Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 872 Norwegian Christmas Roasted Pork Chop (Second Update)

"Hoo..." He blinked as his body plummeted downwards.

He felt himself falling into a cloud of mist, a blurry light seemingly spreading inward from the corner of his eye along some unknown pathway, like the blurring technique he learned in watercolor painting. He subconsciously thought it was some kind of revelation, like a seashell on a shallow beach, a small echo stirred by the endless waves of the sea of ​​his soul. The light and shadow gradually formed a blurry figure, and without much thought, he knew whose back it was—his wife. Long-forgotten memories crashed into his dream like a roaring, soot-belching locomotive. He felt his hands and feet turn cold, as if he had returned to a terrible moment, panic, tension, grief, and anger surging up all at once.

But he couldn't remember.

No, he knew he had sealed away that memory himself, using it to fight against the depravity. He calmed down again, and then his dream seemed to switch to another channel. He watched as towering waves crashed before him, the sunlight obscured by dark clouds, and thunder that shook the universe replaced the starlight in illuminating the sky. A long, black ship, seemingly made of black scales, slowly emerged from below the horizon, and the howling winds from the mouth of a gray giant wolf heralded impending death. A dark sun leaped from behind the longship, radiating a cold, deathly light across the world. He looked down and realized he was standing on a wounded corpse. Another one, another one; death was everywhere he looked, and the seawater was stained a thick, red with blood.

Traitor! Someone shouted in the void, and the person's anger even triggered a new wave of tidal waves.

Kasirius opened his eyes, stared intently at the bedroom ceiling, and let out another long sigh.

He reached a hand out from under the covers to turn on the warm-colored bedside lamp, then immediately pulled it back. Nordic winters were quite harsh; even with underfloor heating and radiator heating, the thin drafts seeping through the window cracks were enough to freeze his fingers. Cassirios struggled to sit up; the sudden rush of cold air felt like an aerial bomb exploding in his spine, jolting him awake. He muttered a spell, directing the water glass and thermos.

He then put on his glasses, picked up a black leather-bound notebook and a pen, and carefully recorded the dream. As a spellcaster, he hadn't dreamed in a long time; only an exceptionally powerful external force could induce it. Protecting his mind was the reason spellcasters maintained a constant state of tension. The first dream was already blurry, but he clearly remembered the omens he saw in the second: thunder, waves, a giant wolf, mountains, and a cold sun. He believed this dream was a result of his long-term mission.

His long-term mission was to monitor the movements of the Aesir royal family, but it must be said that if you disregard his title as the Allfather, Odin was actually quite likable—Odin once hosted a small banquet in his cabin, with only Kasirius as the guest. A warm fireplace, thick mead, and tender roasted steaks filled the air, while two dogs grunted and gnawed on bones left by their master under the long wooden table. Odin waved his greasy hands, boasting of his hunting experiences in his youth and his heroic victories on the battlefield. The slowly burning smoke mingled with the aroma of mushroom soup, and the strong mead, too potent for the human stomach to handle, instantly sobered one up with a single sip.

Perhaps he dreamt of Ragnarok? Were the threads of fate from the three Norns entangled with him?

After noting down a few key elements, Cassirios fell into thought. However, he didn't linger long; instead, he put down his notebook, took the hot water brought by his invisible servant, and slowly drank it. He took a deep breath, threw off the covers, and jumped out of bed. The cold air completely cleared his mind. He went into the bathroom and stared at the man in the mirror—a man with a gray stubble and short hair. The harsh white light overhead cast shadows on his deep-set eyes, and when he looked down, the mirror reflected a thousand faces similar to his, each roaring at him. Cassirios didn't notice this; the dreams were disturbing his peace. He turned on the tap and began washing up. When he looked up again, the fragments in the mirror had completely vanished.

Salomon, whom he had watched grow up, was coming to visit today, and he had to prepare in advance.

"I heard about what happened in London. It wasn't your fault." Cassirios poured Salomon a glass of vodka that had been chilled outdoors, a thin layer of ice forming on the surface. Salomon shook his head, clinked glasses with Cassirios, and then downed the nearly overflowing, clear spirit in a whiskey glass without batting an eye. A sorcerer's alcohol tolerance is beyond the reach of ordinary people, thanks to years of magical enhancement and close-combat training. While they may not possess the superhuman strength of characters in comics, illness is generally rare among sorcerers unless they are cursed. Of course, a healthy body alone cannot resist the effects of alcohol, but sorcerers do have some tricks up their sleeves. For example, Salomon's [Universal Elixir] can resist alcohol. However, Salomon no longer needs to take the [Universal Elixir]. With age, the feedback from the Stigmata and the genome created by the Earth Mother have endowed his internal organs with superhuman abilities; the most complex and beautiful programs in the world are running within him.

“I never said it was my fault, but I still underestimated the abilities of mortal civil servants. That’s a mistake, and it can’t be undone.” As Kasirius slowly poured them their second drink, Salomon smacked his lips, savoring the taste of the first strong liquor. The young sorcerer had already changed his clothes. He had removed his power armor and put on a suit, but he had swapped his vest for a black long-sleeved sweater, and then draped a woolen overcoat over it. Even for a visit, his belt with brass buckles still hung at his waist, and his long and short swords remained quietly in their sheaths, only their shapes visible beneath his overcoat. “You’ve probably heard recently that I’ve given up the competition for the title of Sorcerer Supreme,” he said. “Things haven’t been peaceful in Kamar-Taj lately.”

“I’ve known about this for a long time. The Sorcerer Supreme is just a title; the true power of the Sorcerer Supreme still belongs to you. His Highness’s favoritism towards you is unbridled, and everyone can see it,” Kasirius said. “If someone can’t see it, it means that person is not capable of remaining in Kamar-Taj. It’s not that no one has written to me pleading for you, but everyone knows that His Highness’s will cannot be changed. However, I still don’t understand, if you give up the competition for the title of Sorcerer Supreme, then who will inherit that title, and what will the Supreme Trinity do?”

"Time has no meaning in the sea of ​​souls. So-called prophecy is actually just a possibility of the future. For the Supreme Trinity, there is no difference between the past and the future."

Kasirius nodded and made a zipping gesture over his mouth.

"Let's not talk about that." He put down his glass and pointed towards the kitchen. "I grilled pork chops. I learned it from my neighbor. It's a traditional Norwegian Christmas dish, perfect with drinks."

"A neighbor?" Salomon recalled a blonde woman he had met next door, whom he had greeted very politely. "An alien or just an ordinary person?"

"mortal."

"uh-huh"

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(End of this chapter)