"My Lord! I thought dinner was going to be delayed again!" Dana said with a face full of delight. "Shall I serve dinner on time?" These days, everyone was busy, and even Dana—an artificial human responsible for managing daily life—was extremely occupied. In addition to caring for the needs of the two witches and Solomon, she also had to cross the Atlantic regularly to train the household staff at the Oxfordshire estate, seeking wisdom from the old butler at Crawford Manor. These "staff" were modeled after the servants found in pre–World War I British aristocratic estates—modern equivalents were usually hired on short-term contracts, especially in estates purchased by new money. University students often sought summer positions in such homes. But the Oxfordshire estate held far too many secrets, and Dana deemed seasonal workers too unprofessional. As a result, all staff were hired for life.
Even so, applicants continued to line up, a fact that only left Solomon lamenting how bleak the UK job market must be.
But given that the job came with cost-of-living-indexed wages, a healthcare fund, generous pension benefits, and full retirement packages, it wasn't surprising. Dana even began to consider it reasonable to put the staff through military training—after all, with Solomon paying so much, it wasn't asking too much for his servants to know how to handle a handgun.
"Yeah, I thought dinner would be on time too—until I said something stupid," Solomon muttered, raking a hand through his messy hair.
He wasn't wearing a shirt, his back covered in scratches and bite marks that gave some indication of the intensity of the recent "battle." He'd long since delegated estate affairs to Dana, who handled everything seamlessly even without relying on the resources of the Undying City. Using only Solomon's personal funds and corporate holdings, Dana was more than capable of managing everything. Artificial humans were blessed with an intelligence far beyond human limits—something Solomon had deliberately built into them.
"Dana, tell me—why are women so hard to understand? Especially married women?"
The question was too difficult for Dana. She stammered, unable to respond.
"Ha! Idiot!" Jeanne burst into laughter. Solomon only rolled his eyes. She had already heard about his "stupid comment" from Bayonetta. Only the witches in the household could mock Solomon this way. "No way I'm skipping dinner over something like that, but she only listens to you!" The white-haired witch glanced at the artificial maid. "Next time, either you come out on your own, or I barge in and interrupt you—your choice!"
Dana bowed her head and returned to tending the sauce on the stove.
She was already preparing a late-night snack and breakfast. In her experience, dinner was likely to be postponed again.
Because once her master returned home, the witches usually kept him so occupied he didn't get a chance to eat. Dana made plans to prepare a breakfast and a take-out meal Solomon could bring to the Undying City. She also had to keep track of all the tasks and updates Solomon missed during his "distractions." For example, the suit of female armor commissioned from the fallen angel smith was nearly complete. When Rodin called, Dana had taken the message herself, using materials from Solomon's private inventory to pay the artisan and arranging delivery service as well.
A few minutes later, a massive cargo crate, accompanied by a cloud of dust, dropped out of a portal and slammed into the living room of the witches' apartment. The impact was so loud that it shook every neatly arranged piece of furniture and trinket. The polished teak floor was left with a massive dent. Dana nearly lost it. For the first time, she chose not to pick up her cleaning tools but instead reached for the enormous chainsaw sword Bayonetta had gifted her. Fortunately, Solomon arrived in time to stop her, quickly summoning a host of spectral servants to help with the cleanup before Dana burst into tears from sheer frustration.
"What's this?" Tita looked up at the massive black iron crate. She was clad in ceremonial armor, standing nearly 195 centimeters tall herself, yet the crate was even larger. Only a three-meter-tall royal guardsman could see over the top of it. The crate bore the gear emblem of Mars and the golden eagle sigil of the Undying City, indicating that the armor inside had been refitted by the chief of the Martian Forge and personally enchanted by Solomon. In addition to the layers of parchment inscribed with tiny script and affixed to the iron surface, a deep red power switch blinked brightly in the upper-left corner of the crate's door.
"This is from our Lord. For you, Commander," Constantine said softly, handing her a sealed parchment dossier. According to the orders from the Royal Guard, this crate was to be stored in the deepest tomb beneath the Sisterhood Abbey of the Undying City. Officially, the city had hundreds of ongoing operations. Unofficially, they were all part of a larger plan slowly bringing Solomon's true intentions to fruition.
"I'll take care of it." Tita waved her hand, leading the convoy behind the royal guards into the abbey's depths. The royal guards did not follow, instead turning and leaving once the transport convoy vanished behind the towering Gothic architecture.
Tita and the vehicles stopped at the entrance of the catacombs—a structure built after the Battle of Finbowinter. The abbey, which had previously been off-limits to outsiders, had reluctantly allowed construction teams to enter, although their access was strictly limited. Once the tomb for the war dead was completed, Tita had immediately interred the fallen there and sealed the area, leaving only a small rotation of guards.
The fifteen-meter-tall entrance was adorned with intricate reliefs praising the sacrifices of the Finbowinter martyrs, but the interior was pitch black, lit only by the distant sounds of workers chipping away at stone. Tita had no idea what the crate's contents were for, but she followed the instructions exactly and only shared the vague details with a few unit commanders.
She led the vehicles deeper into the tunnel, forbidding the use of lights. After several hundred winding steps in darkness, the driver finally saw a glimmer of candlelight. The illumination grew denser, eventually forming rivers of flame along the corridor walls. The passage, resembling the gullet of a monstrous beast, gradually lit up, revealing exquisite murals. Painted saints wept on the walls, singing of sacrifice and faith.
"What do you think it is?" A kerosene lantern emerged from the unlit corridor, trailing heavy incense. Ora, clad in ritual command power armor, asked the question with a blank expression. She carried no heavy weapons—just a longsword and a sidearm, the standard kit for combat squads.
"I don't know, Ora. I have a few guesses—probably either for Ragnarök or the Attilan campaign. But I have no idea what it actually does. I figure our Lord will reveal his wisdom when the time is right. No need to rush," Tita replied, watching as workers and vehicles carefully maneuvered the multi-ton crate into place.
"Will the transport crew be brainwashed afterward?" Ora asked. "I noticed some are wearing Wakandan emblems."
"They have to be. They can't remember what they saw here. As for the Wakandans, we'll run deeper magical scans. Those heretics who don't understand our Lord's glory are too unpredictable. And our alliance with their monarch isn't as solid as it looks." Tita fell silent for a moment, then chose not to disclose the countermeasures planned against the Wakandans. "Our faith in Him cannot be allowed to spread beyond the Sisterhood. That is His command. We must obey."
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