Reborn as the God-Emperor in Marvel

Theism has always held significant influence in the Western world. Although technological advancements have curbed the power of the Roman Church, preventing it from excommunicating kings or meddling in royal marriages (like Henry VIII), or organizing Crusades against heretics, religion still pervades many aspects of secular life.

This is particularly true in the USA, the world's foremost technological power, where religion maintains a considerable presence. For example, when witnesses testify in court, they must swear on the Bible, or their testimony is invalid. Presidential candidates require a pastor's blessing, and after being elected, they are sworn in with their hand on the Bible. The president also appoints a White House chaplain. The military must have chaplains, as soldiers might refuse to fight without a prayer. Even prestigious universities maintain divinity schools, where entrance requirements rival those of some science faculties.

As mentioned earlier, theists claim to be shepherds of God.

Americans often see themselves as God's warriors, believing their wars to be just, aimed at liberating the ignorant and saving humanity. They believe they are under divine protection, the world's righteous example for others to follow. Whether the war's true motives are oil or something else is for politicians to obscure from the masses.

Today, at least half of Americans believe religion should influence science and politics, which is one reason anti-intellectualism persists in theistic nations. Solomon often thought it wouldn't be surprising if these Anglo-Saxon barbarians one day started injecting themselves with disinfectants.

When the living Athena appeared before him, Solomon didn't pledge his faith to her. He didn't believe in Vishanti, so why would he believe in God? In his view, God was likely on the same level as Odin, while Vishanti was a magical entity spanning the multiverse—clearly more powerful. Not to mention the true cosmic beings like the Great Eternity, Kamar-Taj's ultimate patron. Even then, Solomon merely respected Eternity, not worshipped it.

Solomon's conclusion was that without divine gifts, religion was useless to humanity's progress.

However, he didn't intend to interfere. Western society had already eroded the scientific spirit born from the Renaissance. But this world wasn't peaceful. With alien invasions happening one after another, Earthlings would soon realize they weren't alone in the universe. To survive in this cosmos, humanity had to develop technology. Religion would be naturally phased out, and Solomon would witness the decline of theology without lifting a finger.

When Solomon shared his conclusions with the Supreme Sorcerer, she was pleased with his perspective and even rewarded him with a soda. In the Sorcerer's view, Solomon's origins had always been suspicious, with the stigmata possibly linked to Heaven itself, explaining his unparalleled magical talent. As the Supreme Sorcerer who had drawn Solomon into Kamar-Taj, she didn't want her disciple to become a lackey for extra-dimensional entities. Only an unbelieving "holy child" could protect Earth until a new Sorcerer Supreme emerged.

Currently, as Solomon sifted through materials in the top floor of Collins Manor, his disdain for Barnabas grew.

To be a vampire and still dream of Heaven—what a joke. Was becoming a supplicant really that appealing? By the standards of Judaism, the Church of England, Eastern Orthodoxy, or Catholicism, only a tiny fraction of modern society would be eligible for Heaven. If in doubt, just check your browser history and see how many sins you've already committed.

---

It was now the fifth day—Solomon had spent an extended period combing through the books. Each day, he worked late into the night before returning to Kamar-Taj, and by morning, he would open a portal in the manor's hall. The Collins family had grown accustomed to the daily display, no longer startled by the glowing sparks in the living room or Solomon's hurried ascent upstairs.

At his feet lay a pile of thick books and yellowed scrolls, all of which he had ruled out. While some contained a few minor spells, they were far from the dangerous black magic he sought from the Darkhold, with virtually no real harm. After his last conversation with Barnabas, the vampire had stopped showing up. The presence of an unbeliever unnerved him.

As one of the earliest families to settle in America, the Collins family's crest bore the image of a seahorse, a symbol of water's power and safe sea voyages. In an era when maritime trade was vital, superstition was rampant. Barnabas, influenced by his parents, had become a devout Puritan.

To him, lack of faith equated to a lack of moral grounding. The vampire couldn't trust Solomon to keep his promises, nor could even God guarantee that Solomon wouldn't turn on him and Victoria. Barnabas felt a great storm looming over the Collins family, and Solomon now seemed more threatening than sunlight, silver, or garlic combined.

Unaware that he had become both hated by humans and feared by vampires, Solomon stretched lazily, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine. Pulling back the curtains, he saw the deep red of the sunset merging with the gray clouds, casting a muted pink glow over the distant sea. If not for the stiffness in his neck, he might not have noticed the passage of time.

His progress, however, was clear. Only a few books remained on the desk. Though filled with outdated nonsense, Solomon had finally found what he was looking for. He hadn't read the entire lengthy incantation yet but could already discern its dangerous nature. Now, he needed to trace the origin of this spell, for the Sorcerer's command was to locate the Darkhold itself, not just a few scattered incantations.

The book was an alchemical text written in Latin, which was unsurprising. Transforming humans into vampires involved a fundamental change in life essence, a subject often classified under alchemy.

On the title page, Solomon found the author's name—a Latinized version of an Arabic name: "Jabir." In medieval Latin, it was spelled "Geber." Jabir was a frequent name in influential 13th-century Latin alchemical writings, but the Latin spelling, "Geber," belonged to another individual who had merely adopted the name of this Aragonese alchemist. He had also borrowed Jabir's typical instructional style and rewritten parts of the Seventy Books.

This author even incorporated Arabic grammatical structures and expressions into his Latin text to enhance its credibility. The reason for such mimicry was tied to the transmission of alchemy to Europe following the exchange between Christian and Arab civilizations, but that's a story for another time.

In short, later historians identified the real "Geber" as likely being the Italian Franciscan friar and teacher, Paul of Taranto. Paul had written a nearly contemporaneous alchemical text, similar in both style and content to "Geber's" work. That text's original was stored in Kamar-Taj's library, and Solomon had once perused it.

With his next steps clear, Solomon placed the book into his dimensional bag. He had other business to attend to—Barnabas was right in his suspicions. Solomon had no intention of keeping his promises because there were still dark magical creatures lurking in this small town.

Tonight, Solomon would join the hunt.

___________________

Read Ahead

[email protected]/Mutter