He remained wary of the boy.
It was only natural. When the boy had clutched his head in agony and projected his memories before him and Bayonetta, the magic aura that burst from him had been blindingly intense. Though the magus had long known that the self-proclaimed "Loki" was no ordinary child, the sudden surge of power still set his nerves on edge. His instinct had been to raise his grenade rifle, and he nearly pulled the trigger—not solely because Bayonetta would've stopped him, but also because he genuinely wanted to see where this boy, who perhaps didn't even know he was a pawn of the mastermind, was leading them.
"You're hurting me, big guy. Maybe it's time you gave that armor of yours a little maintenance," the boy muttered, frowning and waving his fingers. Perhaps because their deal had been struck, his tone had softened. "Still, thanks for the meds. I'm fine. Let's get moving."
"My thoughts exactly. I'd recommend you get a brain scan, by the way. I suspect your memory loss might be due to blunt force trauma—possibly some bleeding in the brain." The boy shot him a glare. Solomon continued confidently, "I once met a guy who fell and seemed fine—just a bit of amnesia. But two days later, he died."
The boy tilted his head. "How?"
"Hit by a car. Forgot to check the traffic light. If he hadn't bumped his head, he might've remembered."
"Do people actually laugh at your terrible jokes, you oversized oaf?"
"Sometimes," the magus replied with a shrug.
During the exchange, Solomon used the opportunity to activate a subtle function in his power armor. A hidden needle in his finger pricked the boy's skin, extracting a small blood sample for analysis. His approach to power armor design was radically different from Tony Stark's. Stark favored modularity and sleek mobility, whereas Solomon abandoned convenience in favor of dense armor and an expansive suite of integrated functions.
The medical diagnostics quickly returned results, which he shared with Bayonetta.
"A normal human?" Bayonetta's voice was tinged with disbelief. "No genetic modifications at all?"
"Correct. Completely ordinary," Solomon replied as they made their way toward the Waterfall Chapel. "That suggests the answer lies in his soul. But with his memory so short-lived, he could've been brainwashed—just a pawn with subconscious orders. All signs point to this being a trap. He's leading us somewhere in Fimbulventr, and that somewhere could be an ambush. That's why I need to test his allegiance myself. I want you to let me handle this."
"Try not to hurt him," the witch said, watching the boy nimbly weave through the alleyways of Noahduun. "I'd rather your methods not be too... brutal."
"Of course. We're not murderers. Care for a walk, madam?" Solomon extended his arm, and Bayonetta elegantly took it. They strolled through the cobbled streets with the ease of vacationers, showing not the slightest concern about an angelic ambush. As far as appearances went, they seemed to simply be admiring the charming, Italian-style town. When the boy grew impatient and urged them to hurry, Solomon claimed the town reminded Bayonetta of home and that they wished to take it all in.
The boy was beside himself with frustration.
"I have to get to Fimbulventr!" he shouted, running ahead. "If you're coming too, then keep up! I'm not waiting for you to take a goddamn scenic route!"
Bayonetta and Solomon exchanged a glance but didn't follow immediately. Not until the boy vanished around the corner did Solomon whisper an incantation, summoning invisible air elementals and assigning them to track him. At the same time, he prepared another spell as a precaution. Being well-read had its advantages—Solomon could always pull out the perfect incantation for any occasion. Unlike the witches, whose magic lacked versatility, his own spells handled everything from lightning blasts to baking cakes, even tedious household chores.
High above the town, atop one of its towers, the golden-masked man peered down at them. "Now. The distance between them is sufficient," he said to the empty air. "We can't wait any longer. Prophet, I'm commencing the attack."
"I'm pleased by your initiative, Sage," the Prophet's voice echoed from the void. "But hold for now. The angels are on their way. We must account for the possibility of interference."
"It won't take long," the Sage replied with a scowl. "You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do. But you know I can't take risks—and neither can you," the Prophet said gravely. "I brought you from five hundred years in the past to give you this chance—a chance for vengeance, a chance to rewrite your fate. Would you really let that slip away?"
"I must kill him."
"And you will, Sage. But follow my plan."
"See that?" Bayonetta raised her arm and poked Solomon's cheek—the only part of him not encased in armor. The chapel the boy had described was located on the outskirts of the town, at the foot of Fimbulventr. The mountain towered above them, its peak high enough to blot out the evening sun. As dusk approached, the mountain's shadow spread across the town, leaving only the mid-slope bathed in orange-red sunlight. Cold northern winds stirred the snow into drifting, ethereal clouds tinged with magical hues. Small, flashing lights along the slope caught Bayonetta's eye. Though she couldn't make out the details, she knew instinctively that they were enemies.
"When do you plan to act?"
"Let's wait and see what the air spirits report," Solomon replied patiently. He wanted to know whether the angels would attack them or the boy. His training at Kamar-Taj had instilled a deep-rooted sense of caution. Trusting someone who appeared out of nowhere, especially one offering help, was simply not in his nature—and that was perfectly normal for an organization that dealt regularly with extradimensional entities. Even when he first met Bayonetta, Solomon had briefly considered killing her. And though the boy had provided a way into Fimbulventr, until Solomon understood who and what he was, trust was off the table.
To the average person, his behavior might seem paranoid.
"My Lord! You must not approach the Holy Mountain!"
"Get lost, freaks!" the boy yelled, brandishing his card as he found himself surrounded by angels. "Back off! This is your last warning—I have to get to Fimbulventr! Damn it, what is that—"
He leapt aside just in time.
A golden longspear pierced through the wall of snowy wings where he had just stood. A man clad in a heavy white robe and golden mask appeared next to the weapon, his presence abrupt and silent. Without a word, he pulled the spear from the stone-paved ground and leveled it at the boy, who stumbled backward.
His intent was clear.
He was here to kill the boy.
(End of Chapter)
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