The destruction caused by the witch was truly staggering. Although the magus standing in the plaza couldn't directly see the full extent of the devastation, real-time satellite imagery made it abundantly clear: the corpse of the Quadrangle Seraph had leveled more than just one building. Solomon once again felt grateful he had evacuated the local populace ahead of time. If he hadn't, civilians might have been buried alive in the rubble without ever knowing what was coming. Driven by a certain unspoken sense of duty, Solomon couldn't accept choosing not to act when sacrifices could still be avoided.
The excuse of a biochemical leak never failed—it was no wonder S.H.I.E.L.D. always used that line to clear areas. Even when Thor's hammer had fallen, they'd used the same story, sending the guy who was grilling steaks for Solomon fleeing in terror.
Fighting the Sage was mentally exhausting, far more than physically. Although Solomon had always resisted activating too many stigmata, against such a terrifying opponent, he'd had to push himself. He had to constantly shift his sight to higher, deeper planes to observe the Sage's movements, and in the split seconds between clashes of sword and spear, he had to think of counters, set traps, and then plan how to adjust once those traps were inevitably seen through. At the same time, his eyes in the physical world had to remain locked on the enemy, and his mind had to rely on years of training to block incoming attacks. So once the battle ended and he deactivated the stigmata, he was overwhelmed by a foggy mind and had to inject stabilizers from the armor's life support systems just to stay conscious, trying to calm his burning lungs and heart.
He needed water. The sweat cycling inside the power armor wasn't enough to meet his body's needs.
The magus climbed onto a rooftop, casting a spell to lighten his weight so he wouldn't collapse a building already battered by his duel with the Sage. The raging energy on the holy sword gradually calmed and cooled, the ozone stench in the air slowly fading—much like the fury in his chest. He removed his scarred helmet and squinted into the distance, standing beside the witch as dust settled in the air.
Bayonetta leaned in and sniffed his damp hair.
Perhaps it was pheromonal—Bayonetta had a particular fondness for Solomon's scent. Much like Roman aristocrats who treasured gladiator sweat, to her it was the best aphrodisiac. The reverse was true as well. Solomon loved Bayonetta's scent, always reminding him of her skin, her pillow, the drapes, the garden, perfume, and the warm light of afternoon. Bayonetta had barely broken a sweat, and the cool air had quickly whisked away the heat from her fight. Solomon gave her a playful wink, and she licked her lips in return. Both of them were eager to finish the mission.
The Quadrangle Seraph was undoubtedly dead—no angel of lesser rank than Madame Butterfly could have withstood such overwhelming power. But Solomon didn't believe the Sage would die so easily. Even being crushed into the ground by an angel's corpse, a spellcaster had too many ways to escape. And the Sage, always shrouded in historical mystery, was no ordinary enemy. Even if the enemy had been scorched by angel blood and reduced to smoking rubble, even if every living thing in that crater had been pulverized or incinerated, the Sage still had means of survival. If the witches could do it, so could the Sages.
Solomon turned over the recent battle in his mind again and again. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Sage hadn't fought at full strength. The seasoned techniques, the powerful summons—they all hinted that this Sage could have done much more. Their duel hadn't even destroyed the plaza. According to Solomon's expectations, that quaint marble statue fountain should've been reduced to a pile of rubble, not just lost a head. He'd anticipated losing more than a few armor components—he'd been prepared for broken bones, torn muscles, even his organs being shredded. He'd intended to keep fighting on pure adrenaline, duty, and tenacity.
But none of that happened. His armor still functioned. He only suffered from lactic acid buildup and mild hypoxia-induced dizziness. Painful enough to put a normal person in the hospital for dissolved muscles and damaged organs—but for Solomon, it was just a high-intensity warm-up. Much as he disliked the stigmata, he had to admit it was a blessing, a power that revealed his true nature. The Earth Mother had prioritized knowledge and power when creating him, and in some sense, the two were indistinguishable.
"The Sage isn't dead," Solomon told Bayonetta. "Where did he go? Why didn't he keep attacking?"
"We should go!" the boy urged. "Whether he's dead or not, we still need to get to the waterfall chapel."
Solomon cast a sidelong glance at him.
The boy had watched the entire fight—witnessed the fury of sword and spear, stared into the brilliance of the stigmata. Yet he looked perfectly fine: not deaf, not blind, not insane, not even screaming. Just like a normal little boy. And that kind of "normal" at a time like this was the most abnormal thing of all.
"Did you remember anything?" the magus asked. "I mean about yourself. Don't lie again. Did you forget that the Sage's target was you? Bayonetta and I risked our lives to protect you. In return, you need to be honest. Trust me, the waterfall chapel isn't hard to find. There's a thing called a smartphone and Google Maps. Worst case, we can fly up and see it."
Solomon's words seemed to spark something in the boy.
Even as the boy tried to think hard, Solomon quietly cast a spell to probe his mind—but the results were inconclusive. Even with his intellect, Solomon couldn't analyze a blank slate. And the boy really didn't remember much. The magus only saw a child who looked exactly like the boy—only his clothing color was different—speaking to him. But the background and voice were as muddy and distorted as if submerged beneath a pond choked with algae. All Solomon could hear was indistinct, disheartening mumbling, like greasy, stinking bubbles rising from the muck. He'd seen this vision before—during the boy's first headache. But even the boy didn't know what it meant.
It was undeniably frustrating.
"The only thing this little one seems certain of," Bayonetta said, watching the boy clutching his head in pain, "is that there really is a passage to the upper and lower planes on Mount Finbovent. The Sage's appearance was definitely unexpected, but don't forget—our mission is to descend to Hell and rescue Joan's soul. As for why the Sage wants him dead, we can figure that out later."
Solomon reattached his helmet. The red lenses of the golden eagle helm stared directly at the boy.
He raised a finger and pointed to the visor—"I'm watching you." The boy huffed with annoyance but said nothing in protest. He knew this deal was far from fair—Solomon and Bayonetta had given far more than he had.
(End of Chapter)
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