Life at the Oxfordshire estate had been thoroughly pleasant. The Undying City was operating according to Salomon's plans, working relentlessly on war preparations. The magisters were distributing tasks to those who were originally meant to shoulder such duties. Although this approach was inefficient, it helped each person reacquaint themselves with their own natural limitations.
These days, Salomon hadn't been troubled by anything—his only excursion from the estate via portal to the U.S. had been to drag Lorna and her friends out of a party. American teenage parties were atrocious: cheap tequila, a bewildering variety of drugs from unknown sources, and upstairs rooms all occupied—everything confirmed that Salomon's disdain for American parties, whether teenage or adult (looking at you, Tony Stark), was well-founded. After a call from his foster mother, Salomon went to the garage, grabbed a .50 caliber explosive-tipped automatic rifle and a longsword, hopped into his American-registered pickup, and drove through a portal straight into the middle of the party.
What followed was nothing short of spectacular.
He dragged Lorna out with only a few gunshots fired, causing damage limited to the marble kitchen counter, the ceiling, and a few windows. He also collected a bottle of OxyContin, a bag of joints, and a few grams of powder—no casualties. "I don't care what American law says," he told the sulking Lorna in the passenger seat, "but to me, anything with psychoactive substances is a drug." Clearly, the teenage girl in her rebellious phase thought Salomon was just an uptight old man—despite Athena always describing him as a model youth. No rebellious streak, no dabbling in contraband, always focused on his studies—the quintessential "perfect child." But Salomon's next words changed the mood entirely.
"If you truly need psychoactive substances, you can come to me. High purity, no contaminated junk." Salomon started the car before the police arrived. He didn't like fighting people just doing their jobs, nor did he want to hurt them. "I'm an alchemist. I've got plenty of these substances, all self-produced. Don't think I sell them to teenagers—these are used for studying specialized forms of magic. But since you're so curious, I might as well show you how harmful they are. Even I only take them when absolutely necessary. If you think you can spend a whole day high on that stuff—dream on."
"So what are we doing now?"
"We're going to have a talk with your dealer. I don't care if he's your friend or has some tragic backstory—I'm going to make sure he understands just how unwise it is to sell you anything illegal." Salomon placed the rifle across his lap, face grim. "I can't promise there won't be a corpse. Why do you think I brought the pickup? Easier to haul bodies. I'll also be having a word with your principal. I know private schools aren't all about academics—a lot of them are filled with spoiled rich kids, third-generation trust fund brats whose greatest achievement in life is getting into the Ivy League with money so they can inherit the family business. That's why they do drugs and drink themselves stupid…"
Lorna's face darkened considerably.
"Hey! Look at me! Lorna Dane!" he raised his voice slightly, tone turning sharp—so sharp it made Lorna recall scenes of his battles. "The education we're receiving is different from those worthless brats. We've got a greater purpose. If I catch you with weed again, I'll give you the punishment your foster mother should've delivered. Do you understand? I'm not joking… Separate yourself. Be an observer. Never take part in the foolish lifestyle of Gen Z liberals. These people have no educational value. They romanticize mental health issues and aren't even qualified to be cannon fodder on a battlefield."
Salomon never cared for psychological problems typical of white people. To him, the kind of psychological issues that required humanitarian sympathy—like anxiety—had a simple cure: put an apple on their head and have someone who's never fired a gun take a shot. Once they experienced the raw terror of death, any overly sentimental "mental illness" would be cured. Of course, this method was wildly unethical, but no one had ever corrected him—because Salomon judged people based on whether they had educational value and could contribute to the betterment of humanity, not based on their personal breakthroughs.
Well—truthfully, he did care. But only for people who had value. For example, he would use dreams to speak with certain soldiers, because those men would go on to achieve great things.
"How do you even have time to deal with me?" Lorna crossed her arms. "Aren't you supposed to be in the Undying City or at Oxford? Ms. Minerva said you were pursuing a ton of degrees and didn't have time for the orphanage."
"I'm on vacation," Salomon replied, sharply turning the wheel and driving into a damp alley. A half-decomposed rat corpse lay on the grimy concrete. "It's been a while since I gave someone a good beating. Stay here…" He opened the door and stepped out. But just as he reached for his gun and sword, Lorna recalled how she used to persuade him to back down when she was younger.
"He's just a dealer, not some alien!"
"A human being with zero value… Fine. Fine. Don't give me that look! I'll just rough them up—no guns, just fists!"
"I can't believe your master has this much free time, Constantine. Unbelievable that he's dumped all the work on others. Back in the day, he'd personally handle anything of this magnitude," Nick Fury said around a mouthful of steaming fries. "Or maybe… he's got something else in mind? What do you think?"
"I think it's none of your business, Nick Fury."
"Don't be so hostile, Constantine." The former S.H.I.E.L.D. director kept eating. He hadn't showered in two days, having spent all his time holed up in this room. "You need my help, don't you? Without the intel I provided, how would you have found the secret access points at the current S.H.I.E.L.D. base? Speaking of which, why do you want those boxes from the research facility so badly? Are they really that important?"
"Yes. Extremely." Constantine said quietly. Many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were just a wall away. The Royal Guard hated talking during stealth missions, but Nick Fury was insufferably chatty—and this was his turf—so Constantine had no choice but to tolerate him. "The crystal lattice lining those boxes is made from a rare material. I need to acquire the method for manufacturing it," Constantine said. "I believe S.H.I.E.L.D. took many documents during the energy source recovery operation, including the relevant information."
"And what can those lattices be used for?"
"To isolate extradimensional energy and stabilize a caster's connection to external dimensions." Constantine squeezed through a door designed for normal humans. Fury couldn't read his tone, but he was certain the Royal Guard was annoyed. "This material is very important to the Undying City. I have to get that technology. Nick Fury, you didn't help me just to complete the mission. You helped so I wouldn't kill those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. If you don't shut up, and I get discovered—I'll have no choice but to take them out."
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