Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 731 The Angry Miser (First Update)

The madwoman stared wide-eyed, as if her brain couldn't comprehend what the person in front of her was doing, or why her good friend Salomon had put everything down and was trying to pierce through the fog of her mind with his soul-penetrating gaze.

All he received was bluntness, as cold and stark as a piece of pure marble.

There was no damp filth hidden in the folds, only simple, direct thought. This poor woman, her mind was burned out, her soul thoroughly cleansed by immense power, her personality crushed into tiny dust by vast truth. Salomon didn't know what she was originally like, what kind of personality she had; all he saw was the dust covering the marble, as if a slightly heavier breath could wipe it away.

She became like this because of him. This thought suffocated Salomon.

The woman became this way to convey a message to him. If he gained the support of the universe, the madwoman would become his accomplice, interpreting his premonitions and hallucinations. He was furious, furious even more so than when he couldn't completely save everyone during his missions. Everyone he killed had a reason to die, every sacrifice he made was justified, and every punishment he inflicted was deserved.

Only this matter, this woman's existence, constantly reminded him that if he failed to complete that grand plan, everyone could become like her, a puppet and tool of some deity. He knew very well that this debt was his, and he would take care of her, because it was a debt he owed. He wanted to distance himself from this woman not out of disgust, but out of despair, like the despair of a fatalist facing fate. Like scalding poison flowing through his body, burning his veins, making him want to vomit, his nostrils filled with the smell of ashes.

Every advanced civilization, upon reaching a certain stage of development, inevitably encounters the existence of the spiritual world. The Shi'ar Empire, approaching the "veil of dreams," used harsh rule, the veneration of two primordial deities, and the prohibition of artistic creation to keep its people away from the endless malice lurking beneath the cloak of reality. The Skrulls, even before losing their homeland, worshipped their own gods, embracing corruption without looking back, until their so-called gods were killed. Even while wandering, they never forgot their so-called "oracle," foolishly hoping to revive the Skrull race on Earth. The Kree, intending to solve their problems through scientific means, traced back to the genetic engineering created by the Celestials to establish their ancestors, creating a super artificial intelligence that governs the Kree Empire, planning to resolve the spiritual world's problems by dominating the real universe.

Besides these, there are many other little-known races that either embrace the spiritual world and revel in the talents bestowed upon them by another world; or they desperately try to resist and are ultimately destroyed, leaving only orphans to survive; or they pretend to ignore the facts and wait patiently for destruction to come.

Salomon learned from the lessons of those alien races and forged his own path.

"Didn't we agree to watch TV together, Salomon?" The madwoman shifted uneasily on the sofa. Her dust-like personality responded with indifference, "Are we having a contest of not blinking?"

"Yes." The arcane sorcerer forced a smile. He blinked, regaining his composure, ripping the despair and emotions from his mind, crushing them on his fingers like a cookie, and tossing them aside like trash. He straightened his spine again—he would never admit defeat, even if his opponent was a so-called god. This was the purpose for which he was created, his eternal duty. He wielded his longsword like a miser, trying to drive away any creature that touched the human race or polluted its purity. He looked down on the Inhumans, for they were nothing but a bunch of mongrel slaves; he looked down on the Asgardians who called themselves gods, considering them nothing more than a bunch of beings from the real world with the blood of mad gods; he looked down even more on the Eternals created by the Celestials, considering them nothing more than tools used by the Celestials to maintain their rule, a bunch of talking, walking wrenches, with no trace of nobility in their minds.

His vigil will be longer than that of the Sorcerer Supreme, and his responsibilities will far exceed all the burdens that Kamar-Taj has carried to this day. His Holiness has already revealed to him that the plan will not be so easily accomplished—more than fifteen hundred years; he will endure eternal torment on Earth, dedicating everything to this race. This is why he so greedily craves everything he loves in his current life. He has repeatedly pondered whether his actions are worthwhile, yet countless prophecies and visions remind him that he has only one choice. A wizard who doesn't believe in fate ultimately treads the path of destiny—it's the worst black comedy he's ever heard.

"You lost!" the madwoman shouted gleefully, like a child.

Salomon maintained his smile, but its meaning was entirely different now. His plan might need to be revised, and he was convinced he could find a way. As he had told the Venerable One, if the number of deities who held the power over human destiny was reduced from several to one, then his plan would be meaningless.

"Yes, I lost," he said softly. "So what does the winner want?"

Zero, the Imperial Guard, frowned.

His longsword lay on a weapon rack, his light armor bearing the marks of his rampage through the Shi'ar noble library. His explosive pistol, disassembled into hundreds of parts, was meticulously cleaned and maintained with a soft, grease-soaked cloth. On a cabinet beside the weapon rack sat the spoils of his last trial, preserved in a secret-artificial locker—a Shi'ar noble skull, resembling a human but with a hollow, bird-like skeleton, now flawlessly white after acid washing. A pre-detached crest of feathers was glued to the skull's tip, signifying its former status. His loyal servant, "Old Loda," tragically perished the moment he completed his mission, killed by a Shi'ar noble whom "Old Loda" sought revenge against. Zero regretted not being able to retrieve his servant's body.

Now he believes what "Old Guy" said.

"Old Guy" had indeed served as an elite soldier in the Shi'ar Empire. Despite long-term malnutrition and illness, he still managed to kill the noble bodyguard with the knife given to him by Zero before his death, buying time for Zero, the Imperial Guard, to retreat to the spaceport. Zero, head bowed, continued to clean his weapon. The terrifying methods his master had taught him were practically the most universal language in the universe. With the superhuman strength granted by his genes, he used this explosive gun, which was difficult for ordinary people to lift, to play a crucial role in his hijacking of the merchant ship, allowing him to quickly seize the small cargo ship and reach the designated evacuation point.

If he can complete the next trial, he will be able to wear the golden armor that belongs to him, obtain a name, and become a true member of the Royal Guard.

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)