Designing weapons and developing new technology is a time-consuming endeavor. Tony Stark had sold off a significant number of his production lines, and the remaining ones required modifications to manufacture what Solomon needed, albeit at limited output. As part of their agreement, Solomon handed over an Asgardian Centurion-crafted sword as partial payment. Though the blade had been bent during combat with a cursed warrior, its energy field generator remained intact.
Solomon wanted Stark to replicate this generator, and he would actively participate in the research. This device was the secret behind Asgard's unparalleled melee weapons.
Asgardians had little fondness for ranged weapons (though some existed). They believed a battle wasn't truly satisfying unless the enemy's blood splattered onto them. The strength of their melee weapons was essential for their warriors, capable of boarding enemy ships in interstellar raids. Their reputation as the galaxy's most valorous empire wasn't undeserved—though Odin, now retired to a quiet farm in Finland, seemed content with his healthy salads. While human diets often led to high cholesterol, such concerns were trivial for the Aesir. Frigga's only complaint about Odin's dietary habits was his persistent beer belly.
The Ancient One's vision of empowering Earth to rival Asgard was still a long way off.
This was step one: decoding Asgardian weaponry.
"I guarantee you that the energy field generator in Asgardian weapons is entirely technological—not magical," Solomon explained, stepping back to avoid the swirling blue smoke from Stark's tools. The smell of heated metal filled the air, irritating Solomon's nose. "This is your specialty, Stark."
"I know, I know," Stark grumbled as he suited up in his favorite armor. Impatient to see the internal workings of the energy generator, he noted the weapon had no screws. The advanced alloy dulled his cutting tools, leaving only more smoke. While the challenge frustrated him, it also thrilled him, proving the sword's technological complexity.
This sword wasn't crafted by dwarves; they only forged weapons and armor for Asgard's royal family.
Lacking better equipment, Stark used the laser cutter integrated into his armor. As a skilled machinist, he was confident in his precision. "I'll analyze the alloy thickness through flaw detection and calculate the laser power accordingly," he boasted, sounding like a child showing off a new toy to his friends. Solomon imagined Stark must have been the same way as a kid.
"This is thanks to my extensive experience."
"Of course, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in, offering a touch of flattery. "Would you like a soda, Mr. Damonet?"
"Thank you, I'd love one." Solomon took the cold glass from a robotic arm, savoring its cooling effect on his throat, still raw from the whiskey. The heat of his breath seemed almost flammable, making him cautious around Stark's lasers.
"I often wonder, Stark—will you ever go full cyborg on a whim?"
Without his helmet on, Stark's incredulous expression spoke volumes. "I'm not that crazy, kid. I don't want to turn myself into a walking heap of metal and wires."
"Good to know. That means I can cut back on royalty payments," Solomon replied, pleased with Stark's stance on mortality.
"Not staying for dinner?" Stark asked, changing the subject. "Pepper would love to have you over. Last time, your flower trick really impressed her. Though I should mention the flowers disappeared into thin air after a while. She'd love a magic bouquet—can you make that happen?"
"Of course," Solomon said, "but I can't stay for dinner. I skipped lunch and have been running on tea. My girlfriend's not too fond of my android maid's cooking, so I need to head home and prepare dinner myself."
"Solomon, Solomon," Stark sighed theatrically, throwing his hands up. "You're a master mage, a swordsman, a scholar, and a Silver Knight. Can't you see we're doing something groundbreaking here? You're telling me dinner with your girlfriend is more important?"
"Mages, swordsmen, knights, and scholars still need to eat, sleep, and do laundry, Stark," Solomon replied with a grin. "Though my maid handles the chores now, I used to do them all myself—with magic. That's what it means to be human. Mortals need homes, and I enjoy these little tasks because they remind me I'm human. It's important—for everyone."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stark muttered. "But one more thing: don't you want to send your Aston Martin here for upgrades? All my cars are modified. Every man should learn the craft."
"I'll pass. I dislike getting my hands greasy—that's an American thing, not British, and certainly not Jewish."
"You need proper rest, darling," Bayonetta said, nibbling on a crouton as Solomon settled at the dining table under the care of his maid. She reached out to pinch his face, then leaned in to sniff. "Good. At least no one kissed you today," she said with a smirk. "You've earned a reward tonight."
Solomon smiled faintly, exhaustion evident. He had spent the day poring over Randolph Carter's notes, deciphering grim, blasphemous magic in search of information about the mark Yog-Sothoth had left on him.
"You should let him sleep, Cereza," Jeanne grumbled, fiddling with her silverware as they waited for dinner. "Last night, you took the middle of the bed, and I heard you two... moving around. I even heard him chanting spells! Do you really use magic for that?"
"What's the problem? We're witches, and he's a sorcerer," Bayonetta shot back boldly. Holding a crouton under the nose of the curious Cheshire Cat, she scooped up the disgruntled feline before it could leap off the table. "And let me tell you, the magic was worth it. If all magic felt that good, I'd never stop practicing."
"Cereza!" Jeanne protested, her knife scraping loudly against her plate.
"Meow!" Cheshire Cat added indignantly.
Bayonetta leaned over the table, lifted Solomon's chin with a finger, and kissed him deeply. As she pulled away, she cast a mischievous glance at Jeanne, who avoided eye contact, her knife and fork making restless patterns on her empty plate.
"Aw, you shy little thing," Bayonetta teased, leaning close to whisper something into Solomon's ear. His tired eyes never left her mesmerizing figure, draped in sheer black nightwear that made her allure irresistible.
"And you, my sweet," she cooed, "do you want your reward?"
"What do you think?" Solomon replied with a smirk.
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