"So… that's how you were born, Salomon."
The Sorcerer Supreme ran her fingers through his thick, curly hair, gently smoothing it down. At five years old, Salomon Damonet already stood out.
He didn't throw tantrums. Didn't cry over nothing. Didn't act like a child at all, really.
He thought.
Always thinking.
That alone didn't surprise her.
His birth had been… orchestrated. Something from above had set it in motion, even if she had intervened midway and claimed him for herself. Whatever he was meant to be, traces of it were bound to surface.
And they had.
By the time he turned five, he had already begun using magic.
Not borrowed magic.
His own.
That, naturally, caused concern.
Magic drawn from one's own life force wasn't unheard of. Anyone, in theory, could refine vitality into usable energy. In the West, they called it magic. In the East, qi. Different names, same principle.
But those practitioners rarely amounted to much.
Self-refined magic had limits. Most who relied on it were fringe casters at best. The real power came from external sources, from contracts, from higher dimensions.
Salomon didn't follow that rule.
Which made people nervous.
Because individuals who generated magic naturally… were rarely ordinary. There was almost always a connection to something beyond this world.
So the questions came.
And the Sorcerer Supreme answered them herself.
"It's simple," she said, drawing Salomon closer and taking his hand.
She turned his palm upward.
To most, it looked normal.
To those with the right sight… ten faint, unopened marks rested along his fingers.
"Magic is just a form of energy that exists within all living things," she continued. "Salomon has more of it than most. His body was strengthened by positive energy before he was even born. That gave him an unusually large reserve of life force."
She glanced at the marks.
"The stigmata regulate it. Excess life force gets converted into magic automatically. What he uses isn't drawn from any external dimension. It's his own vitality."
A pause.
"That's why he can cast without forming a contract. And why his body is stronger than it should be."
The apprentices exchanged looks.
That explained part of it.
Not all of it.
But the Sorcerer Supreme had no intention of explaining further.
Salomon's clothes stood out among the other students.
While everyone else wore standard robes, his were made from deep crimson relic cloth, something the Sorcerer Supreme had crafted personally.
It wasn't for style.
It was restraint.
As long as he wore it, the marks on his fingers remained hidden. Quiet. Stable.
Contained.
"So where does it come from?" one of the apprentices asked. "Heaven? The Vishanti?"
"Neither," she replied. "It's just positive energy. The same fundamental source we all use. The Vishanti operate within it, not above it."
She gestured lightly.
"If his body had been shaped by negative energy instead… black magic, for example… he wouldn't look like that."
Salomon puffed his cheeks.
"I'm not fat."
A few of the female apprentices immediately reached over and pinched his face anyway.
Soft.
Round.
Undeniably adorable.
The Sorcerer Supreme had spent years quietly dismantling blind reverence toward the Vishanti.
Yes, they were the source of Kamar-Taj's power. Yes, she herself had a contract with them.
But they weren't benevolent overseers.
They had expectations. Interests.
And plans.
They had already chosen her successor.
A more… compliant one.
Agamotto. Oshtur. Hoggoth. The three-in-one entity that formed the Vishanti had grown increasingly dissatisfied with Kamar-Taj's independence. Under her leadership, it had drifted beyond their direct control.
They wanted that control back.
But they couldn't act yet.
Not while she was alive.
Not while she still had the backing of Eternity.
So they waited.
Then Salomon appeared.
And everything changed.
A contingency.
A safeguard.
Someone who could hold the line before the next Sorcerer Supreme took power.
Someone who wouldn't be bound as tightly.
She had told him about Jezebel.
About where he came from.
Not to burden him.
But to anchor him.
"You exist because she chose you," she had said. "Because she loved you."
After the apprentices left, the room quieted.
The Sorcerer Supreme crouched down in front of him.
"So," she said, studying his face, "how exactly did you manage that?"
She reached out, idly ruffling his hair again, then pinched his cheek once for good measure.
Salomon blinked.
"I just wanted to heat up some soup."
"…That's it?"
"I was reading The Book of Raziel. Didn't feel like going to the kitchen. Thought I'd warm up the leftovers."
He spread his hands, as if that explained everything.
Which, to him, it did.
From the moment he became self-aware, things had been… clear.
He had seen the Sorcerer Supreme almost immediately. Understood where he was. Understood what kind of world this was.
And yet—
No shock.
No panic.
No excitement.
His personality simply didn't run that way.
Instead, he focused on what mattered.
Like the… "gifts" he had been born with.
The marks on his fingers weren't just symbols.
Each one held a memory.
Not fragments.
Lives.
Ten of them.
Ten dead archmages, each leaving behind their knowledge, their experiences, their entire magical foundation.
And Salomon could access them.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Because diving too deep came with consequences.
Each of those mages had lived for centuries. Some longer. Compared to them, his current mind was fragile. Unprepared.
Too much at once would break him.
So he held back.
For now.
Still, he couldn't help one lingering thought.
Why are so many of them necromancers?
Seriously.
Was that a requirement for dying violently?
And another thing—
Why does this feel like a lich's phylactery system?
The resemblance was… uncomfortable.
He chose not to dwell on that.
There was a problem, though.
A loop.
To safely access the knowledge within the marks, he needed a stronger soul.
To strengthen his soul, he needed to practice magic.
But the most efficient way to learn magic… was through the knowledge in the marks.
So he had to start from scratch anyway.
Kamar-Taj's library helped.
Once he completed basic education, he was allowed access to a limited section.
That's where he found The Book of Raziel.
Or rather, a translated, heavily distorted version of it.
Despite the name, it had nothing to do with any real divine being. It was a medieval grimoire, filled with nonsense, blood rituals, and contradictory instructions.
Black magic in theory.
Useless in practice.
Which made it perfect beginner material.
A warning, disguised as a book.
Salomon read it anyway.
With interest.
Because even flawed systems had structure.
And structure could be studied.
So he tried something simple.
A cantrip.
Heat.
No spell slots. No structured system. No Weave.
Just raw control.
A long incantation. Careful focus. Measured output.
What could go wrong?
The answer was:
Everything.
Instead of warming the soup, he triggered a burst of sparks that shot out through the doorway like fireworks escaping a prison.
Which led directly to—
Concerned apprentices.
Questions.
And this conversation.
The Sorcerer Supreme listened in silence.
She already knew there was more to him.
Far more.
But she had no intention of exposing it.
Not to the others.
Not even by using the Eye of Agamotto.
She had it. She could look.
But she didn't trust it.
Not completely.
Artifacts tied to the Vishanti always came with… strings.
She tapped his head lightly.
"You'll need more practice, Salomon."
Then she reached through a portal and pulled out a glass of juice.
"Try freezing this."
She placed it in his hands.
"Go on. I'm right here."
Salomon hesitated.
Then nodded.
He focused.
Carefully.
This time, he adjusted the output. Slower. More controlled.
The liquid inside the glass chilled.
Frost spread across the surface.
It worked.
He looked up.
Expecting—
Something.
Praise. Instruction. Feedback.
Instead—
The Sorcerer Supreme calmly inserted a straw into the glass, picked it up, and walked away.
Drinking it.
Salomon stared.
Then slowly rolled his eyes.
…Right.
So that's what she was like.
Not some distant, wise, untouchable figure.
Not a perfect mentor from legend.
More like—
Someone who would absolutely trick a five-year-old into freezing her drink.
…Yeah.
That tracked.