Reborn as the God-Emperor in Marvel

Three missiles trailing blue energy streaks struck the advancing ghosts, but the ethereal beings barely budged. The attack only fueled their rage, their shrieks imperceptible to normal humans but deafening enough to shatter nearby windows and strip the last remaining autumn leaves from the trees.

A person can only use a certain amount of magic in a day, limited by their mental stamina, just like physical exhaustion. Solomon was dangerously close to his limit, his mind strained from casting spell after spell. However, wizards always have their tricks.

Seeing that his magic missiles were ineffective, Solomon did the most sensible thing: he grabbed Wong and ran. After all, sometimes retreat is the wisest option, especially when you're outmatched. But the vengeful spirits weren't about to let Solomon escape. The White family's heirloom was still in his pocket, and they intended to get it back.

"I… I can run on my own!" Wong panted, his legs trembling with exhaustion but forcing himself to keep up. He didn't need to see the ghosts to know they were relentless—he'd read enough stories to know that being possessed by such spirits led to gruesome fates. And these spirits seemed far more powerful than typical malevolent forces.

Wong couldn't help but wonder why the Ancient One had sent Solomon on this mission. It was obvious they were out of their depth. Unlike the lucky break at the British Museum, he wasn't holding out hope for another miracle this time.

He longed for the comfort of the café, where he could enjoy a soft chair and a nice snack instead of running for his life, caked in dirt and with legs that felt like lead.

They were now running through a desolate, open field on the outskirts of town, looking for a way to escape their relentless pursuers. The two of them were a pitiful sight, covered in dirt and clearly running for their lives. Anyone who saw them would think they were fugitives.

While sprinting, Solomon reached into his pouch and pulled out a strip of parchment. Ripping it open, silver magical particles swirled around him and disappeared, casting a spell of protection. He quickly tore open another and applied the same spell to Wong. Then, Solomon slowed to a stop, turned around, and pressed his hands together.

"Go!" Wong shouted in panic, noticing Solomon had stopped. His face was pale with fear, and his nerves were frayed. "What are you doing? We need to get out of here!"

"We're fighting, Wong," Solomon replied, his voice steady despite the chaos. "The spirits can't possess us now. It's time we took them down."

With that, sparks of orange-red magic began crackling between Solomon's hands. As he separated them, threads of fire arced through the air, twisting and reshaping themselves in his grasp.

"What? Are you insane?" Wong's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Ancient One's orders," Solomon said calmly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the task at hand. "No one can know about this mission. We can't call for help."

The three rings allowed Solomon to tap into the vast power of the Vishanti, but there was a catch—he couldn't let anyone else at Kamar-Taj know. The rings were a direct affront to the Vishanti, and if the more zealous followers at Kamar-Taj learned about them, the Ancient One's delicate efforts to distance the order from blind Vishanti worship would unravel. Solomon's goal was clear: the Vishanti weren't gods, merely patrons with whom the sorcerers had a transactional relationship. 

Solomon knew it was only his teacher's reassurance that made him rely on Vishanti's magic at all—he would have much preferred to rely on his innate powers. But the limitless power of the Vishanti far exceeded anything he could generate on his own.

Focusing on the glowing spirits surging toward them, Solomon let his fingers dance, weaving energy into a complex spell. The orange sparks formed into a tangible weapon—a magical chain, crackling with power.

"Thief… return… or perish…" The spirits issued a final warning as they neared. Their feet, hovering just above the ground, were engulfed in black mist, and the cold of their presence was turning the rain-soaked street into ice.

"F off!" Solomon roared, hurling the magic chain forward. The searing energy shot between the spirits, crackling and leaping from one to the next. A series of sizzling noises echoed as the chain burned through them, causing the spectral figures to writhe and shriek in agony.

"Die…" they howled, lunging at Solomon. But he was ready.

In an instant, Solomon summoned a massive sword made of pure magical fire, its edges crackling with energy. Although Solomon wasn't a master of hand-to-hand combat, the basics of wielding a sword had been drilled into him during Kamar-Taj's rigorous training. Swinging the fiery blade, he cleaved through one of the spirits, leaving a glowing gash in its ethereal form. But before he could finish the job, another ghost slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.

Just as the remaining spirits prepared to descend upon him, a powerful hand smashed one of the ghosts to the ground. Wong, using the protection spell, had finally joined the fight. He pounced on the ghosts, his weight and sheer force pushing them back long enough to drag Solomon out of danger.

"What now?" Wong's face was scrunched up in desperation, his breath ragged. The Ancient One had made it clear: no one else could know about their mission. It was just them against the spirits, and he wasn't sure how long they could hold out.

"I… I've got an idea," Solomon said, though his voice wavered. These spirits were the toughest enemies they'd ever faced. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath of the frigid air. When he opened them again, his mind was made up.

"Hold them off for a bit longer. I know how to deal with them." Solomon reached into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the rings warm slightly against his touch.

Wong nodded, determined. With the ghosts unable to possess them, his limited magic should be enough to hold them off for a short time. Solomon withdrew his hand from his pocket, revealing the two remaining rings. The gemstones glowed, orange and pink, casting an entrancing light. Steeling himself, Solomon took one last deep breath and slid the rings onto his right middle and ring fingers.

In an instant, the warmth turned to searing heat, the metal burning into his skin like molten iron. Solomon screamed in agony, his knees buckling as fire engulfed his body. His robes began to smolder, the edges blackening and curling from the intense heat. His long black hair singed and curled as the fiery air around him expanded, pushing Wong back several paces.

The ghosts, however, were not as fortunate. The massive surge of magical energy ripped through them, tearing their spectral forms apart. Their skeletal frames disintegrated into the air, leaving nothing but raw magical energy behind.

"Don't come near me!" Solomon's voice was a hoarse rasp, barely audible over the roaring flames that enveloped him. His throat felt scorched, his tongue swollen and dry. Each word was a struggle, and he couldn't help but retch up dark red liquid as his body convulsed in pain. His voice cracked as his skin bubbled with blisters, blood evaporating as soon as it escaped. His lips cracked and bled, his body on the brink of collapse.

The heat intensified, and Solomon's cries of agony echoed through the empty streets. His flesh began to char, his skin turning black as it peeled away, revealing raw, red muscle beneath. The asphalt beneath his feet began to soften and melt. 

But even in the depths of his agony, Solomon raised his head, barely conscious, knowing that the power had summoned something—three figures, standing in the unseen space where magic coalesced. Three faces loomed over him: a tiger, a man, and a woman.

Hoggoth. Agamotto. Oshtur.

"F you, Vishanti," Solomon muttered, trying to lift his hand. He could feel the friction of his dry, cracking bones and muscles as he forced his body to move, but his words remained trapped. His tongue had fused to the roof of his mouth, his throat swollen shut, and all he could manage were incomprehensible groans.

Using the last of his strength, Solomon reached up and unclasped his Sanctified Robe, the sacred garment that held the key to controlling this raw, destructive power.

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