Solomon in Marvel

Solomon disliked conversing with others while his Stigmata were activated. As a result, Wanda Maximoff had never seen the side of him that surpassed human limitations. To her, Solomon was no different from an ordinary person. He cursed—but not too crudely—had a decent sense of humor, and seemed no different from any well-educated young man in his early twenties. Even when he held the upper hand, he rarely spoke in a condescending tone.

Unless one found themselves in direct opposition to him, it was difficult to dislike him. After all, who wouldn't be fond of a good-looking young man who knew how to treat people with respect?

To ordinary people, magic itself was an anomaly beyond comprehension. But to spellcasters, Solomon was the true enigma.

Of course, he didn't see himself that way.

He was the kind of person who could wear a tailored suit while eating at a street food stall. He could drink cheap beer just as easily as a wine worth tens of thousands of dollars. To him, a bustling night market filled with the aroma of charcoal-grilled meat was no different from an M9 steakhouse—both would satisfy hunger all the same.

Solomon never believed his talents made him special.

To the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj, it was unsurprising that the Sorcerer Supreme's successor would be extraordinarily gifted. But outside of Kamar-Taj, in the broader magical world, Solomon's abilities were absurd.

The Stigmata had always been there. That alone proved he was not an ordinary person.

Solomon had once discussed a few fundamental questions with the Ancient One: Was his essence truly his soul, or was it the Stigmata? Did the existence of the Stigmata define the meaning of his life?

Even the Ancient One could not—or perhaps would not—answer.

The fact remained: he didn't like speaking to people while his Stigmata were activated.

When their power exceeded the material world, when that unnatural force manifested, he loathed the feeling. Yet, he needed the vast knowledge the Stigmata provided. It was a burden he had to bear to achieve his goals.

Sometimes, even Solomon had to admit—perhaps the Stigmata were his essence, his soul.

The thought disgusted him, but it didn't stop him from using them.

However, when speaking with non-humans, Solomon willingly activated the Stigmata. Even if their power extended beyond the material realm, even if the non-human was a friend.

Dwarves.

Vassals of Asgard, they resided in Svartalfheim, a domain where they had harnessed the power of a neutron star—Nidavellir. Around that star, they had built the most renowned forge in the Nine Realms.

The moment Solomon arrived, he felt the scorching air hit him like a fist to the face—hot enough to ignite his lungs.

Blazing white-hot solar flares surged under the star ring's control, fueling volcanic crucibles across the forge. Tens of thousands of miniature volcanoes illuminated ancient, rusted pipelines, their metalwork stained by centuries of use.

The pressure lines and steam ducts wove through the land like blood vessels, channeling the lifeblood of the forge. Above, storm clouds formed over the quenching pools, trapped by artificial gravity.

It was mesmerizing.

Solomon watched as those clouds, born of fire and steam, flashed with lightning before drenching the land in seconds. As the star ring shifted, fresh crucibles took their place, and the dense storm clouds were driven back by rising heat.

The moment molten metal cascaded down like a glowing waterfall, all moisture vanished.

The sweltering air roared across the steel dome and into the void, evaporating pools of water in an instant. Steam droplets clinging to pressure gauges disappeared in the blink of an eye.

From beneath his feet, Solomon felt the forge's pulse—heat surging through its veins like lifeblood.

When the dwarves hammered metal on their anvils, he felt the tremors travel through the pipes. He could hear their devotion to the craft, their passion rising with the hiss of high-pressure steam.

This was his first time stepping foot in this realm.

The hundred suits of armor he had commissioned had been delivered to Asgard. This was his first time witnessing where they had been forged.

Here—where Mjolnir was born.

Where Gungnir was forged.

And now—where his armor would be brought to life.

"By the ancient contract, I have come to claim my armor."

Even among the towering Dwarves, Solomon's voice needed no amplification to command their attention.

With the Stigmata activated, he looked entirely different.

Once more, three Stigmata were unlocked—making it impossible for anyone to tear their eyes away.

His features. His voice.

Everything about him became grand and imposing.

For a moment, the dwarves almost believed Odin had returned.

"A warrior."

The thought struck every single one of them at once.

The race of Dwarves had long been called so—but only because, to Ymir, the First Giant, they must have seemed tiny.

Even now, despite standing taller than the Aesir, the name had remained.

Master blacksmith Ivaldi lowered his head.

He saw the man standing before him, the hem of his deep crimson robe, embroidered with golden filigree, billowing in the storm of pressurized steam.

Ivaldi looked into his eyes—and saw knowledge.

A burdened gaze, carrying the weight of wisdom.

Solomon's voice drowned out the hissing gauges and roaring forges.

The dwarves stopped working.

For a moment, even the heart of the forge seemed to pause.

Without a doubt—this armor was meant for him.

A masterpiece—forged with the passion and skill of every dwarven craftsman.

Ivaldi bowed.

"As you wish, warrior."

Later…

By the Ancient One's request, Solomon begrudgingly donned the armor—serving as a living mannequin.

The Sorcerer Supreme tapped the armor with mild dissatisfaction.

The sound was heavy—like knocking on the hull of a warship.

Which made sense.

The sheer thickness of the armor was unbelievable, a stark contrast to the thinner plates of before.

If Hela were to strike Solomon with her black blades once again—she would find they left barely a scratch.

"I still prefer silver," the Ancient One muttered. "Gold is so tacky."

Even though the Dwarves had reforged the armor with utmost skill, its base was still the old armor.

Which meant the Ancient One still had every right to judge it.

With enchantments layered over Uru metal, strengthened by the magic of Elves and Dwarves, the armor had become indestructible.

It was too perfect.

So the Ancient One could only criticize the color.

The dwarves had followed Solomon's designs—and even expanded upon them.

The eagle on the shoulder plates was no longer a mere engraving—it was now a golden sculpture, with blood-red gemstones for eyes.

Its wings—also gold—curved inward, forming protective pauldrons that shielded the wearer's face.

The vambraces and elbow guards had different designs to balance protection and mobility.

Ornate wing engravings covered the entire armor, and the fierce visage sculpted into the breastplate radiated majesty.

It was unbelievable that such massive Dwarves had been able to carve such intricate details.

Yet Solomon was immensely satisfied with their craftsmanship.

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