Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 1444 A Noble Dinner (Second Update)

If there's anyone in the world who's the best history professor, then Enoch definitely deserves a mention. It seems quite content with recording what it sees and hears in words and videos. Enoch uses straightforward and objective language, rarely adding personal emotions or judgments. This is what Constantine required of it: to record history. "I don't know why you're so optimistic," Enoch's voice, as straightforward and flat as its writing, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, said, "History is a profession for posterity. Do you believe that the mission of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents can extend our future?"

"No, I was never optimistic that S.H.I.E.L.D. agents could complete the mission."

Constantine stood for twenty-six hours, during which time he oversaw the Rangers loading thermonuclear weapon warheads and the necessary maintenance equipment into the warehouse, sealing it completely with keys and armor that S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't open, and finally holding the ignition key in his own hand. The Emperor was certain that Agent Coulson would never reveal the base's location to the newly reorganized S.H.I.E.L.D. of the US government, but to increase his leverage, a small-yield nuclear warhead, enough to destroy the entire base and reduce all data to ashes, was transported here.

"Although you've lived on Earth for a long time, you don't always see things that cause destruction. We teeter on the brink of extinction every day; the fears of the past forever threaten our survival." Constantine remained energetic; the heavy paperwork couldn't dull his mind. In fact, even after overseeing the transport, installation, activation, and maintenance of thermonuclear warheads, he still found time to practice the Spear of the Guard, which had become an integral part of him. "So, do we have a future?" The Commander of the Guard spoke to himself, mimicking the emotional tone of an ordinary person. "Yes, I'm sure. Even if the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fail, they are merely a way to prolong the future. As long as they can provide enough information, we can find a solution."

"That's called optimism," Enoch reminded him. "My sentiment analysis module is calibrated and absolutely won't make a mistake."

"I don't care." The Commander of the Guard removed his magnificent gold helmet, his cold face exposed to the statically cleaned, recirculated air. He had placed Enoch in the most secure room at the Lighthouse base, guarded by two heavily armed First Class soldiers, but Enoch didn't mind the prison-like environment, and Constantine showed no remorse. "I'm here to ask you something."

"I guessed it. Forgive my imprecise vocabulary, but I don't think you're interested in hearing my proposed action model." The immortal spoke with a strange, flat humor, like a machine mimicking human movements. He quickly stopped, even the fake smile forced out by his bionic facial muscles vanished. "I'm completing the work you gave me, writing down my observations in a chronicle style, so the event you're asking me about is very likely related to this."

Constantine lowered his head and glanced at the numbers on the holographic projector.

"Perhaps. I suggest recalculating, but a complete chaotic system model might overload your logic processing center. You can't possibly include the movement of every single atom in the calculation." He took out a data panel and placed it in front of Enoch. The immortal glanced at it and saw a photo of a young, dark-haired woman laughing on the panel. As Constantine's fingers moved, photos of the woman in different eras appeared, showing different clothes, different body types, and even different hairstyles. "Using technology to simulate the environment this target would be helpful for your screening," he said. "We are using this system extensively to track down criminals."

"You mean, apart from the first picture, all the other pictures in the video are fake?"

"The computer-generated answer is helpful, like a psychological profile," Constantine said. "Do you have this facial data in your database?"

"who is she?"

"I can't say, Enoch."

"I have the right to know," the immortal protested expressionlessly. "It only needs to be related to the mission; that's our agreement."

"This is another mission, one that has nothing to do with you."

"There's a 67 percent chance you'll have to leave," Enoch suddenly said. "You'll have to leave Lighthouse Base."

"There's nothing more I can do here," Constantine said calmly. "Everything is on track, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. team is training. If they can successfully bring back the information, we can take targeted action as quickly as possible; if they can't, then..."

"Thermonuclear warhead?"

“That’s a last resort. We must eliminate all distractions if my master overestimates Agent Coulson’s sense of responsibility for his mission,” Constantine said. “Based on past experience, such preparation is necessary. He’s willing to trust Agent Coulson, but I won’t.”

"So this is your order?"

"Yes."

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"This will be the last time you look at women's photos during dinner."

Joan of Arc handed Salomon a hand-rolled cigarette and a full glass of wine, allowing him to snatch the data tablet during a moment of distraction. The table was surrounded by people; Joan and Bayonetta sat on either side of him, Milia on his lap, and the Cheshire Cat on Milia's lap, constantly launching probing attacks on the food. To be honest, the dinner at the manor dazzled Laura Crawford. She didn't know how Salomon managed to juggle sharing food, feeding the girls, and chasing away the cats—and now the black-haired witch had lit a cigarette for him, making him seem even busier.

To be honest, Laura Crawford thinks she would really enjoy the atmosphere of this dinner.

A multitude of foods were laid out on the table, and everyone shared food and wine intimately. Steam and smoke lingered above the table, bathing the magnificent crystal chandelier in a golden glow. This was not a cold, opulent display of jewels, gold, and luxury goods, where ostentatious wealth was merely an embellishment beneath their feet. What truly filled the table was a warmth and elegance depicted by the tenderness in their eyes, the hushed whispers, and the kisses.

Of course, there is also beauty and nobility.

Look at the tableware here. These plates and cutlery were provided only by Versailles during the Sun King's reign. The soup pot on the table was once used to serve feasts to the gods. The shallow, celadon bowl holding the palate cleanser comes from the Ru kiln of the Song Dynasty. They use these tools with utter naturalness and nonchalance, as if it were their birthright. They are the owners of these priceless objects, and the artifacts seem to become more valuable through their use, rather than the other way around.

They would discuss stars, alchemy, science, art, and dizzying philosophy at the dinner table; they would talk about writing, painting, gunpowder, and metal. Their topics were vast and complex, with no apparent barriers between different areas of knowledge, as if all of humanity's knowledge had merged into one in their conversation, existing in a rhythm imperceptible to ordinary people—this noble attitude was far more valuable than adding titles to one's name, buying a castle, or attending some social event. What Laura Crawford envied even more was the intimate relationship between Salomon and the witch. The witch's form-fitting silk robe perfectly outlined her voluptuous hips and slender waist, like Aphrodite emerging from the sea; anyone would be captivated by such beauty. They were the embodiment of desire simply by existing.

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)