Since Bast had decided to revoke her blessing from T'Chaka, Solomon agreed to let the matter rest. Without the blessing, the Black Panther would not live long. The Heart-Shaped Herb's effects relied on Bast's divine power, something even Wakanda's advanced medical technology could not remedy.
Although Solomon had both persuaded and threatened Bast in the temple, it did not prevent them from reaching a consensus. On the contrary, establishing clear boundaries only created more room for cooperation. That little black cat, serving as a vessel for Bast's will, became a symbol of their true collaboration.
It was a kitten that would never grow up, a reflection of Bast's current state. The Egyptian pantheon, which relied on faith for survival, had abducted a group of slaves as a power source before leaving Earth, too afraid to return lest the Sorcerer Supreme sought retribution. Only exiled gods like Bast needed to build legitimate forces to gather faith anew.
However, Wakandans were not particularly devout to the Panther God. Their attitude was more along the lines of "it doesn't cost anything to believe a little." Only the royal family provided true faith. That was why the cat, as a vessel, would never mature. Wakanda's sparse population meant Bast had to share faith with other tribal gods, none of whom were to be trifled with—the great ape god of the White Gorilla Tribe was Ghekre, son of the Voodoo pantheon's chief god, Baron Kriminel; the lion god was Sekhmet, Upper Egypt's war deity; and the crocodile god was Sobek, the fourfold god of Fayoum.
Note: Bast is the war god of Lower Egypt, but both Sekhmet and Bast are androgynous.
Solomon suspected that the cat's intelligence was affected by Bast's weakened divinity. It always looked silly, constantly forgetting to retract its tongue, and didn't even know how to use a litter box. After drinking a whole bowl of milk, it would climb onto Solomon's lap with its bloated belly, at risk of vomiting, leaving a trail of tiny white paw prints behind. Perhaps, in its eyes, Solomon's lap was a towering rock in the middle of a vast savanna—the only place that felt safe.
"You know," the mage said helplessly, "I think you might have watched Disney's The Lion King. But you're a leopard, not a lion. Get up, you dumb cat! I have to go bail someone out!"
The only response was a milk-scented burp. Solomon sighed and smacked the table as the foolish creature vomited milk again.
This was why Shuri later noticed a sour smell on him.
"You damn cat!"
—
By the time Solomon arrived at the scene of the incident, the poor bastard was already reduced to nothing but bones.
Audrey Nathan was collapsed on the stage in a state of panic. The stage light that Fitz had modified to emit gamma-ray-like wavelengths was smashed. Five artificial soldiers stood in front of Audrey, wielding heavy explosive rifles, relentlessly unloading firepower at Marcus Daniels. Small explosions erupted every second, attempting to push back the writhing shadowy creature crawling toward Audrey. Even Hydra's strike team was firing at the massive, undulating darkness that had engulfed half the theater.
But regular bullets had little effect on the creature. Only the continuously detonating explosive rounds could cause real damage. The metallic storm unleashed by the Sisterhood was met with Daniels' inhuman screams—filled with unholy whispers and fluctuating shrieks that drilled into the minds of those who heard them.
Tentacles formed from shadows occasionally snatched up a strike team member and dragged them into the mass.
"We have a problem, sir." Agent Hand defaulted to her old habit when on missions, addressing Solomon as "sir" instead of "Lord," like Stephanie did. "Leopold said that Marcus Daniels' abilities had grown stronger." Her voice was sharp and fast, nearly shouting—normal volume wouldn't have been heard over the deafening gunfire. "The stage lights could suppress him, but he still absorbed the electric pulses…"
Solomon nodded, signaling that he understood the situation. He looked down at the target below in the tiered theater. Nearly twenty feet of seating had melted into a crater, the charred remains of wooden chairs and velvet carpet filling the air with a dreadful stench. Small flames flickered in the turbulent air currents stirred by gunfire. Thick, suffocating smoke gathered at the theater's ceiling, resembling a looming storm cloud.
Fitz's lighting device was never a foolproof solution—it might have even strengthened Daniels. Combined with the energy from the plasma weapon explosions, the result was this out-of-control monster.
This creature had resistance to non-magical bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing attacks. It possessed extreme resilience against acid, ice, fire, electricity, and sonic damage—far beyond that of conventional life forms. The darker the environment, the stronger it became. From a biological research perspective, this version of Marcus Daniels was a rare and valuable specimen—one that had fused with the Shadow Plane to an extraordinary degree.
"No big deal. I'll handle it," Solomon's voice was transmitted directly to Hand's ears via magic, so even a whisper was crystal clear. "Don't let the strike team know I was here."
Hand glanced at Solomon, who was still in his sleepwear with a black kitten tucked in his pocket. She silently agreed—this was not the image an authoritative commander should present, especially when he reeked of sour milk. She gave orders through her earpiece, directing the strike team to retreat in alternating cover formations while the Sisterhood maintained suppressive fire.
Once the normal soldiers had cleared the spell's path, Solomon switched to the Sisterhood's communication channel.
"Girls, Daddy's about to cast a spell."
The artificial soldiers quickly deployed their collapsible shields.
A brilliant beam of light struck the monster, followed by a pinch of sulfur scattered from Solomon's hand.
With a sound like a heavenly choir, a colossal white-gold pillar of fire burst through the theater's ceiling, roaring as it exploded over the monstrous form that had once been Marcus Daniels. The surrounding shadows sizzled as if doused in molten metal, evaporating like snow tossed into a furnace. Fire and light—this was a modified version of the Fifth-Circle Flamestrike, rewritten as a directional spell called Vishanti's Wrath.
Audrey Nathan couldn't see what was happening beyond the artificial soldiers shielding her. All she knew was that an almost blinding light had erupted, accompanied by a thunderous roar. The insidious whispers that had been gnawing at her mind abruptly ceased, and she felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
She instinctively tried to stand up for a better look, but Katherine firmly held her down. The air around them had turned blisteringly hot, carrying the sharp scent of oxidized metal.
"What happened?" Audrey asked nervously. "I thought S.H.I.E.L.D. was disbanded—do you have backup?"
"Shut up." Katherine's voice came through the helmet's speaker, slightly distorted, making her sound like a machine. Audrey dared not ask further. Katherine's grip was iron-tight—tomorrow, it would definitely leave bruises. Even a brief accidental touch against the gun barrel had seared her skin, causing instant blisters.
Solomon adjusted his spellcasting, increasing the output. The Sisterhood, taking advantage of the brief pause between his spells, peeked out from behind their glowing red-hot shields to continue shooting, buying him time.
He enhanced a First-Circle evocation spell, Guiding Bolt, elevating it to a Fifth-Circle level. Like a whip, the luminous energy lashed across Marcus Daniels.
After giving a few final instructions to the artificial soldiers, Solomon transferred command to Victoria Hand.
He needed to ramp up the production of alchemical and arcane weaponry—his troops' munitions required an upgrade.
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