At this point, Solomon could no longer simply open a portal and whisk Danny and the Ghost Rider away. He had brought worldly forces into a dimensional conflict, and abandoning them now would leave the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents defenseless against black magic attacks. That much was undeniable. Therefore, leaving was not an option—this wasn't about his personal likes or dislikes, or his feelings toward Hydra. It was pure rationality.
Whenever ordinary humans faced magical harm, it was the duty of Kamar-Taj's sorcerers to intervene, regardless of who those humans were, their race, their faction, or their ideology. Kamar-Taj operated without discrimination. And given that Solomon himself had brought these forces into this mess, running away wasn't an option. It was his responsibility as the Ancient One's most favored disciple—a responsibility tied to the Vishanti's power that he wielded.
Maintaining stability in the Prime Material Plane was also part of his duties, thanks to the sacred sword he bore.
Taking Danny and the Ghost Rider back to Kamar-Taj was out of the question. Bringing them to Kamar-Taj's headquarters or one of the three sanctums would mean placing them under the Ancient One's protection, which violated the terms of the contract. If the Ancient One left Earth temporarily, they could perhaps take refuge in Kamar-Taj, but that would also leave the sanctums and headquarters without their top-tier defense against the Lower Planes' united forces.
Thus, Solomon had no choice but to stick with S.H.I.E.L.D. and move these two individuals with them. It was a reluctant but necessary decision.
After Fury left, Solomon sat gloomily beside Johnny Blaze, fiddling absentmindedly with an unopened syringe. Every so often, he'd poke Johnny with it, trying to see if the man would wake up. When the poking didn't work, Solomon stood and gave Blaze two sharp slaps across the face.
"Master, is this method effective?" the android asked, tilting her head.
"I have no idea," Solomon replied with a shrug. "But it works in the movies. Look, he's waking up."
"I... where am I? You're... you're that wizard!" Johnny Blaze bolted upright as if waking from a nightmare. Thankfully, the heavy doses of sedatives hadn't left him delirious, which made communicating easier.
"You've been out for almost a day," Solomon said, proceeding to explain everything that had happened after the Ghost Rider's failed attempt to capture Danny. Blaze listened in silence before collapsing back onto the bed, covering his eyes with one arm, utterly exhausted.
"Your jacket's been sent for cleaning," Solomon added helpfully. "I figured that might be the best way to prevent you from transforming accidentally. Right now, all you've got is that hospital gown, and I doubt the Spirit of Vengeance would approve of a look that exposes your backside. Even if you tried to transform, the Spirit might just refuse out of sheer embarrassment."
As Solomon rambled on, he laid out their upcoming plans and the reasoning behind them. Whether Blaze was paying attention or not was anyone's guess.
"How do I get rid of this insane spirit?" Johnny eventually asked, voice heavy with despair. "Father Morlu promised me he'd help me get rid of it."
"He can't do it, Johnny," Solomon said bluntly, now that he'd gotten what he needed from Blaze (using the Ghost Rider to locate Danny). "He doesn't have the knowledge or the means."
The truth hit Blaze like a freight train. He clenched his jaw, his mind flashing back to the ceaseless hunger of the Spirit of Vengeance, the fiery heat that coursed through his body, the unbearable weakness, and the pounding heartbeat that his veins—filled not with blood but fire—could barely sustain.
"You knew from the start," Johnny growled, voice tight with anger. "You knew, but you didn't tell me. You used me, didn't you?"
"Yes," Solomon admitted without hesitation. "Until I understood exactly what version of the Spirit of Vengeance resided within you, blindly seeking a cure would've been pointless. This monastery can indeed temporarily suppress the Spirit within you, but it's futile. A suppressed Spirit of Vengeance will eventually break free, and when it does, you'll have no way of stopping it. Father Morlu claims he can help, but that's only because his knowledge is limited."
Solomon paused, observing Johnny's expression. Beads of cold sweat had already formed on the man's forehead—an indication of the Spirit's insatiable hunger. It was a torment no remedy could suppress. The "jacket strategy," however, seemed to be working; the Spirit of Vengeance, apparently unwilling to manifest in such an undignified state, refrained from emerging despite Johnny's attempts to summon it. Instead, it lashed out from within, torturing him until he gave up.
"Do you really think your soul still belongs to you?" Solomon leaned in closer, speaking softly. "The day you lose the Spirit of Vengeance will be the day Mephisto reclaims your soul. Demons are infamous for their steep interest rates. Anything outside the contract is fair game. When you signed that deal, you didn't negotiate properly. I guarantee you—when the time comes, you'll lose more than just your soul. Everything you care about will be destroyed.
"Stop dreaming, Johnny. Becoming the Ghost Rider is your destiny. No matter how much suffering it brings, you have no choice but to endure it. This is the best you can hope for, and in a few hundred years, your situation might be even worse.
"And don't even try to argue. Don't pull the 'American freedom' card on me. Every time I tell an American not to eat crap, they'll still go and taste it, then come back to complain that I didn't stop them. I know what you're thinking: 'This kid is full of it,' or 'I'll prove him wrong!' Fine, go ahead. But before you do, I want you to join me in fighting these demons."
Solomon's voice dropped to a whisper, like the devil himself making a deal.
"You can't escape your fate, Johnny."
"How's it going?" Fury asked as he entered the reliquary.
Solomon didn't answer right away. He was too busy carefully wrapping scrolls from the reliquary's collection in wooden frames and slipping them into the dimensional pouch at his waist. These ancient texts would be valuable additions to Kamar-Taj's library. He made sure to avoid the gaze of the ascetic monks bustling nearby—oblivious to the fact that their treasures were being looted.
"How's it going?" Fury repeated.
"With what?" Solomon asked, feigning innocence.
"The Ghost Rider."
"Frustrated, angry, and sulking," Solomon replied with a shrug. True to form, Johnny Blaze had wandered off after leaving the medical tent, his stubborn American individualism fully intact. He'd gone to seek out Father Morlu, who had promised to help him. The two had disappeared into one of the monastery's underground chambers, promising to return before S.H.I.E.L.D.'s departure. Solomon decided to let them have their fun.
"Damn it," Fury muttered. "And Rogers? What's his deal?"
"He thinks I was too harsh on the cult priestess we captured. Being the righteous symbol of justice that he is, he doesn't want to talk to me," Solomon replied with a smirk. "If I'm cruel, then you, Nick Fury, ought to be out picking cotton."
Fury shot him a glare but didn't rise to the bait.
"Without Romanoff, you and Rogers are just going to butt heads."
"You'd better watch your words. I'm not even part of your boys' club. I'm a minor, remember?" Solomon narrowed his eyes suddenly. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Fury asked, tensing.
"A scream."
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