Three streaks of blue-tailed force slammed into the advancing ghosts.
They staggered.
Barely.
The impact pushed them back a few inches—but nothing more.
It didn't disperse them.
Didn't weaken them.
It only made them angry.
Their silent screams tore through the air.
Windows shattered.
Leaves ripped free from branches and scattered like debris in a storm.
Salomon felt it immediately.
He was close to his limit.
A person could only cast so much in a day.
Magic wasn't free.
It burned through focus, willpower—something deeper than physical stamina.
And once it ran dry, recovery wasn't quick.
He was nearly there.
So he did the sensible thing.
He grabbed Wong—
And ran.
There was no shame in retreat.
Only idiots stood their ground when they couldn't win.
Unfortunately—
The ghosts didn't agree.
The ring was still with him.
And they weren't letting it go.
"I can run on my own!" Wong gasped, forcing his legs forward despite the exhaustion dragging at him.
He didn't need to see them to know how bad this was.
He'd read enough.
Possession.
Soul consumption.
Things that didn't leave a body behind.
And these weren't weak spirits.
"What were we thinking?" he wheezed. "Why would the Sorcerer Supreme send us for something like this?"
No answer.
Just running.
They broke out of town, into open ground.
Mud.
Wind.
Empty space.
They looked like fugitives.
Because they were.
Salomon tore open a scroll mid-run.
Silver particles clung to his body—then vanished.
Another scroll.
Same spell.
He threw it onto Wong.
Then—
He stopped.
Turned.
"Keep going!" Wong shouted, panic rising. "What are you doing?!"
"Fighting."
Salomon brought his hands together.
"They can't possess us now. We can hit back."
Wong stared at him.
"…You've lost it."
"Orders from the Sorcerer Supreme," Salomon said calmly. "No outside help. No witnesses."
There was more to it than that.
Much more.
Three rings.
Complete control over Vishanti power.
If anyone at Kamar-Taj learned the truth—
Everything would collapse.
Salomon wasn't about to let that happen.
Not when he'd come this far.
Not when he refused to kneel to anything calling itself a god.
He narrowed his eyes.
The ghosts surged forward.
In his vision, they glowed faint pink—the energy binding them to existence.
But beneath them—
Black mist.
Thick.
Rotting.
"Thief…"
"Return…"
"Leave…"
Their warning.
The ground beneath them froze.
Thin ice spread across rainwater.
Salomon didn't hesitate.
"F*ck off."
He hurled a chain of blazing energy.
It tore through the ghosts, jumping from one to another—
Searing.
Burning.
They screamed.
Stopped.
Then lunged.
Salomon answered with a blade.
A heavy arc of condensed magic, shaped like a cleaver, carved through one of them—splitting its form apart.
It wasn't enough.
They crashed into him.
He hit the ground hard, rolling across dirt and shattered stone.
And then—
A hand slammed into one of the ghosts.
Wong.
He could see them now.
He dragged Salomon back, using brute force and sheer stubbornness to keep them moving.
"What now?!" Wong demanded.
Salomon didn't answer immediately.
He closed his eyes.
Cold air filled his lungs.
When he opened them again—
He had made his decision.
"Hold them off."
Wong didn't hesitate.
He nodded.
Salomon reached into his pocket.
Two rings.
They were warm.
Waiting.
He pulled them out.
Orange.
Pink.
They burned with quiet intensity.
He inhaled once.
Then slid them onto his fingers.
Middle.
Ring.
Instantly—
The warmth turned into fire.
Real fire.
He screamed.
"Salomon!"
Wong turned—
And froze.
Flames of raw magic engulfed him.
His robes blackened at the edges.
His hair curled and burned.
The heat blasted outward, forcing Wong back.
The ghosts—
Collapsed.
Torn apart by the surge of power.
Their forms unraveled, dissolving into raw energy.
"Don't—come—closer—!"
Salomon tried to shout.
No one could understand him.
His throat was ruined.
The air itself burned his lungs.
Each breath scraped like sandpaper.
Blood—
Thick.
Dark—
Spilled from his mouth.
His skin blistered.
Split.
Blood dried the instant it touched the air.
Sweat vanished before it could fall.
His lips cracked.
Peeled.
The heat climbed higher.
Skin blackened.
Charred.
The ground beneath him softened—
Melting.
His vision faded.
His body—
Breaking down.
But even then—
He forced his head up.
He couldn't see them.
Not with his eyes.
But he knew.
In the space where magic gathered—
They were watching.
Three faces.
A tiger.
A man.
A woman.
Hoggoth.
Agamotto.
Oshtur.
The Vishanti.
Salomon raised his hand.
His bones creaked.
Dry.
Brittle.
Fck you.*
The words never came out.
His voice was gone.
His tongue stuck to his mouth.
So he acted instead.
With what little strength he had left—
He reached for his collar.
And tore it open.