Solomon looked across at the man seated in the armchair opposite him.
"But I don't think that's enough. If you dive too deep into the darkness of the magical world under the drive of your overwhelming curiosity, you may never be able to pull yourself back out. Many sorcerers believed they were merely dabbling, that it wouldn't cause any real harm—but the truth is, the number of spellcasters Kamar-Taj has had to kill, both outsiders and their own, is far greater than you'd imagine," he said. "You've already seen it—our work is as much research as it is slaughter. Yes, magic is as fantastical as it is in literature, only far worse. Magic isn't some noble force—it's not a good thing. But we can't live without it, either."
"Wait—magic?" Watson, who had wanted to remind Solomon not to stain the carpet with blood, now latched onto the word instead, his curiosity piqued. "So you're even more professional than Van Helsing, huh?" He cradled a teacup in his hand, seemingly unfazed by their sewer adventure, and asked with genuine interest, "Do you guys have wands too?"
"I've got nothing to do with Hogwarts. Why do all you Brits have to ask that first?" Solomon didn't turn around as he replied, but Sherlock Holmes could see from his expression just how irritated he was. "You've just seen vampires. What's so strange about magic being real too? And there's no need to force small talk, Watson. I don't get awkward. Thanks, but I don't want any tea right now."
Sherlock adjusted his posture, settling comfortably into the chair with his elbows on the armrests and fingertips pressed together in a steeple. He stared intently into the mage's eyes, as if trying to pry secrets from within. But even if he could read minds, it would be useless here. From the very beginning of his magical studies, Solomon had learned that an open mind is like an unguarded book, vulnerable to tampering. Guarding one's thoughts was fundamental to long-term spellcasting.
"You can choose now whether to join us, Sherlock Holmes—to attempt to shoulder a title that concerns the fate of all humanity. I know you want to ask why I don't pursue this position myself... The truth is, that esteemed title belonged to my teacher—the most revered sorcerer in the world. The Ancient One split the title in half, giving one part to me. The other half is the position I'm offering. We each have our responsibilities. That's why I fought the Chitauri in New York and the Dark Elves in London. That's just what you know. There are countless covert wars you've never heard of."
Watson's jaw dropped. He pointed at himself silently, wanting to say he'd seen Solomon in full armor on television, but the atmosphere wasn't quite right to bring it up. Besides, Solomon wasn't wearing the same suit, and Watson wasn't sure what to say.
"Why?" Sherlock raised his chin, his messy curls bouncing. "Why did your teacher do that?"
"I know the answer, but I can't tell you. Not unless you join us. Only then will you have access to the most classified information. But your test hasn't even begun. Even if you agree now, I still can't tell you. Only once you sit in that position will I reveal the true secrets of Kamar-Taj." The mage spread his hands. "There are still countless magical threats in the world, and all kinds of hostile aliens across the endless universe that need killing. That's the future we face—a future steeped in violence and despair. I need allies to deal with it, and you're capable of being one. Don't be like Mycroft, trapped on this tiny island, shaping himself into a very effective stick to stir the pot—by the way, that's my only comment on him. Try to shoulder a greater responsibility. You'll get what you're looking for."
Solomon stood up. Clad in black power armor adorned with elaborate golden engravings, he looked tall enough to bump his head on the ceiling. But this suit had long since lost its original luster; its detailed carvings were caked with dried blood and grime. From a compartment in the armor, he pulled out a business card and placed it on the armchair, then bent down to pick up the grenade launcher resting on the floor—the stench of gunpowder still clung to its barrel. The plasma pistol's high-energy gas rounds were long spent. That grenade launcher had fired over 500 rounds tonight just to meet Solomon's firepower demands. With it, he'd singlehandedly driven back or eliminated at least half of London's vampire population.
He now felt it was time for Malbus to try building some mechanical hunting hounds—controlled by biological computers. His attitude toward AI remained as cautious as ever. The only AI he used was tightly locked down. And given how annoying Vision from the Avengers had become, Solomon's opinion of artificial intelligence couldn't be worse. He hadn't yet reached an agreement with Stark on that front.
"This is the address of the London Sanctum. If you ever make up your mind, come there. You'll see a world far broader, far more beautiful, and filled with endless mysteries. But be warned—time waits for no one. We're busy, busy trying to stop the world from ending," Solomon said. "Think it through. Taking this path means you'll suffer greatly. But if you choose to join, you'll see the world we've built with our lives. Immortality isn't something just anyone can mentally withstand."
"You think I'd say yes based on this vague nonsense? And by the way—how old are you, exactly?"
"Twenty-one." Solomon's expression twisted again. He didn't understand why everyone who met him questioned his age. Still, he kept his tone even. No one but Sherlock could detect the emotional undercurrent. "I think you will say yes. I understand your thirst for knowledge—because I share it. A powerful desire to know more is both the force that drives discovery and the blade of the Damocles sword. This vampire uprising is just the first scar that blade has left. I don't want another. To face what's coming, I need the help of every exceptional human being. You're one of them."
"And don't forget to clean the stairs when you leave. Mrs. Hudson doesn't like her floors dirty."
"And don't dress like a parish priest. Bring a change of clothes." Solomon added.
"The tea?" Watson asked. "You're not staying for a cup?"
The mage didn't look back. After he left, the room seemed noticeably lighter.
"He doesn't like milk in his tea."
"How do you know?" Watson asked.
"It's deduction, Watson," Sherlock replied, picking up the untouched cup. From all the things Solomon hadn't said—and everything that had happened tonight—he reached a conclusion: this organization wielded not only magic, but astonishing technological power as well. He'd heard fighter jets streak across the London sky. He'd seen the tech behind Solomon's power armor. There was no way he wasn't interested. But Solomon had revealed far too little. He needed to think, to gather more information. The detective raised an eyebrow.
"Alright, fine—he actually told me. Let's get the stairs cleaned up, or Mrs. Hudson's going to be furious."
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