Reborn as the God-Emperor in Marvel

The so-called "relaxation" activity arranged for Solomon by the Ancient One was, in reality, a way to strengthen his mental fortitude. 

However, Baron Mordo and Kaecilius were somewhat displeased. In their view, Solomon was far too young, and someone his age shouldn't be covered in blood.

"Before Solomon was even born, I said that everyone's starting point is different. He was never destined for an ordinary life. 

While this isn't necessarily a good thing, he has no choice but to accept it. It's a hardship he must endure." The Ancient One pushed cups of tea toward her two disciples. "In Solomon's mind, nothing is more relaxing than staying in his room and playing video games. That's why I allow him to pursue his hobbies. Care to guess how long he'll stay in his room once he's back from Collins Town this time?"

Mordo and Kaecilius exchanged silent glances. Originally, tasks like hunting vampires and werewolves should have been assigned to them or the stewards of the New York Sanctum, but these responsibilities had been placed on Solomon by the Sorcerer Supreme.

They had submitted requests to handle these missions themselves, but the Ancient One had turned them down each time, which inevitably made them worry. Especially since every time Solomon returned, he brought back piles of seafood to Kamar-Taj, which made Mordo feel that Solomon was being far too carefree, even underestimating his enemies.

"Relax," the Ancient One said, seeing through their thoughts. "Don't assume that Solomon's performance in your defense classes is a true display of his strength. He's holding back. If he were to unlock his full potential and fight you in hand-to-hand combat, you wouldn't stand a chance."

"Master, what exactly is this 'stigmata' on Solomon?" Kaecilius asked after pondering for a moment. "I feel like the stigmata he bears are completely different from what we generally understand. Combined with the strange phenomenon at his birth, I think…"

"You're right, Kaecilius," the Ancient One replied. "That's precisely why I was there. We cannot allow any outer-dimensional forces to meddle with Earth."

"But will Solomon betray humanity?" Mordo furrowed his brow. "The one in the Bible did… I'm worried…"

"No, he won't. Solomon is human, through and through, though he is a bit special," the Sorcerer Supreme replied. "Solomon is a non-believer, which is crucial, and I'm very pleased he has such conviction. It's something most people lack. They often believe that powerful beings are gods and think that worshipping these outer-dimensional entities will bring them salvation. This kind of ignorance is still prevalent today.

Even you, Mordo, and Kaecilius, despite knowing that the 'God' in the Bible is an outer-dimensional entity, still harbor an empty void in your hearts from your lost faith. This emptiness grows more urgent to fill. There has never been an all-powerful god, and if there were, it would undoubtedly be a lie."

The Ancient One's tone grew sterner as she continued, "Furthermore, our relationship with the Vishanti is purely transactional. The Vishanti may be our patrons, but even they are not worthy of worship."

Meanwhile, the driver was cruising the streets with Solomon in the passenger seat. He turned on the radio and sipped his beer, driving somewhat erratically. After a while, he glanced over at Solomon, who was gazing out the window.

"Hey, buddy, are you heading out?" the driver asked.

"Yeah, I'm leaving," Solomon replied, feeling relaxed after finishing his tasks in Collins Town. The werewolves he had found were all dealt with, even though it had involved many people.

A werewolf's child couldn't be an ordinary human, and Solomon hadn't believed a word of what that werewolf, Wood, had said. There was no way he would let any young werewolf live, as they could bite someone in the future. The town wasn't large, and the driver had driven him around several times already. The same sights had passed before Solomon's eyes multiple times, but he didn't feel bored. He enjoyed this kind of mundane life. Apart from Kamar-Taj, there wasn't much else in this world that held his interest—only magic.

"Are you heading back to New York?" the driver asked.

"No, the weather in London suits me better. It's lazy and soft, and even though it rains often, that's not too big a problem," Solomon replied as he unbuckled his seatbelt and stretched. "Just drop me off up ahead."

"How are you getting back?" The driver took another swig of beer, the taxi speeding up suddenly before slowing down again. It was obvious he had drunk a bit too much and was now struggling to differentiate between the gas and the brake. Solomon wasn't hurt, though. He remained motionless in his seat.

"That's a secret, my friend." Solomon stuffed a few more bills into the driver's pocket. "You've had too much to drink. Pull over."

"Wait, wait!" After stopping the car, the driver waved his hand as he hurriedly tore a piece of paper from the glove compartment. He fumbled with his phone before scribbling something down on the paper. 

A moment later, he handed Solomon the scrap with a name and phone number written on it. "I know a guy in London. Apparently, he's pretty good at this kind of thing. You should give him a call the next time you're on a mission."

Solomon looked at the name on the paper, his mouth falling open in surprise.

Lately, there had been a series of fires in Collins Town, and most of the bodies had been burned by Solomon. A few of the werewolves he had tracked down to the wilderness had been dumped in the ocean. Solomon's actions had left the local police scrambling, overwhelmed by the sheer number of unsolved cases. With the town now plagued by multiple massacres, with entire families being wiped out, not a single suspect was left alive.

The media began to portray the local police as incompetent, making the atmosphere in the town tense. 

But ultimately, it hadn't affected the lives of the residents, only adding some gossip for their conversations over dinner. After all, this was America, where even walking down the street could mean getting shot.

The only person who knew the truth was the driver. But some people, once they've had a drink, love to brag. The more they drink, the bigger the lies.

Now, the rumor that a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had visited Collins Town had spread among most of the town's middle-aged men. Even a bedridden 90-year-old fisherman knew the tale by heart—after all, no man who had sailed the seas could live without alcohol. Even sitting in a wheelchair, he'd still want a drink.

At the local bar, everyone could vividly describe the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's appearance, as if they had seen him with their own eyes.

One version described him as a balding, well-dressed, middle-aged white man with a friendly smile. Another said he was fully bald, wearing an eyepatch and a leather jacket—a Black man. 

Some even claimed the dead were killed by foreign spies. And with a few more shots of whiskey, the killer would suddenly become an alien. The stories only grew more outrageous with every drink, each retelling as exaggerated as possible, the quality of the tale depending on the price of the drinks.

This group of middle-aged men included most of the local police force, leaving the Collins Town police baffled and furious. They were even forced to file a protest with S.H.I.E.L.D. for operating outside their jurisdiction.

The murders all followed a similar pattern, leading the police to believe they were committed by the same person. Typically, serial killings like this would need to be reported to the FBI, but the Collins Town police hadn't informed the Feds, nor had they notified S.H.I.E.L.D.

For the past thirty-one years, murders had occurred in the town every year, none of which had ever been solved.

That was why the police had decided to suppress all the cases—if the media discovered these past failures, wasting taxpayers' money would be exposed, and the mayor's re-election campaign would be in jeopardy. The police department's budget would be at risk too.

Deception from the top down was a universal practice. Every politician instinctively understood this without needing to be taught. No one wanted the town flooded with FBI agents, tabloid reporters, fake psychics, or struggling TV stations.

Maine had always been a place where bad things happened. Collins Town wasn't even that noteworthy.

However, the Collins Town police's protest was futile, as S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't answer to the Feds but to the World Security Council. Upon receiving the police's complaint, S.H.I.E.L.D. was confused—they hadn't sent any agents to Collins Town, meaning someone had been impersonating them.

As a result, an agent who had just finished a mission was dispatched to investigate.

"Yes, yes! It was him! Dressed in a suit, balding, a friendly older guy!" shouted an old man wearing sunglasses and leaning on a cane.

"Dad! You're standing up!"

"Huh?"

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