The two scabbards didn't possess overly powerful enchantments. Their functions were straightforward: cleansing dirt from the blades and momentarily enhancing their sharpness upon unsheathing, effectively making the weapons temporarily enchanted. These features were sufficient for Solomon, as he didn't require overly complex magic. Both the "Falling Leaves" and the "Oath of Victory Sword" were immensely powerful weapons in their own right.
After a busy day, Solomon, Bayonetta, and Jeanne finally returned to their apartment. It was a rare day where they didn't have to adjust to different time zones, and everyone relished the opportunity to rest—except Jeanne. She remained convinced that Solomon harbored ulterior motives toward Bayonetta. Even during dinner, she seemed ready to throw her fork at Solomon at any moment.
Ironically, the reality was quite the opposite—Bayonetta was the one who took the initiative. She always wanted to be the one in charge.
Not that Solomon minded in the least.
"Do you have any idea how it feels to have a birthday on Christmas?" Solomon sat at a simple, dark bronze metal table, speaking animatedly. His face bore a weary expression, and he gestured emphatically while cradling a fluffy creature made of golden-red feathers in his arms. From a distance, the vivid red of his robe merged with the fiery creature, making him look like a living flame with a head of black hair. Across the table, the woman sitting opposite him found the sight amusing but tried to stifle her laughter as she took a bite of her sandwich.
"Everyone," the mage grumbled, "everyone ignores the fact that a new year is just around the corner. For someone born on Christmas, it feels like they're perpetually stuck in the past. Whenever I try to assert that I'm already sixteen, people remind me, 'You've got five years until you can drink—or rather, six.' And when your birthday overlaps with a holiday, you miss out on an extra celebration each year. The world owes Christmas-born people a proper party. Cake doesn't pair well with roasted turkey, and birthday candles look out of place next to gold plastic ornaments."
"You certainly don't look fifteen." The woman across from him nodded. "I mean, your height—you're as tall as an adult, and still growing. But your face looks youthful. I must admit, you're quite handsome, like a marble statue. I'm curious—are the muscles under your clothes as chiseled as stone too?"
"Miss Romanoff, I invited you to dinner to apologize. Feel free to mock me, but please, not like this." Solomon leaned back in his metal chair. "What we need is mutual respect. Look, I may not know when you clocked out, but I still booked a high-end restaurant. Even though they're technically closed now, we're seated like proper guests. Sure, pairing red wine with sandwiches isn't ideal, but this bottle of Balrouge is from my private collection. I believe my apology is sincere."
"I have just one question, Solomon." Natasha Romanoff smiled as she asked, "Did you know I wouldn't die back then?"
"I didn't." The mage shook his head without hesitation. "Prophecy magic is fundamentally about glimpsing destiny, and you did appear in the future I saw. But external forces can disrupt fate—they have the power to alter it. When you were captured, I had no idea what your outcome would be. All I could do was address the root cause of the issue. I regret abandoning you then, but if I had to choose again, I would make the same decision without hesitation."
"You're quite the cold-hearted guy." Romanoff shot Solomon a sidelong glance. "Still, it was the right call. Any professional agent would have made the same choice. But I'm not entirely satisfied with your apology—especially considering you can teleport anywhere in the world. With New York's restaurants closed, why not take me somewhere else now?"
"Miss," Solomon sighed, "you have no idea the trouble I faced after receiving your late-night message. Even now, I suspect you did it on purpose. Surely, you understand the kind of scrutiny a man faces when stepping out late at night?"
Romanoff shrugged, completely unfazed.
"So, I had no time." The mage stifled a yawn. "By the way, did Coulson pass along my message? Have you seen him recently? I was hoping to ask where he got those tacos last time."
"No idea," Natasha replied with a shake of her head. "That's classified S.H.I.E.L.D. intel. Besides, I have another mission coming up. I don't have time to worry about that."
"Maybe… I know a bit." Solomon tried leaning forward to add a sense of intrigue, but Phoenix blocked his way. Awkwardly shifting his position, he continued, "The Tesseract, Project Pegasus. Don't act surprised—I just happen to know a few things. As you're aware, I'm not particularly curious about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets. If I wanted to know, I would. This time, though, Nick Fury's experiment is unusually reckless. Using a particle accelerator on the Tesseract? Doesn't he fear blowing the Americas sky-high?"
It had been nearly a month since Solomon instructed Coulson to pass on his concerns, but Natasha Romanoff only contacted him now. Work considerations aside, Solomon believed Nick Fury had sent her to negotiate with him. Fury likely knew he couldn't hide the Tesseract from Solomon and was grasping at straws to make sense of it. Sending Romanoff was a ploy to gather intel.
"What do you know?" Romanoff readily admitted.
"Just things you don't. Nothing useful for your experiments, like the Tesseract's origins or our past research on it," Solomon replied. "Experiment however you like, but please exercise caution. Don't use any nonsense to cut that thing. If it explodes, no one can bear the consequences."
"Why didn't you mages keep it?"
"It wasn't appropriate."
"In what way?"
"The timing."
"You're maddeningly cryptic, Solomon." Romanoff's frustration showed as she accepted the garlic sausage Solomon handed her and bit into it fiercely. "You've said a lot but revealed nothing. Can you help S.H.I.E.L.D. study the Tesseract or not?"
"My dear Miss Romanoff, your words wound me. I'm not withholding information; it's simply that S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't ready for the truth," Solomon said. "We need your experiments to proceed."
"You want the results? Can't you figure it out with magic?" Romanoff's mood shifted swiftly, as if her earlier irritation was nothing more than smoke. "I thought magic was omnipotent."
"Magic is omnipotent, but people aren't." Solomon fed a slice of sausage to Phoenix, who had been persistently burrowing into his arms. "Besides, I'm not after the Tesseract's research results—they're meaningless to me. I just want Fury to stop creating problems. His experiments are dangerously unsafe. I've already texted him about it, but he didn't listen."
"Then what's your goal?"
"My goal was simply to have dinner with you," Solomon replied, feigning ignorance with practiced ease. "If you're dissatisfied, I'll make a reservation next time. This situation arose because we didn't book ahead. Please let me know your work schedule in advance next time, so I can plan accordingly."
Romanoff narrowed her eyes, smiling. "Is this a date?"
"Please don't say that, Miss. Another year, and I'll have an arrow in my knee."
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