Though Solomon maintained a composed demeanor, the truth was that the information about Lilith had nearly made him leap out of his skin. He vividly remembered the night of his first experimental demon summoning atop the Ceceri Mountains. It had been a full moon, the perfect time for Lilith's feminine power to peak. If Belial hadn't hijacked the summoning circle that night, it was highly likely Lilith herself would have emerged instead.
And now this—Lilith entangled in Mephisto's schemes? The implications were as messy as they were alarming. According to certain apocryphal texts, Lilith had some... unclear history with King Solomon himself. The thought of this connection left Solomon with a bitter taste in his mouth. Was he doomed to carry the blame for Solomon the King's ancient romantic entanglements? Belial had sought a contract with him, Lilith now seemed to want to capture him, and, to make things worse, the Ancient One appeared to be perfectly fine with all of this unfolding.
Still, Solomon wasn't entirely without options. When a woman is coming to pick a fight, the best strategy is to call in two more women who don't like her.
Riding back toward the monastery on the android-driven motorcycle, Solomon left Rogers and his strike team behind on the southern battlefield. As they navigated the rugged terrain, slowing their progress to a crawl, he sent a quick message to Bayonetta and Jeanne. It wasn't just a simple warning—it was also a call for backup. Predictably, Bayonetta responded with indulgent affection, ready to support him without hesitation. Jeanne, on the other hand, tried her best to mask her concern with sharp-tongued teasing.
After nearly thirty minutes of traversing the rough terrain, they finally reached the southern entrance to the monastery. The scene had changed considerably during their absence.
Military tents now dotted the area, and the Quinjet and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s airborne command bus were parked nearby. Medics rushed in and out of the tents, attending to the wounded—both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and captured mercenaries. The latter were shackled and disheveled, their uniforms torn and filthy.
"What happened here?" Solomon asked, grabbing the arm of a less-busy agent. "Were we attacked?"
"Almost," the agent muttered weakly, clearly overworked. "Mercenaries rappelled into the monastery from the northern cliffs. Romanoff's automated gun turrets and the posted guards managed to repel them. Barely. It's a mess—we're running out of everything. No more morphine, no more oxycodone. We don't even have enough body bags. The surgical tools we're using were borrowed from the science division, and even the researchers had to drop their projects to assist us. This is a battlefield hospital, not a goddamn stable! And—damn Nick Fury!—I'm not a vet for humans, either..."
The doctor's tirade continued as he stormed off, leaving Solomon standing there, blinking in disbelief.
"Was he just...?"
"Yes, Master," the android replied. "He appeared to be venting his frustrations about his superior."
"Okay, not my problem," Solomon muttered. He turned to leave but then remembered something and quickly caught up to the doctor, asking for Johnny Blaze's location.
"Master," the android said, tilting her head quizzically. "The Ghost Rider is highly unstable. Why would you consider using him?"
"Vengeance spirits, my dear Dana," Solomon replied as they made their way toward a small tent on the edge of the medical area. Inside, Johnny Blaze lay unconscious, either sedated with enough tranquilizers to knock out an elephant or simply more comfortable here than he'd ever been on the rickety cot in his repair shop. Solomon waved over a researcher to administer a wake-up shot, then began patiently explaining things to the android while they waited for Blaze to come around.
"According to legend, the Ghost Rider is a manifestation of the angel who oversaw the Great Flood. However, early vengeance spirits may have naturally arisen during a time when the Inner Planes and the Prime Material Plane were not yet fully stable. These primal vengeance spirits could have emerged from that chaos, and the one inhabiting Johnny Blaze might just be the strongest of them all."
He paused, raising a finger for emphasis. "Of course, this is just speculation, which is why I'm using a lot of 'might.' According to the Celestial Orders, vengeance spirits rank among the seraphim—upper-tier angels. Regardless of origin, one thing is certain: vengeance spirits are highly effective against both lower-planar entities and their ilk. And now, the lords of the Lower Planes seem to be forming an alliance. While Mephisto's avatar is after the boy, Danny, his true goal remains unclear. That's why I need a Ghost Rider—strong enough and crazy enough—to face whatever's coming next."
Nick Fury entered the tent without preamble, his expression unchanging as though he hadn't just interrupted their conversation.
"I was told you're back," Fury said. "Where's Captain Rogers? And my agents? You were supposed to be rescuing them. So where are they?"
"I came back ahead of them. They should be along shortly—there were a few jeeps back there." Solomon didn't seem bothered by the intrusion. "Our enemies aren't limited to one Hell Lord anymore. They're not just after the boy—they want me, too."
"They want you? Why?"
"It's... complicated," Solomon replied, waving dismissively. "You're better off not knowing, honestly. Even I don't know the full picture. But I did find signs of a demonic cult among the supernatural creatures I fought—one that doesn't belong to Mephisto. That alone is enough proof that the Lower Plane lords are working together."
Fury's expression darkened, but he didn't press further. Instead, he glanced at Johnny Blaze, still lying unconscious but now stirring slightly after the injection.
"We need to leave this place," Fury said firmly. "Take everything with us. If we leave the boy for Mephisto—whether it's his avatar or his true form—it's game over. And we can't let Johnny Blaze fall back into Mephisto's hands either. The Ghost Rider is one of the few instances in nearly 10,000 years where a vengeance spirit has escaped the clutches of a demon. He's an invaluable asset for future battles against extradimensional threats."
Fury began pacing, clearly thinking aloud. "Don't worry about their true forms coming here. Without a proper blood sacrifice, none of the Hell Lords can manifest in the Prime Material Plane. Even if they could, they'd have no real power here. Remember what I told you—this is Earth. The Ancient One's domain. Midgard is under Asgard's protection. Even the Lower Plane lords wouldn't risk—"
Solomon, however, felt a twinge of unease. The fact that some mercenaries were openly fighting under the banner of demonic forces didn't sit well with him.
"Good. I had the same thought." Fury snapped Solomon out of his musings. Pulling out his phone, he showed Solomon the flight paths of several fighter jets. "We're pulling out. I canceled the missile strikes in favor of aerial escort. We can't take much with us, but we have enough C4 to make sure nothing valuable gets left behind for them. The howitzers will be destroyed. Every agent, every wounded soldier, and every monk will be evacuated. As for the relics in the reliquary—that's your responsibility. Once Rogers gets back, I'll have him cover our retreat to the aircraft—and you'll help."
Fury gestured toward Johnny Blaze. "Oh, and keep that guy under control. If he loses it on the plane, we're screwed. The Helicarrier is a gift, not something I want to lose over a tantrum."
"Coulson?" Solomon asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Looks like you already know," Fury replied. "Don't tell him too much, though. He still thinks his heart only stopped for eight minutes. I'd like to keep that secret buried for as long as possible. Well, not forever—he'll figure it out eventually. At least that way, I won't have to deal with the guilt."
As Fury left, Solomon turned back to the stirring Johnny Blaze. War was coming, and the battle lines were more tangled than ever. One thing was certain: Earth would not fall easily.
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