Salomon's method was simple and crude, displaying little ingenuity. Their enemies weren't as formidable as the guardians of the British Museum.
Of course, that was on a magical level.
That said, this time, their opponents were no pushovers either. The descendants of the Puritans who had participated in the Salem witch trials—the families of those civil servants who hanged innocent women—continued to control Salem's politics and economy for generations, a form of capitalist hereditary rule.
Ricky White, a descendant of one of these civil servants, served as a senator from Salem.
Salomon and Wong found a café across the street from City Hall and sat there, awaiting the politician's appearance.
"Ugh, it tastes like boiling mud," Salomon said, holding a cup of coffee overloaded with milk and sugar. He had always hated coffee; no matter how much milk or sugar he added, it always left a sour taste in his mouth.
He squinted at Master Wong, who sat across from him at the small round white table. "Brother Wong, how many tuna sandwiches have you had? We're here to monitor, not eat."
"My living allowance was just handed out yesterday, and my father hasn't had time to confiscate it yet," Master Wong said nonchalantly, patting his chubby belly. "Of course I have to seize the opportunity to eat something delicious. Do you like the cafeteria at Kamar-Taj? Don't we all eat at the Hong Kong Temple?"
Salomon rolled his eyes. Master Wong remained optimistic about his physique. He firmly believed that only by eating more and gaining weight would he have the strength to endure the arduous training at Kamar-Taj—at least to have some cushion against a punch to the stomach.
A generous heart and a plump body were good things, but in the Kamar-Taj headquarters, where emphasis was on hard training, it was an anomaly. Everyone there was either thin or strong, and you were the only fat guy without perfect abdominal muscles. Who else should I hit?
"How long must we wait here?" Wong burped contentedly. Today had been his most hearty day yet. Free from Master Hamil's supervision, he had devoured food like a wild dog unleashed. Naturally, he felt no impatience; his question simply wanted to know if he had time for more.
"I don't know," Salomon shook his head.
But Salomon was patient—politicians don't stay in one place forever. They always have to socialize, have fun, and take care of their own business. This is a product of capitalist dictatorship, and he'll always be around.
"If you send me to Washington, I'll promise to make reforms, and I'll stake my life on it. My original intention remains unchanged." Ricky White was making an impassioned speech on the noisy television screen in the café. The background indicated he was standing in front of Salem's City Hall.
"I will always be Ricky White, a son of Salem, and I will always fight for everything we have, until I have given it my all…"
Perhaps because the café's television had been in disrepair for so long, not only was the picture slightly noisy, but the sound was also distorted.
Ricky White's campaign slogan gradually faded. Salomon leaned back against a cushioned chair, watching the withered yellow leaves tumble down the street outside.
He closed his eyes slightly, and slowly, the noise faded, even the sound of passing traffic. He could hear the dripping faucet in the café's kitchen, the resonant sound of water hitting the stainless steel sink, and the hum of electrical current from a faulty fluorescent light bulb.
Even further away, the clickety-click of a radio knob, the mucus-slurring sound of lovers' lips parting, and the distant chirping of birds.
"Hey, Salomon, wake up!" A rapid jolt interrupted Salomon's meditation. "They're coming!"
Salomon opened his eyes and yawned.
This was the power of the saint that the Supreme had spoken of. He would gradually acquire physical abilities superior to those of ordinary people, such as enhanced hearing and vision. But he wasn't the Superman of comics. According to the Supreme, his body had simply been enhanced by magic, and he wouldn't deviate from the human realm—though that was quite an exaggeration for ordinary people.
During his brief rest, he simply meditated, avoiding the astral projection he had always despised. This spell, developed by the Supreme based on Tantric texts, was typically used by Kamar-Taj practitioners during all-night study sessions.
Salomon scoffed, saying, "Just sleep. Why bother with all that trouble?"
Of course, Kamar-Taj texts covered more than just astral projection. Interested mages could also study the Yang Shen techniques of Ziyang Zhenren Zhang Boduan, collected by the Supreme.
It's just that no one studied them. While such dual cultivation of body and soul sounded appealing, it took far too long and was incompatible with Kamar-Taj's principles.
Salomon followed Wong's gaze and looked out. Just outside the window, Ricky White, with short blond hair, emerged from the City Hall gates with his secretary, Gloria, on his arm, preparing to get into a black sedan.
"Stop! Don't interrupt me while I cast the spell." Salomon retracted his hand and began muttering a spell.
Salem wasn't a large town, and its streets weren't particularly wide either. Most of the buildings had gray-black walls, giving the town a rather cold appearance. The residents seemed to prefer a quiet life, uninterested in expanding into a larger city.
Therefore, the café where Salomon stood wasn't far from Ricky White, and the spell he cast was wide enough to reach its target.
Wong saw Salomon point his finger, and Ricky White, along with his secretary Gloria—wearing a red plush-trimmed coat—fell to the ground. A closer look from Wong left him shocked.
"You… how did you take his pants off!" he exclaimed, eyes wide in disbelief. "What kind of magic is this?"
"The Pants Removal Spell," Salomon replied.
This spell is a popular prank among apprentice mages in Golarion, but it remains a staple among established mages. Except for warriors wearing plate armor, belts and suspenders won't prevent pants from falling to the ankles. Even legendary warriors aren't immune unless prepared to fight bareback.
Who wouldn't trip over falling pants?
Ricky White hurriedly stood up, his black-suited bodyguards quickly shielding him from view—after all, a senator taking off his pants in public wasn't exactly a good look.
"Okay, we can go." Salomon stood and continued chanting as he walked toward his target.
The once-imposing black-clad bodyguards bent down in unison as their trousers fell to the ground one after another, attracting the attention of tourists. Salomon and Wong quickly squeezed through.
The bodyguards frantically held up their trousers, attempting to block reporters from snapping photos, but to no avail. Their trouser legs were already caught by clever reporters, preventing them from moving a single step.
Salomon squeezed through the crowd, chanting incessantly. His magic slowed the movements and reactions of those around him. He raised one hand above his head, and golden dust filled everyone's vision.
"Close your eyes," he whispered to Wong, and then a bright light, as intense as a flashbang, erupted. The onlookers closed their eyes, some even weeping from the stimulation.
"Hurry, it's the ring with the pink gem!"
-End Chapter-
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