. And he wasn't working alone—John Constantine stood waiting with a long glaive at the sewer's exit.
Meanwhile, NYPD Commissioner Stacy was growing increasingly overwhelmed—his first day on the job had already brought two murder cases.
"No, this isn't murder—it's a massacre," said Detective Carter of the 8th Precinct, one of Solomon's long-time acquaintances. She met the commissioner at the scene. "We don't just have bodies. We've got limbs—sawed off, burned, blown to bits—you name it. According to the coroner, they all died within the past twenty-four hours. The worst part? We can't ID most of them. So far, forensics has only managed to piece together three complete bodies. The rest are scattered remains—organs, body parts... It's like someone ran a slaughterhouse down here."
"Who found it?" Commissioner Stacy asked, covering his mouth and nose. The acrid stench of sewage and rotting flesh was nearly unbearable, even from a distance.
"A homeless informant of mine. He'd been sleeping nearby." Carter peeled off her gloves and tossed them into a trash bin. Now that backup had arrived and the area was cordoned off, she no longer needed to go further into the scene herself. "I got the call and came straight here with my partner, Detective Francesco. We questioned the guy and took his statement. But he didn't see or hear anything. He just saw a body floating in the morning, and the sewage had turned red. That's when he called me."
"And your partner?"
"Over there." She pointed to a corner where the plump Detective Francesco was hunched over a trash can, vomiting violently. Not even the sound of sirens could drown out his retching. Several patrol officers were also doubled over in nearby alleys. "He was the first one to go in. That's what did it. The search team is down in the sewer now, looking for more remains. I swear, this is the biggest massacre in New York history. Even during Prohibition, the mob never created a scene this horrific."
"Trust me, Detective Carter," Commissioner Stacy said with a grimace, "this isn't the biggest—not today. Hell's Kitchen wasn't exactly quiet either. We found a whole crew of Yakuza dead in the streets. Until we get the body count, we won't know which site was bloodier."
"Don't tell me Santa Claus turned into a homicidal maniac this year." Carter snorted. "What's the situation in Hell's Kitchen?"
"Looks like a gang war, but I don't know who the Yakuza crossed. We're short-staffed because of the holidays, so we can't manage both scenes. Between a gang shootout and an anonymous slaughterhouse, the latter takes priority." Stacy looked her in the eyes. "Detective Carter, I need you to lead this investigation. I know your son's home for the holidays, and I'm sorry—"
"He'll understand, Commissioner." She managed a tight smile. "He knows how important my work is."
"I'm glad the 8th Precinct has someone as responsible as you." Stacy sighed. "I didn't expect so many neurotic officers in the NYPD. I still can't believe how many incidents we've had where the police fired first. I've had multiple shootings just since I took office."
"New York's got the highest gun ownership rate, Commissioner," Carter said, rubbing her frozen hands. "Everyone's gotta learn to protect themselves."
"I know, I know." Stacy understood the logic.
In a country that encouraged civilian gun ownership, police had to be extra cautious when making arrests. Shootings of officers by suspects happened frequently, leaving officers constantly on edge. The slightest movement could trigger a deadly misunderstanding. Especially in New York—with its immigrant populations, criminal syndicates, and smuggling ports—Hell's Kitchen could easily be hiding an armory in every block, filled with illicit weapons from around the globe.
Yet oddly, last night's gang war showed no signs of heavy weapon use. Not even signs of a large-scale gunfight. In Commissioner Stacy's opinion, it was as if someone had used cold steel to wipe out the entire Yakuza operation in Hell's Kitchen.
His toes tingled.
He knew his future in this job wouldn't be easy.
(End of Chapter)
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