Marvel Magic Case Files.

Chapter 40 A Man's Words Are Deceptive

The "relaxation" activities that His Holiness arranged for Salomon were actually an act of strengthening his mental fortitude.

Baron Mordo and Cassirios were somewhat dissatisfied, because in their view, Salomon was far too young, and a child of that age should not have his hands covered in blood.

"I said before Salomon was born that everyone's starting point is different, and he was destined not to be immersed in an ordinary life."

Although this is not a good thing, he can only passively accept it; it is a suffering he must endure. The Venerable One pushed the tea towards his two disciples. "In Salomon's heart, nothing is more relaxing than staying in his room playing video games, which is why I allow him to pursue his hobby. Can you guess how long he'll stay in his room this time he returns from Corin Town?"

Mordo and Kasirius exchanged a silent glance. Hunting vampires and werewolves should have been their job, or the deacons of the New York Temple, but the Sorcerer Supreme had placed these responsibilities on Salomon.

They applied several times, but were rejected by His Holiness each time, which made them somewhat worried. Especially since Salomon always returned to Kamar-Taj with a pile of seafood each day, Mordo felt that Salomon was far too carefree and underestimated his opponent.

"Relax," the Venerable One said, seeing through their thoughts. "Don't think that Salomon's performance in the protective class shows his true strength; he was holding back. If Salomon were to unleash his holy marks and fight you hand-to-hand, you wouldn't stand a chance."

"Your Excellency, what exactly are Stigmata?" Cassirios asked after a moment's thought. "I feel that the Stigmata on Salomon's body are completely different from Stigmata in the general sense. Coupled with the unusual phenomena at the time of his birth, I believe..."

"You guessed right, Kasirius," the Venerable One said. "That's why I'm there. We absolutely cannot allow any extradimensional forces to interfere with Earth."

"But what if Salomon betrays humanity?" Mordo asked, frowning. "The one in the Bible did the same. I'm very worried..."

"No, he won't. Salomon is a genuine human being, albeit with some peculiarities," said the Sorcerer Supreme. "Salomon is an unbeliever, which is important, and I am very pleased that he possesses this belief, something most people lack. They always believe that powerful beings are gods, and that worshipping extradimensional beings can bring salvation—this foolish idea is still widely accepted today."

Even you, Mordo, Kasirius, even after you know God is an extradimensional being and cease worshipping Him, faith has carved a void in your hearts, a void that needs to be filled, and this yearning will only grow more urgent. There has never been an omnipotent god in this world; if there were, it would be a lie.

The Venerable One's tone gradually became stern. She said, "Moreover, our relationship with Vishanti is merely a transaction. Vishanti is only our sovereign, and even He is not worthy of worship."

The driver took Salomon for a drive around town. He turned on the radio, a beer in his hand, and drove erratically. After a while, he turned to Salomon, who was gazing out the window, and asked, "Brother, are you leaving?"

"Yes, I'm leaving." Salomon seemed quite relaxed, as he had finished dealing with everything in Colin Town. The werewolves he could find had already been eliminated, though many people had been implicated in the process.

Werewolf children couldn't be ordinary humans. He didn't believe a word the werewolf named Wood said, and Salomon wouldn't let any young werewolf who might bite people in the future live. The town wasn't big, and the driver had already taken him around several times, and he had drunk several cans of beer. The same scenery had passed before Salomon's eyes many times. But Salomon wasn't impatient. He liked that kind of uneventful life. In this world, besides Kamar-Taj, he had no other attachments. The only thing that could interest him was magic.

"Are you going back to New York?" he asked.

"No, London's weather suits me better—lazy and gentle. Although it rains often, it's not a big problem." Salomon unbuckled his seatbelt, stretched, and said, "I'll drop you off up ahead."

"How are you going to get back?" The driver took another sip of his drink, and the taxi suddenly accelerated, then slowed down again. Clearly, he had drunk too much and couldn't distinguish between accelerating and braking. Salomon wasn't injured; he remained seated, completely still.

"It's a secret, brother." Salomon stuffed a few more bills into the driver's breast pocket. "You've had too much to drink, pull over."

"Wait, wait!" The driver kept waving after stopping the car. Salomon watched curiously as he tore a piece of paper from the drawer, hurriedly searched for his phone, and then scribbled on it.

After a while, he handed me a small note with a name and phone number on it. "I know someone in London. I heard he's pretty capable. You can contact him next time you do a mission like this."

Salomon stared at the name on the note, his mouth agape in astonishment.

Fires have been frequent in the town of Colin recently, and most of the bodies have been burned by Salomon. Only a very small number of werewolves tracked into the wild by Salomon are dumped at sea. Salomon's hunting activities have also kept the local police busy, as there are still cold cases that have been pending for years, and now people in the town are being wiped out, with their entire families being killed, leaving no survivors.

The media has repeatedly highlighted the incompetence of the local police, creating a tense atmosphere in the town.

But ultimately it didn't affect the lives of the town's residents; it just provided some fodder for gossip. After all, this is America, and you could get shot even if you're just walking down the street.

The only one who knew the truth was the driver... You know, some people like to brag after drinking, and the more they drink, the bigger their boasts become.

Now, the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had visited the town is known not only to most of the middle-aged and elderly men in the town, but also to the ninety-year-old paralyzed fisherman, who knows everything about it. After all, a man who ventures out to sea cannot be without alcohol, and even if he is in a wheelchair, he must have a drink.

In bars today, everyone can vividly describe the appearance of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, as if they had seen them with their own eyes.

There were middle-aged, balding white men with very high hairlines, dressed in suits and ties, and with kind smiles; there were also black men who were completely bald, blind in one eye, and wearing eye patches and leather jackets.

Some people say that those who died were actually killed by foreign spies, and if they had drunk a few more glasses of whiskey, the murderer would have become an alien. In short, the more exaggerated the story, the more varied the quality of the stories became, depending on the price of the whiskey.

Of course, this group of middle-aged and elderly men also included a major component of the local police force. This left the Colin Township police puzzled and indignant, forcing them to send a letter protesting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s alleged illegal enforcement of the law.

The methods used in these murders were very similar, suggesting that they were committed by the same person. In fact, such serial killings should be reported to the FBI, but the Colin Township police did not report the events in their jurisdiction to the federal government, let alone to S.H.I.E.L.D.

For the past thirty-one years, there have been murders in the town every year, but none of them have been solved.

It was for this reason that the police decided to suppress all cases—if the media found out that these things had happened in the past, and if it was discovered that taxpayers' money had been wasted, what would become of the mayor's votes? What would become of their police department's budget?

Deceiving superiors and subordinates is a universal practice, something every politician can master without a teacher. Nobody wants their small town crammed with FBI agents, tabloid reporters, fake psychics, and a half-dead television station.

Maine has a history of bad things, and Collin Town really isn't that remarkable.

However, the protests from the Colin Township police were to no avail, because S.H.I.E.L.D. was not under the Federation, but rather the World Security Council. S.H.I.E.L.D. was even more confused after receiving the letter from the Colin Township police; they had not sent any agents to Colin Township—which could only mean that someone was impersonating them.

Therefore, an agent who had just finished a mission was sent to Colin Town to investigate the matter.

"Yes, yes, that's him! The kind old man with a high hairline, wearing a suit!" shouted an old man with a full head of white hair and wearing sunglasses, leaning on a cane.

"Dad! You've stood up!"

"what?"

Please vote for me! Please invest!

The previous chapter's moralizing was comparable to a purge of fans, but the animal protection association has definitely run away.

(End of this chapter)