As Su Ming rapidly flipped through the book, names on his mental list were crossed off one by one. Monarch watched the fire silently, while Garth held Ciri's hand, whispering.
Ciri's expression remained odd. Though smiling, she struggled to accept Garth's transformation from a kindly old man to a beautiful young woman—looking younger than her.
Then, Su Ming closed the book.
"Done?" Ciri slipped her hand free, giving an awkward smile.
"Yeah, the rest is gibberish and doodles. The story stops when I entered the bug's belly."
Su Ming tucked the book into his spatial pouch, staring at the fire.
"Find anything?" Garth grabbed Ciri's hand again, toying with her fingers.
"Plenty. Future Loki knows Wade well. No mention of Kamar-Taj. Thor's tormented to death. Odin's an outsider. But actionable intel? Sparse."
"Why not ask Ancient One for help?" Monarch suggested. If timelines were the issue, the Ancient One, with the Eye of Agamotto, was the best bet.
"She knows but let things unfold. Asking her means playing her script. Want me as Supreme Sorcerer?"
Su Ming tapped his chestplate. The alloyed Stranglehold clanged. He pointed to the weapons on his back.
Imagine a wizard conclave—robes and staves, then Su Ming in armor, everyone bowing. Doesn't that feel wrong?
"Not so bad…" Monarch turned away, mumbling, fixated on a pebble.
"Such a lie. What'd Ancient One bribe you with?"
Su Ming sighed deeply. Monarch was in on it. Ancient One must've told him something.
Monarch's face reddened, his mustache twitching. "How dare you accuse me? I took nothing!"
"Fine. Hand over the mustache wax. You're in the story—go rest. Take Garth back and fetch Hamir."
Monarch was named in the book. Though his later role was obscured by doodles, a new Kamar-Taj mage was needed.
Sending him back was a test to see Ancient One's reaction.
Monarch sighed. He knew things but couldn't say. His condition wasn't great either.
Soaking in icy interdimensional fluid wasn't pleasant.
He tossed Su Ming a small tin, then opened a portal to the New York Sanctum.
Garth glanced at Su Ming. He nodded slightly. She let go of Ciri, stood, and stepped through.
"Stay safe, boss."
"Stick to the plan."
The portal closed, leaving Su Ming and Ciri. Moments later, Hamir arrived, black wok on his back.
He stepped out, nodded to Su Ming, and said nothing.
He set the wok on the fire, conjured boiling water, and pulled out dumplings, tossing them in.
Maybe an illusion, but as the plump dumplings rolled in the steam, Su Ming swore he saw golden light from the pot.
"Wait, is this dinner time? It's not a holiday—why dumplings?"
Su Ming waved to stop him. The story was off—turning into Chinese Master Chef?
"Eat well, journey well."
Hamir stirred with a large ladle, adding cold water, answering calmly.
"…"
Journey where?
Su Ming knew the saying: dumplings for departures, noodles for returns—meant for sending family off.
But "journey" sounded ominous.
"Fine. What filling? No tentacles."
"Ginseng and lamb."
"Edible?"
"Yes."
"Ginseng instead of carrots—too potent?"
"Not for you."
"Ciri can eat it?"
"Yes."
"What'd Ancient One tell you?"
"Follow your orders."
Hamir fished out dumplings, unfazed, his answers watertight. Lamb's aroma spread.
Su Ming grimaced. No slip-ups.
Hamir likely knew something. Su Ming tried to catch him off guard, but Hamir's guard was ancestral—bodyguard and butler instincts.
No matter. Hamir's arrival confirmed Kamar-Taj's stance. Ancient One was still on Su Ming's side, just hiding things, like a shadow puppeteer.
That could wait.
"Bitter," Ciri mumbled, scalded by a dumpling, speaking only after cooling down.
Hamir produced small dishes and a vinegar bottle.
In the dungeon, dry air sapped life from every cell. From the darkness beyond the door, slithering, scuttling sounds tightened nerves.
Like multilegged creatures skittering over snow or slugs scraped across glass—complex, layered noises fraying every nerve.
Illyana had seen snow. A Russian, she lived through the Soviet Union's collapse, when civilian life crumbled.
Her parents died of hunger and disease in a snowy winter night.
She and her brothers, Piotr and Mikhail, could only watch their purple-faced parents claw their throats, dying in their beds.
Not just illness—every Rasputin died this way, the "Rasputin Curse."
Illyana, Piotr, Mikhail—the last of the Rasputins.
Each had unique abilities, a family secret kept from outsiders.
Mikhail, the eldest, was strongest, reshaping matter with his mind—ice to water, or banishing fatigue.
Piotr could turn to metal, invulnerable.
Illyana, the youngest, seemed ordinary but was the family's hope. She was immune to all diseases and infections.
The curse struck at a certain age, causing organ failure, rotting from within, leading to inevitable death.
To support them, Mikhail enlisted after their parents' deaths. His powers made him an astronaut.
But as he launched into space, the Union collapsed. His spacecraft vanished into a cosmic void.
Piotr took up the burden, but in chaos, the government stalled. They learned of Mikhail's death months later—no compensation.
Parents and eldest brother gone, Piotr took Illyana to the "land of freedom" across the ocean, where the new president promised sweet air.
But air doesn't feed. Jobs and food were scarce in Russia.
Sneaking to America was easy then. Piotr sold their land and heritage to foreign capitalists for two smuggler's tickets.
Piotr was strong, lifting nine tons when powered. He found work at New York's docks for Wilson Enterprises, which offered fake IDs.
Wilson spanned legal and illegal worlds, its Peace Hotel nightclub frequented by elite officials.
The company treated workers well—holiday rations, dorms, family education, and survivor care.
Piotr felt it less a business, more a humane mob. His vodka-laced English and fake ID tied him to Wilson. Without them, he and Illyana were stranded.
The company controlled everyone. Mysterious women, like KGB agents, lingered near docks and factories.
His job was clean—hand-packing delicate art, unsuitable for machines. His performance earned enough.
By 1992, he bought a small Long Island farm for him and Illyana.
Soon, a bald man in a wheelchair found them. After a talk, Piotr joined the X-Men as Colossus.
Illyana, only seven, learned they were mutants, as the bald professor called them.
Charles said little, only that Xavier's School was a haven for mutants like Illyana, offering protection and tailored guidance.
The Rasputin curse wasn't supernatural but genetic—unstable X-genes causing collapse and organ failure.
The school could hone Illyana's powers, perhaps sparing her that fate.
Colossus was immune—his metal form protected him.
Illyana wasn't.
He scrapped sending her to a free academy, enrolling her at Xavier's. Charles gave him a job teaching PE, well-paid.
Teaching let him watch Illyana, perfect.
But before Illyana could enjoy another winter with classmates, a devil in black smoke and fog snatched her through a time rift, vanishing from campus.