Salomon's method was simple and crude, showing no particular brilliance, and their enemies were not as difficult to deal with as the guardians of the British Museum.
Of course, this referred to the magical aspect.
Even so, their opponent this time was not someone easy to deal with. The descendants of the Puritans who participated in the Salem witch trials, these families of Puritan civil officials who had hanged innocent women, still held control of Salem's politics and economy for generations. This was an inherited form of capitalism.
And Ricky White was a descendant of one of these civil official families; he was a senator in Salem.
Salomon and Master John found a coffee shop across the street from City Hall. They sat there, waiting for the politician to appear.
"Ugh, it tastes like hot mud," Salomon said, holding a cup of coffee with an excessive amount of milk and sugar. He had always disliked coffee; no matter how much milk and sugar he added, he always felt a sour taste in his mouth.
He glanced sideways at Master John, who was sitting across from him at a small white round table. "John, how many tuna sandwiches have you eaten? We're here to monitor, not to eat."
"I just got my living expenses yesterday, and my dad hasn't had a chance to confiscate them yet." Master John patted his chubby belly, saying nonchalantly, "Of course I have to seize the opportunity to eat something good. Do you like eating at the Kamar-Taj cafeteria? Haven't we all gone to the Hong Kong Sanctum to freeload on food?"
Salomon rolled his eyes. Master John was still optimistic about his physique. He firmly believed that only by eating more and gaining some weight would he have the strength to get through the arduous training at Kamar-Taj, at least to have some buffer when someone punched him in the stomach.
Being carefree and plump was a good thing, but at the Kamar-Taj headquarters, which emphasized asceticism, it was an anomaly. The people there were either thin or strong; John was the only fat one, with a nine-to-one abdominal muscle. If they didn't hit him, who would they hit?
"How long are we going to wait here?" Master John let out a satisfied burp. Today was the most satisfying day he had eaten; having escaped Master Hamir's supervision, he devoured food like a wild dog off the leash. Naturally, he wasn't impatient; the reason he asked was simply to know if he had time to eat a few more.
"I don't know," Salomon shook his head.
But Salomon was very patient—politicians wouldn't stay here forever; they would always go out to socialize, to entertain, to take care of their business. This was a product of capitalist-style dictatorship, and he would eventually be waited for.
"If you send me to Washington, I will guarantee reform, and I pledge my life that my true intentions remain unchanged." On the grainy television screen in the coffee shop, Ricky White was speaking passionately. From the background, it was clear that he was standing in front of Salem City Hall.
"I will always be Ricky White, son of Salem, and I will always fight for everything we have, until my last breath..."
Perhaps because the coffee shop's television was old and in disrepair, not only was the picture always a bit grainy, but the sound also had some static.
Ricky White's campaign speech gradually became blurred. Salomon leaned back in the armchair with its cushion and soft backrest, watching the withered yellow leaves roll across the street outside the window.
He closed his eyes slightly. Slowly, the noise disappeared, and the sound of cars driving by also disappeared. He could hear the dripping of the faucet in the coffee shop kitchen, the resonance of the water droplets hitting the stainless steel sink, and the electrical noise from the poorly connected fluorescent light tube.
Even further away, the clicking sound of a radio knob turning, the sound of saliva separating from a couple's lips, and the extremely distant chirping of birds.
"Hey, Salomon, wake up!" A sudden shake interrupted Salomon's meditation. "They're coming out!"
Salomon opened his eyes and yawned.
This was the power of a saint that the Ancient One had spoken of. He would gradually possess stronger physical abilities than ordinary people, such as enhanced hearing and vision. These abilities would gradually manifest as he grew older. But he wasn't Superman from the comics; according to the Ancient One, his body had simply been strengthened by magic, and no matter what, it wouldn't go beyond the realm of humans, although for ordinary people, this was already quite exaggerated.
During his short rest, he had only meditated and had not cast the Astral Projection spell that he had always disliked—this spell was developed by the Ancient One based on Tibetan Buddhist scriptures, and it was generally used by Kamar-Taj sorcerers when studying all night.
Salomon scoffed at this. If you're going to sleep, just sleep. Why bother with so many troublesome things?
Of course, the Kamar-Taj scriptures in this area were not limited to Astral Projection. If a sorcerer was interested in this field, they could continue to study the method of Yang Shen leaving the body by Master Ziyang Zhang Boduan, which the Ancient One had collected.
It was just that no one studied it. That kind of method of cultivating both body and soul sounded good, but it took too long and was always inconsistent with the principles of Kamar-Taj.
Salomon looked out following Master John's gaze. Just outside the glass window, Ricky White, with some golden short hair, walked out of the City Hall entrance with his secretary, Gloria, who was wearing a red fuzzy-trimmed coat and was about to get into a black sedan.
"Stop! Don't disturb my casting." Salomon retracted his hand and began to chant the spell in a low voice.
The town of Salem was not large, and the streets were not too wide. Most of the buildings here had gray-black walls and looked very cold. It seemed that the residents here preferred a peaceful life and were not too interested in developing into a large town.
Therefore, the coffee shop where Salomon was located was not far from Ricky White, and the spell he was casting was enough to reach the target.
Master John saw Salomon point his finger, and Ricky White, along with his secretary Gloria, who was wearing a red fuzzy-trimmed coat, fell to the ground. When Master John looked closer, he was immediately shocked.
"You... how did you take off his pants!" He widened his eyes and looked at Salomon with disbelief. "What kind of magic is this?"
"Pants spell," Salomon replied.
This magic was a trick used for pranks among many wizard apprentices in Golarion, but many well-known wizards who had been famous for many years still used this spell as one of their common spells. Because except for warriors wearing plate armor, no matter whether you use a belt or suspenders, you cannot prevent your pants from falling to your ankles. As long as you don't want to fight with your butt exposed, even a legendary warrior cannot escape this magic.
Who can avoid tripping over their fallen pants?
Ricky White scrambled to his feet in a panic, and his bodyguards in black suits quickly blocked the view of others—after all, a senator dropping his pants in the street was not good news.
"Okay, we can go." Salomon stood up and walked towards the target while continuing to chant the spell.
The originally imposing black-suited bodyguards uniformly bent down as their pants also fell to the ground one after another. This attracted the attention of tourists, and Salomon quickly squeezed through with Master John.
The black-suited bodyguards hastily pulled up their pants while blocking the reporters. They tried to stop the paparazzi from taking pictures, but with little effect, as their pant legs were already stepped on by the quick-witted reporters, and they couldn't move a step.
Salomon squeezed through the crowd, continuously chanting spells in his mouth. With his magic, the actions and reactions of the surrounding crowd became slower. He raised one hand above his head, and golden dust permeated above everyone's heads.
"Close your eyes," he whispered to Master John, followed by a blinding flash comparable to a flashbang. The onlookers couldn't help but close their eyes, and some even shed tears due to the excessive stimulation of their eyeballs.
"Quick, it's that ring with the pink gemstone!"
---
**Pants**
- **School**: Transmutation; **Level**: Bard 0, Sorcerer/Wizard 0
- **Casting Time**: 1 standard action
- **Components**: Verbal, Somatic
- **Range**: Close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 levels)
- **Target**: One creature wearing pants
- **Duration**: Instantaneous
- **Saving Throw**: Will negates; **Spell Resistance**: Yes
You cause the target's pants to slide down to his ankles. Belts or suspenders do not protect the target, but armor that completely encases the legs, such as full plate, prevents the negative effects of this spell.
After the pants fall down, the target can use a move action to pull them back up. If the target does not pull up his pants, his movement speed is halved, and if he attempts to move more than 5 feet in a round, he must make a Reflex save (DC equals the spell) or fall prone.
---
**Pause**
- **School**: Enchantment (Compulsion); **Level**: Bard 0, Sorcerer/Wizard 0
- **Casting Time**: 1 immediate action
- **Components**: Verbal, Somatic
- **Range**: Close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 levels)
- **Target**: One living creature
- **Duration**: Instantaneous
- **Saving Throw**: Will negates; **Spell Resistance**: Yes
This spell slows the target's reaction time. He takes a –4 circumstance penalty on initiative checks (minimum initiative 0). If he has already acted this round, the spell does not grant an extra action, so his new initiative does not take effect until the next round.