Reborn as the God-Emperor in Marvel

Solomon often referred to Thor as the "Foolish Prince" or "Dumb Prince," though in reality, Thor wasn't actually dumb—he just didn't bother thinking too much. After all, up until his banishment, every problem he encountered could be solved with his hammer. If one strike didn't work, two would do the trick, and that was usually enough.

Previously, Solomon had worried that Jane Foster might not be interested in the muscular and handsome Thor. He even prepared a love potion—a rose-colored liquid with floating heart-shaped bubbles—planning to sneak it into their food or drinks. But after watching the entire scene from the mirror dimension, where Thor fell from the sky and got hit by a car, and seeing Jane Foster's reaction, Solomon relaxed. Jane had nearly touched Thor's chest muscles—how could there be any doubt? Even Jane's cute, busty intern, Darcy Lewis, was hooked by Thor's irresistible charm. As for whether Thor would fall for it, Solomon figured the guy, with his often dim-witted nature, would bite even if he saw the hook.

In any case, this whole situation no longer concerned Solomon. However, according to the contract he had with Nick Fury, in cases where a large-scale magical disaster was possible and Solomon was aware of it, he was required to notify Fury in advance to protect innocent lives. Since the contract was witnessed by the Vishanti, its terms were ironclad and fair, meaning neither Solomon nor Fury could violate it. Of course, finding loopholes or twisting the interpretation of the clauses would be a lawful evil move, something both Solomon and Fury were quite familiar with—Solomon due to instinct and Fury through years of accumulated experience. Neither of them was particularly innocent.

The Sorcerer Supreme allowed Solomon a break, and as soon as he received permission, the mystic slipped away to Bayonetta's apartment. However, Jeanne, having just dealt with some unruly kids and parents, wasn't in the best mood to welcome Solomon.

"I've been doing all your laundry," Jeanne said. "I'm not your maid, mystic!"

"I wash the dishes too!" Solomon protested, eyes wide. "I cook and mop the floors as well!"

"But during your school days, Bayonetta and I only see you twice a day—once at lunch and again at dinner. Should I be thanking you for cooking for us?" Jeanne snapped, while loosening her black tie. Today, she was wearing a deep red suit, but aside from the jacket, she had nothing on top. Half of her ample chest was exposed, and her black tie was tucked into her jacket, covering part of her skin. This sharp, sophisticated outfit matched her tall frame perfectly, though it had caused some trouble earlier. Some teachers had thought her attire was inappropriate, but Jeanne, who didn't care about office politics, had ignored their complaints and carried on as usual.

"You could cook too, you know!" Solomon said, changing the subject. "Where's Bayonetta?"

"She went grocery shopping," Jeanne replied with a huff. "She knew you'd be here for dinner tonight, and I rarely see her as happy as she was! I'm warning you, you better keep her in good spirits. Though she'd never admit it, she's probably excited to see you."

"I consider her family. Maybe one day that will be true," Solomon said, "but for now, I'm only fifteen."

"Fifteen-year-olds can have children," Jeanne remarked, causing Solomon to roll his eyes. He'd almost forgotten Jeanne had lived for over five hundred years, during a time when teenage marriages were common all over the world.

"In this country, adulthood starts at twenty-one," Solomon replied. "I'm a law-abiding citizen."

"Hmph!" Jeanne scoffed. "I don't care about that. Now, give me the Cheshire cat and go wash the dishes from the past few days."

"You wouldn't believe it, but I've already cleaned all the dishes," Solomon said. Before Jeanne returned, he had commanded his invisible servants to clean the entire house. The sink had been piling up with dirty plates for days while he was in Asgard, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Good." Jeanne casually shrugged off her suit jacket and tossed it onto the couch, seemingly unbothered by her state of undress. "And make sure to wash the laundry too."

"Next time, we should make a chore rotation chart," Solomon said, grabbing her clothes and heading for the laundry room. "You wash the dishes, I'll do the laundry. Now hurry up and put on your pajamas. I don't want Bayonetta to get the wrong idea."

"Good evening, Jeanne. Good evening, little one." Bayonetta stepped through the door, carrying a basket of vegetables and fresh meat. Her gray eyes, hidden behind her glasses, narrowed mischievously. "Oh my, did I miss something?"

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The clothing styles of Americans and Brits were worlds apart. Even an American white man could be easily spotted walking the streets of London, thanks to his red plaid shirt and brown baseball cap—a common but distinctly American look. In the U.S., especially in the countryside of New Mexico, this kind of casual style was everywhere.

This small town was a typical example of one that had been built around mining—perhaps coal or gold—but after the company left, the town began its inevitable decline. Economic collapse had left the town with just one bar, which had opened twenty years ago. There were no strip clubs, no jobs, and the youth were left to loiter in the streets or hang around the shops.

Perhaps due to this lack of entertainment, when the locals discovered an immovable hammer stuck in the ground, they quickly set up speakers, barbecue grills, and even brought over trucks loaded with ice-cold beer from the bar. They took turns trying to lift the hammer, and even if they failed, another beer was all it took to try again.

Solomon, wearing his red relic cloak, sat by one of the grills on a small stool provided by the locals. He was here to monitor the event's progress while enjoying breakfast. The townspeople were very friendly to him, probably because he was polite and the youngest among them. They'd been so kind that he had already eaten half the sausages on the grill.

All in all, he was quite satisfied.

As for yesterday's events, that was just Bayonetta having some fun. She didn't seriously think Jeanne and Solomon had anything going on. After all, Bayonetta was no stranger to nudity—there was nothing shocking about it to her. The only downside was that Solomon had to sleep on the couch, without even a cat to cuddle. Women, he thought, are too hard to understand.

In fact, before coming here, Solomon had already notified Nick Fury. He told Fury that the object falling from the sky was related to both aliens and magic. Solomon's warning had pushed Fury's nerves to the limit. Fury had come to believe that Solomon had truly left Earth for a few days, as no surveillance cameras had captured him during that time. Fury also hadn't found anything in Howard Stark's box that might interest Solomon, leaving him feeling uneasy. Not knowing Solomon's motives was a dangerous gap in intelligence, and due to the contract, Fury couldn't ask anyone else for help. He had to investigate on his own.

On top of that, Tony Stark now needed the documents in the box, and his palladium poisoning was getting worse. The potions Solomon had provided could only temporarily alleviate Tony's symptoms. If Fury hadn't secretly had Natasha pour the Lesser Restoration Potion into Tony's vegetable juice, Stark might have already died—thanks to his stubborn refusal to undergo dialysis and his growing sense of hopelessness.

Solomon picked up another sausage, took a bite, and stood up. He was ready to leave, having spotted a black sedan in the distance. A friendly-looking agent with thinning hair stepped out of the car. Solomon had no interest in meeting more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and decided it was best to leave early. As for the hammer, he didn't even want to try lifting it—this time, not even Captain America could lift it, as Odin's spell had restricted it so that only Thor could wield it.

Too bad about the barbecue and iced cola, though. Who knows if S.H.I.E.L.D. would confiscate the grill?

There was another very personal reason Solomon was hanging around here—he was waiting for the town hospital to draw some of Thor's blood. That was the blood of a god, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. got their hands on it, with their penchant for creating chaos, they might end up cloning Thor. Solomon was more than ready to intercept the blood. At worst, he could use his excellent necromancy to create a lightning-throwing flesh golem. Even a mindless one might be able to lift Mjolnir.

Now that would be useful—he had long regretted not having a golem to shield him from danger.

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"I didn't know tonight's breakfast came with a beefcake," Darcy Lewis joked, watching Thor walk out of the bathroom shirtless, holding a T-shirt. "For a homeless crazy guy, he's got a pretty good body."

Earlier that morning, they'd gone to the town hospital again because Darcy had spotted a figure in the storm in one of the photos. Unfortunately, Jane had hit the same guy with her car again, and Darcy was certain she was headed for jail. Thankfully, the man had been fine. Darcy also noticed that her mentor, Jane Foster, had been unusually distracted, constantly stealing glances at the shirtless drifter.

"I'm pretty sure her mind isn't on those data points," Darcy said with a grin. "She's been single for a while; I don't think

 she minds the drifter."

"Darcy!"

"Sorry, sorry! Hahaha!"

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