Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 959 Saint 13 and Ifrit (First Update)

Thirteen is a special number, holding different statuses in many cultures.

There were thirteen people at the Last Supper, and then Jesus was betrayed by Judas; the Persians would go out on the thirteenth day to avoid misfortune because the ancient Persians believed that the twelve zodiac constellations controlled the twelve months of the year, and that after the twelfth cycle ended, the sky and the earth would collapse, so thirteen represented chaos; Taoism uses twelve as a cycle, and thirteen represents transcending the cycle, meaning jumping out of the three realms and not being within the five elements; in Buddhism, thirteen is also an auspicious number, and the thirteen Buddhist sects represent the perfection of merit.

Salomon knew his fate was inextricably linked to the number thirteen, even the day he met Bayonetta was related to the number thirteen. He chose this number entirely for objective reasons; it had practical significance in magic. The custom ritual was written and set by Salomon himself, capable of directing energy towards him rather than anything else.

Besides him, two other people are needed to jointly perform the ritual, each corresponding to one of the three pillars. Ten points of matter plus three invisible points—nothingness, infinity, and infinite light—correspond to the stigmata, which is his soul. Twenty-two days are needed to correspond to the twenty-two paths. The ritual itself takes thirteen days from start to finish; only in this way can his soul safely return to the real world—not a day more, not a day less.

No matter how well the Immortal City has developed, it will be difficult to make a difference in this matter; this is his own adventure.

If Stephanie knew his plans, she would scream and berate his irresponsibility, then repeatedly beg Salomon to drop a hydrogen bomb of at least 800 kilotons on Los Angeles. She wouldn't care how many people died in Los Angeles; she only cared about the safety of her monarch. Wu Guiyue, the guardian of the Kamar-Taj temple, also advised Salomon to select ninety-nine ascetics for the ritual, who could bear the cost for him. If their lives could save Salomon's, they would gladly offer themselves; that was their mission.

Of course, these things are not important to him now.

Bayonetta had Dinah bring over a pot of beef stew, while she took a bottle of wine from the wine cabinet. Nothing was more important than a family dinner, and even with the world's destruction imminent, Salomon had to sit down and finish this meal before going out to fight. The beef, soaked in a brown sauce, was tender and the carrots were exceptionally sweet. The witches sipped their wine and chatted quietly about amusing incidents from the past, about the art salons with Athena, about the drinking parties with Samun Shaw and Ms. ROOT, and about how Samun Shaw had saved countless lives with their little organization.

Bayonetta's hair had returned to its long, jet-black color, like the wings of a somber raven. Joan of Arc also kept her hair long, but it was whiter and more dazzling than the snow on a snow-capped mountain. The witches looked relaxed, as if Salomon's upcoming adventure was no different from going out to shovel snow. Tonight, they would hold a ritual, a sacred ceremony inherited from the Queen of Sheba, an ancient ritual performed with blood, sex, and love. They would infuse their emotions into the ritual, offering themselves to Salomon to strengthen his power.

That's why there are lots of chili peppers in this stewed beef.

"Stop, Ifrit!" Constantine lowered his head and squeezed his way through the door of the energy laboratory.

Upon hearing this rarely mentioned name, the Spirit of Vengeance stopped what it was doing, its burning, hollow eyes fixed on the Royal Guard. Ifrit is a spirit in Arabian mythology; spirits are always bound to and controlled by an object, and the Spirit of Vengeance possessing Robbie Reyes was such a spirit. Constantine called out this name to temporarily suppress the Spirit of Vengeance's consciousness, granting it basic logical reasoning abilities.

This was ancient knowledge he had learned from his sovereign before embarking on his mission; the name Ifrit and the meaning behind it had long been forgotten. This approach worked; the Ghost Rider, his black leather-gloved hand still clutching the corrupted spirit, did not continue, instead incinerating it with his Judgment Eye.

Constantine made a gesture, drawing a seal image in front of him with his fingers.

"What the fuck…" Leopold Fitz huddled in the corner, his legs trembling with fear. "And who are you?!"

A semi-transparent ghost was frightening enough, but it wasn't the first time they'd encountered something like this. Then, a fiery skeleton barged in without warning, wearing an ill-fitting, obviously stolen black motorcycle suit. Next came a menacing giant, three meters tall, clad in magnificent gold power armor. When S.H.I.E.L.D. dispatched Leopold Fitz on this mission, they certainly couldn't have imagined that this seemingly simple retrieval operation would take so many unexpected turns.

“My lord needs that spirit.” Constantine glanced at the translucent spirit. Even with its blurred face, he recognized it—one of the people who had created this energy laboratory. The fool, upon hearing this, was overjoyed, as if the Royal Guard were his saviors. “He knows the information my lord desires,” Constantine said. “He can only die after he tells him.”

"Fitz! Get me out of here!" Mike pounded on the observation window. He'd been trapped inside this reactor, which had been shut down long ago, by that spirit. Although the reactor wasn't large, the heat generated if it were restarted would be enough to vaporize him. Even if he didn't die, radiation sickness would kill him. The reactor was still some time away from restarting, and Mike needed Fitz to release him quickly, to stop the restart or melt it down.

Ghost Rider tapped his teeth together and tilted his head in a gesture of nonchalance.

"I'm coming!" Fitz carefully pressed himself against the wall, skirting the increasingly tense atmosphere between the Royal Guard and Ghost Rider. He tried with all his might to turn the switch on the feed chute, but it seemed locked and wouldn't budge. Fitz kicked the door twice in frustration, but still nothing happened. He grew increasingly anxious; he felt his heart rate skyrocket, his hands and feet turn icy cold, and his eardrums pound like drums. Mike had to comfort Fitz, telling him not to panic and to think things through.

"I'm the one locked up inside now, little monkey," he said. "Don't worry, you're the smartest one among us, you'll always figure something out."

"This time it might be different, Mike," Fitz said through gritted teeth. "You could die!"

"The machinery in this room also needs to be checked," Constantine's calm voice came through the loudspeaker in his facial grille. He walked straight up, looking down at Leopold Fitz. "Please step aside." Before Fitz could agree, Constantine shoved him aside. The Imperial Guard activated a switch, slamming a halberd crackling with electricity into the heavy alloy door. The edge where the blade met the metal turned red-hot, and Constantine slid the feed switch off like cutting butter. Fitz gaped in astonishment, while Mike, having escaped his predicament, curiously examined the Imperial Guard's weapon.

"Stop the reactor meltdown," Constantine told Fitz. "Or you might die."

"Okay, okay..." Fitz snapped out of his daze and quickly pounced on the controller to get back to work. Mike followed behind him, his eyes fixed on Constantine and Ghost Rider, showing no sign of relaxation despite having escaped with his life. Although Ghost Rider had temporarily stopped, Robbie Reyes didn't seem to intend to stop. The golden giant and the fire skeleton had never truly reached peace; both sides remained locked in a standoff, the Royal Guard's electrifying halberds still aimed at Ghost Rider.

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(End of this chapter)