The order to obtain the manufacturing method for the inner lining material used in those cabinets from the energy lab had come directly from Salomon. That was why Constantine had gone to such lengths to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D.'s archives and evidence storage departments to search for the documents. The knowledge Joseph Borson and Lucy Borson had received from the Darkhold had allowed them to synthesize that magical crystal using scientific means—a form of knowledge immensely valuable to the spellcasters of the Undying City.
If every spell cast by a spellcaster could be compared to a launched missile, then these crystals would serve as the missile's stabilizer and gyroscope.
The Undying City needed to ensure that in the future, spellcasters around the world wouldn't immediately go insane while drawing energy from the immaterial realm. This crystal could also enhance magical capacity to some extent—after all, not every tradition was like Kamar-Taj, with its extensive mental discipline training. Even Kamar-Taj, with its rigorous safeguards for mental stability, had suffered multiple incidents of corrupted or rogue sorcerers in its history. This crystalline material could help mitigate such risks.
In contrast, Salomon's current predicament seemed rather trivial.
Lorna Dane glanced at her watch—a gift from Athena, extremely expensive, the kind of luxury even private school girls couldn't afford. Salomon had already been inside the house for ten minutes. So far, there hadn't been a single gunshot, and the street remained as quiet as ever. No gunfire, no sounds of fighting or things being smashed—which deeply worried Lorna. She wasn't concerned about her brother's safety; she was worried about the safety of the drug dealers. This eerie silence could only mean one thing: Salomon had taken them out so fast that they were now being dissolved in a bathtub full of chemical solution.
Since childhood, Salomon had always been a responsible big brother—he was the big brother to every child at the orphanage. Aside from giving guns and knives as birthday presents, he was pretty reliable most of the time.
"Fuck it!" Lorna took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to jump out of the car. If Salomon was cleaning up bodies, then she had to help. That's what family did. But just as she reached the alley entrance, she froze, eyes wide with disbelief. Salomon emerged with a big smile on his face, no blood on his clothes, no sign of a struggle. He held a square-shaped object about the size of two palms in one hand, and waved the other cheerfully toward the alley. "What did you do?" Lorna walked up in shock. "You really didn't kill anyone?"
"Nope! You think I could hurt an old lady selling weed and Oxy just to pay for her cancer treatments? Or her dropout grandson who's got severe dyslexia and can't do anything? What about the great-granddaughter in elementary school who still needs tuition money?" Salomon pursed his lips. "That girl's a genius. She knows the per-gram price of every strain of weed on the market and can roll joints like a pro. She's definitely going places."
"You're not even angry?" Lorna asked in disbelief.
"Making money that way isn't their fault. This whole neighborhood is a damn sentient swamp. It doesn't let people rise out of poverty. It slowly drains the life out of its residents until they become sludge. In this country, in places like this, people have no choice but to hustle just to survive—and they've done it. Even the bedbugs in their home are elite, survival-trained types that could live in the center of the Sahara."
When Salomon said this, his face was a mix of helplessness and pure rage. In this kind of place, the poor had to commit crimes just to earn money—not just selling drugs, but theft, robbery, counterfeit goods—whatever it took. In fact, every winter, those who froze to death because they couldn't afford heating were almost always the poor. That kind of thing was horrifying in a supposedly modern society. "That family is just a supplier for high school addicts, barely turning a profit. The real dangerous dealers aren't them. One hospital trip and their whole family would be broke. You expect me to stand by and watch them suffer?" He poked Lorna's forehead. "Don't laugh. Just because I let them go doesn't mean I'll let you off. You're not getting any more drugs in the future. Neither are the kids at your school. But don't worry, the public school losers are now flush with weed supply!"
"What's that in your hand?" Lorna grabbed the object from him and turned it over in her hands.
"Pot brownie. An American classic. Homemade by Mrs. Doris," Salomon replied. "She even taught me her mixing method. She said it was the best joint she ever sold."
Lorna unwrapped the foil and pinched off a small piece to taste. After chewing, she smacked her lips, frowned, and made a face of disgust.
"How much did you pay?"
"Three thousand dollars. Electronic transfer. Clean money. No need to launder it through an Indian casino."
"Hmph. Sucker from the rich part of town! Three thousand bucks for brownies baked with cannabis stems? Fuck, this is pig slop! I get that you're trying to be kind, but they should've at least shown some sincerity. Otherwise, they'll just think you're an easy mark!" Lorna tucked the brownie under her arm and started rolling up her sleeves to her elbows. She stormed past Salomon toward the alleyway. The orange-yellow streetlamp cast her long shadow on the ground, making her look like a freshly polished spear. "They think you're one of those white savior types? I'm fuming! They don't realize how valuable your kindness is! Let me show you how to get some respect! Hey, Fee! Get your ass out here! Don't run! DON'T RUN!"
Salomon shrugged helplessly. He had no idea how such a valuable lesson had ended up like this. He stood there, watching Lorna sprint off. Using the javelin techniques she'd learned from Athena, she expertly hurled the brownie straight into the dealer's head with pinpoint accuracy. Even from 22.3 meters away, Salomon could hear the thud of the brownie striking skull. Judging by how the tightly foil-wrapped treat exploded on impact, it was clear she hadn't held back. The poor guy being chased and kicked in the butt—yet somehow not knocked out—proved it. Clearly, Salomon had been worrying about nothing. There was no way Lorna was being bullied at school. She was the bully. That wasn't what he'd feared at all. Otherwise, he wouldn't have brought the gun. He'd fired shots at the party to send a message to her classmates: she had a dangerous relative.
Looking back, maybe that was a bit overkill.
"Wow! Thanks!" Salomon patted her on the shoulder. She had run quite a ways, and by the time she returned, her shoulders were soaked with sweat. But thanks to her regular training, she wasn't even winded, and her face was still flushed with vitality. "Let's get back in the car. You'll catch a cold. I don't want you getting sick, or I'll have to take you back to the Oxfordshire estate to recover."
"You're welcome," Lorna sniffled. "It really is getting kinda cold."
"If you don't mind, I've got a question."
"Go ahead, we're family!" She flipped her sweat-dampened hair, looking quite pleased with herself.
"How exactly did you develop such refined pot brownie tasting skills, hmm? Ms. Lorna Dane, how would you like to answer that question?"
Lorna's face instantly turned ghostly pale. "Oh shit!"
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