The Holy Son in Marvel

This chapter may not be suitable for reading after a meal; please ensure you have an empty stomach before proceeding. Thank you for your cooperation.

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In a distant world, there's a saying: "More hair, weak to fire; bigger body, weak to force." It aptly describes the weaknesses of various monsters. As a spellcaster, Solomon would never rush blindly into battle against a creature. To engage effectively, he needed to identify its weak points.

Based on his limited knowledge of another mythological system, Solomon surmised that the fur-covered giant would be vulnerable to fire magic. However, given his close proximity to the creature, casting a fireball could risk injuring him too. He dashed toward a dense cluster of trees, hoping their thick trunks would impede the creature, buying him time to cast spells. He regretted not bringing grenades; his aim, honed through years of spellcasting, could have easily landed an explosive right in the giant's mouth.

But it was just wishful thinking; even the thick American elms around him couldn't stop the rampaging giant, which barreled through with the force of a runaway truck. The cracking sound of splintering wood grew louder and closer behind him. Solomon reached into his dimensional pouch and felt around until his fingers closed on two egg-shaped ceramic flasks. Without looking back, he tossed one behind him. The shattering sound was followed by a burst of light—alchemical fire, extremely flammable, and much cheaper than incendiary gels, one of Solomon's own experimental creations.

Though the giant could stomp through the flames, the sticky alchemical liquid clung to its feet, burning persistently unless deprived of oxygen. The fire wouldn't delay the creature for long, but it did give Solomon enough time to cast his spell. Grateful for Eaton College's full lab equipment, without which he couldn't have made strides in alchemy, Solomon prepared his next move.

Mana Burst + Hadar's Grasp + Sloth's Spear: This combination allowed him to push his target 10 feet back while reducing its movement speed.

He aimed to push the giant back into the flames. Although the fire was dwindling, the dead leaves, accumulated over winter, provided ample fuel. Solomon hurled the remaining flask of alchemical fire, landing a direct hit. The explosion of flames burned hotter than the previous, and the creature howled in agony as fire spread across its fur. Its skin scorched and charred as it frantically tried to beat out the flames. Fueled by pain and rage, it lunged toward Solomon, but the combination of spells held it in place—no matter where the giant tried to move, Solomon could either pull it back or push it into the flames. As for jumping, that was impossible; his mastery of Grease Spell had stood the test of time.

As the fire grew more intense, the giant grew more desperate, thrashing wildly on the ground and pounding it with its forked arms. Instinctively, it tried to fling clumps of dirt and leaves over itself, and as the flammable liquid dispersed, the flames on its fur began to subside. But by then, its body was covered in severe burns. Its scorched skin had peeled away, exposing a foul-smelling, raw underlayer. Overwhelmed by pain, the giant was incapable of any coherent thought.

An irrational, frenzied creature was hardly a threat to a spellcaster. Solomon circled around and summoned acid (Cantrip: Acid Splash), easily corroding its respiratory tract and finally killing the beast. However, he couldn't leave just yet—this was because of the giant's behavior and where it had appeared.

The giant, a creature known to fear ghouls, had shown up in an area with no ghoul activity, and it preferred human flesh. Since the creature had been close to the cave, Solomon suspected that any remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. agents might have met a grisly fate. To confirm this, he would need to dissect the creature's stomach (or equivalent digestive system) to see if there were any undigested items, such as bullets, magazines, or Kevlar fibers.

Nothing. There was nothing at all. It was both good and bad news. On the one hand, no further innocents had been devoured by the giant; on the other, neither Solomon, Coulson, nor Natasha could count on any ammunition resupply from outside. Worse, Solomon felt intensely sick after forcing himself to perform the dissection. When he was done, he leaped off the creature's corpse, leaned against a nearby elm, and vomited.

"I'm never doing something this stupid again," he muttered, spitting out the bitter aftertaste. Next time, he swore, he'd only dissect creatures while in full protective gear, even if it was just a mouse. The stomach fermentation nearly knocked him out, but he'd forced himself to dig through the digestive remnants. Though the monster hadn't frightened him alive, its insides left a lasting impression. 

He took a deep breath and headed toward the cave. Coulson and Natasha needed him now.

Meanwhile, a witch trial was underway in the nearby town. Judge Cotton Mather stripped the last suspected witch of her clothes and pointed out bleeding needle marks to a crowd of frenzied followers. He was using needle pricks to search for the "witch's mark," a method borrowed from England. According to legend, witches who allied with demons bore a mark that wouldn't bleed or feel pain when pricked.

If the accused did react to pain, inquisitor Matthew Hopkins would try the "tear test," believing that witches couldn't shed tears. If the accused cried without tears, she was guilty; if she did shed tears, then the devil must be at work, meaning she was guilty anyway.

There was also the ordeal of fire, where the accused would be made to run holding a hot iron or walk barefoot over heated plowshares. If their hands or feet showed no injuries after three days, they would be released. However, since the judge and inquisitor wanted swift executions, they bypassed this method.

Another popular test was the "swimming trial," in which the suspect was bound and thrown into a pond or river. If she floated, she was a witch because everyone "knew" witches were light enough to fly on brooms. If she sank, she was innocent—though by then, most drowned. And even those who sank and survived weren't safe; they were still suspect, allegedly given the power to breathe underwater by the devil.

"Everything modern in life we owe to the Greeks, and everything outdated to the Middle Ages," Coulson sighed, rubbing his eyes. Natasha looked at him curiously, and he clarified, "That's what Wilde said. Between the 15th and 18th centuries in Europe, about 100,000 innocents died in witch hunts. And now I'm witnessing it myself. This scene will haunt my dreams."

"If Solomon were here, he'd blame this all on Christianity," Natasha said, knowing his disdain for religion. "So, what will you do?"

"There's nothing we can do," Coulson replied, glancing at the innocent victims hanging from trees and the frenzied, ignorant crowd. "But at least we saved one. I intend to protect her, even if it costs my life."

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