The Sorcerer Supreme had always been generous with Salomon.
She treated all her students fairly—but with him, she didn't hold anything back.
Including the parts most people never saw.
"There's a cost to magic," she said.
She led him into a secluded courtyard.
Rows of ascetics stood there in silence.
They wore red robes, their bodies smeared with pale ash. Their skin was covered in swollen growths, lesions, twisted deformities that looked painful just to witness.
And yet—
None of them reacted.
No flinching. No discomfort.
They simply stood there, murmuring prayers under their breath.
"They believe in magic," she continued. "So they take on its burden."
A pause.
"For Kamar-Taj."
Another.
"For me."
Salomon didn't look away.
Even as the smell hit him.
Rot.
Decay.
He slowed his breathing.
Forced himself to stay still.
"…And me?" he asked.
She turned to him.
"What will you use to pay your debt?"
Salomon hesitated.
Then answered carefully.
"I can manage it with casting materials."
He exhaled slowly.
"The knowledge from the stigmata is… unusual. But I don't think I'll end up like them."
The Sorcerer Supreme tapped his head lightly with her fan.
"You don't get to choose the price."
She let the words settle.
"During the war," she said, "there was a sorcerer named Monar. He's still alive."
"For every girl he saved, he drowned a rabbit on his way home."
Salomon frowned.
"The cost of magic isn't always physical," she continued. "It can take your emotions. Your attachments. The things you care about."
She met his eyes.
"You don't know what it will be."
Silence stretched between them.
"I've already paid mine," she said quietly.
"And one day… you'll pay yours."
Salomon didn't respond.
Because she was right.
If this path required a price—
Then he had already paid something.
He just didn't know what.
Maybe it was Jezebel.
Maybe something else.
The uncertainty lingered.
——————
The third ring.
The Sorcerer Supreme didn't wait long before pushing him forward again.
This time—
She gave him a map.
And a book.
Salomon flipped through it.
Near the end, a passage caught his eye:
"Years later, beside a sunken grave, another was dug.Both shared a single headstone.Upon it was carved: a field of black… and a scarlet letter A."
He closed the book.
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The Scarlet Letter.
The "black land" referred to Salem.
A place with history.
Puritans had once settled there, building a rigid, unforgiving society. It later became infamous for the witch trials—mass hysteria fueled by fear and fanaticism.
Even Hawthorne himself had ties to it.
His ancestor had been one of the judges.
Now?
Salem had reinvented itself.
What was once a place of persecution had become a tourist attraction.
Witch museums. Festivals. Costumes.
Every October, people dressed up as witches and demons for fun.
The irony wasn't lost on Salomon.
But beneath the surface—
Something remained.
He could feel it.
——————
The Salem Witch Museum was small.
Quiet.
Salomon sat in the center as the exhibits came alive.
Lights flickered on one by one, recreating scenes from the trials.
Voices echoed.
Accusations.
Judgment.
Fear.
To most people, it was just history.
A tragedy turned into a lesson.
To Salomon—
It smelled wrong.
Not literally.
Something deeper.
Magic.
Faint.
Decayed.
But still there.
Like something that had never fully left.
Maybe the original "witches" hadn't all been innocent.
But most of them?
They were.
And that kind of suffering—
Left marks.
——————
Outside, no one paid them any attention.
Their robes didn't stand out here.
Not in Salem.
People dressed like witches all the time.
It was normal.
Which made things easier.
"So where's the ring?" Wong asked, scanning the crowd.
He was watching hands now.
Every ring.
Every person.
"…It moves," Salomon said.
Wong blinked.
"What moves?"
"The map."
Salomon held it open.
A small red dot shifted across its surface.
Alive.
"It's tracking the ring."
Wong followed his gaze.
"…So we're looking for a moving target."
Salomon nodded.
"We're about to meet the descendants of the people who started all this."
Wong cracked his knuckles.
"Fanatics?"
"Potentially armed fanatics," Salomon corrected.
Wong paused.
"…Right."
"Remember what the Sorcerer Supreme said," Wong added. "No magic in front of civilians."
Salomon didn't look up.
"Then don't rely on fists either."
"…What?"
"They have guns."
That shut him up.
For a moment.
"…Okay," Wong said slowly. "So what's the plan?"
Salomon folded the map slightly.
"We use magic."
Wong stared at him.
"…You just said—"
"We use it carefully," Salomon cut in. "And we wait."
"For what?"
"For the ring to come to us."
A pause.
"…Did you bring money?"
Wong blinked.
"…Why?"
Salomon glanced at the moving dot.
"Because this might not be a fight."
——————
The Sorcerer Supreme had sent Wong along for more than one reason.
Yes—
He wasn't tied to the Vishanti.
That made him safe.
But more importantly—
He thought differently.
Most Kamar-Taj sorcerers didn't.
They saw rogue magic users and immediately assumed the worst.
Attacked first.
Asked questions later.
The problem?
They weren't strong enough to back that up.
Kamar-Taj had grown… comfortable.
Arrogant.
The Sorcerer Supreme handled the real threats herself.
The others dealt with scraps.
Which meant—
They'd forgotten something important.
The world had changed.
Technology had caught up.
A bullet didn't care how powerful your spell was—
If you didn't see it coming.
Wong—
And Salomon—
Were meant to learn that.