Under the deep night sky, a shadowy dragon spread its massive wings against the warm remnants of the day's desert winds. The pitch-black shadow blocked out the stars, casting an even darker void over the faintly glowing wasteland below. The dragon flew high—so high it soared above the clouds, relishing the dry, icy white mist and the sharp wind that howled past its ears and horns. As it passed through the cloud layers, the creature's body heat caused the wispy vapors to condense into droplets on its scales. These droplets froze, shattered, and fell, evaporating midair before reforming into slender strands of clouds.
The dragon reveled in the sensation of flight—something impossible to experience on a broomstick. Its wings felt as if they were an organic extension of its body, the membranes tingling as the air rushed past them. Ah, but there were small holes in its wings. No matter—it would heal quickly, for those wings were made of shadow.
The shadow dragon clattered its rows of razor-sharp teeth together a few times. Then, in a curiously human gesture, it scratched at its upper jaw with a claw, before using its long tongue to clean between its teeth. A few items tumbled out—a damaged taco, a half-empty pack of cigars, and a warped metal lighter. No wonder its mouth tasted like kerosene. Clearly, hiding things under its tongue wasn't a reliable solution. The stolen cigars from Enzo were a loss, and the taco was now inedible. What a pity.
Down below, a man dressed in black leather stood in the desert, tilting his head back to gaze at the sky with his single eye. Nick Fury scanned the heavens but couldn't spot anything—not even with his binoculars. The dragon was too high, hidden among the clouds. Frustrated, Fury checked his phone. The appointed time was near, so where was he? It wasn't until a metal lighter hurtled down at high speed, striking the sand and creating a small crater, that Fury realized the dragon had been circling above him.
"Motherf—" Fury began, but the dragon suddenly plummeted like a runaway freight train. It slammed into the ground with such force that a cloud of sand erupted, a miniature sandstorm swallowing the area. By the time Fury lowered his coat to shield himself, his collar and pockets were filled with dirt and debris.
"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Solomon stood up from the freshly gouged trench in the earth, spitting out kerosene-flavored saliva. "First time as a dragon—still getting the hang of it. I promise I'll nail it next time."
"You're a dragon?" Fury clapped his hand to his head, trying to shake the sand out of his ears. "Aren't you human?"
"I am human. That dragon was just a spell," the mage replied matter-of-factly, brushing sand off his robes. "It's a new spell of mine—don't make a big deal out of it. If every new spell surprises you this much, I'd recommend getting your heart checked, because there are more shocks to come."
The spell, "Shadow Dragon Form," was created by a kobold archmage named Herkilon. There were various dragon transformation spells: the 3rd-circle Basic Dragon Form allowed one to turn into a tiny pseudo-dragon; the 6th-circle Lesser Dragon Shape and Dragon Form spells enabled transformation into full-sized dragons. But those 6th-circle spells were too advanced for Solomon at the moment, and he lacked access to any dragon scales. The 4th-circle Shadow Dragon Form was a good compromise—especially since the cover of night made it harder to spot.
"You think I'm scared of little stunts like this? I'm the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
"Let's get moving. Time waits for no one, and that creature's already far away," Solomon said, patting the long scabbard at his left hip. This held the longer blade of the Falling Leaves twin swords. The shorter blade was sheathed on his right hip, below which were four lightweight silver metal cylinders bound together, each stuffed with parchment. Those with sharp eyes might notice the fine writing and intricate geometric patterns on the parchment.
"I'm letting you tag along on my hunt out of courtesy—and to show you the mess your experiments have caused," Solomon added, irritation creeping into his voice. He considered this unpaid overtime.
Kamar-Taj was short on staff these days. Mordo had taken some stewards from the New York Sanctum, Kaecilius had claimed another group, and the London and Hong Kong Sanctums were busy searching for ancient relics and hunting cultists in East Africa. The remaining mages were either stationed at the Sanctums or assigned to the Americas to deal with the extradimensional creatures drawn in by the Tesseract. Solomon was left with either barely trained apprentices or elderly mages too frail to move.
Last week, he had just finished explaining to Bayonetta that his dealings with Natasha Romanoff weren't what she thought—they were about restoring Natasha's health. Now, thanks to some misunderstandings, he was busy appeasing the witch. He had no time to hunt monsters. But the Ancient One's orders couldn't be disobeyed, so he took a few days off school to return to the U.S. and work overtime.
His sour mood prompted him to call Nick Fury. Why should the perpetrator get a free pass while Kamar-Taj cleaned up his mess? Fury needed to see the consequences of his actions firsthand, so he'd think twice next time. Otherwise, he'd end up blowing up the planet.
"What creature?" Fury patted the Jeep beside him. "Check this out—an M3E1 recoilless rifle. Standard fire rate of six rounds per minute, firing 84mm ammo. I've got armor-piercing and high-explosive rounds. Simple to use, highly destructive—this thing will outclass your swords any day. Your so-called monster doesn't stand a chance against modern firepower. This is the triumph of human technology."
"I agree, and so does the Ancient One," Solomon said, setting a white marble horse sculpture on the ground. Before leaving for overtime, he had visited Kamar-Taj's stables and bribed Pegasus with two bottles of single malt whiskey—no one knew why the horse craved whiskey. Now, Pegasus was free-spirited, with an ever-growing appetite and increasingly eclectic tastes, from grass to meat, desserts to alcohol.
Naturally, Pegasus's weight was steadily increasing.
"But," Solomon continued, turning to Fury, "if you can't hit it, then it doesn't matter, does it? Don't you get it yet?"
"Why are you suddenly so worked up? And what are you doing? I've already got the Jeep ready!"
"Against extradimensional creatures, kinetic weapons might work to some extent, but these monsters don't fully exist in the material plane. We need to enter the ethereal realm." Ignoring Fury's protest, Solomon summoned Pegasus.
"What's with this horse? Don't tell me it's the Pegasus. Are you kidding me? We're near Project Pegasus! And who exactly are we facing?"
"The creature is a Hellbreather named Spurnog. It's hard to say if it was drawn here or escaped here. Either way, the moment it entered the material plane, it became my enemy. I will hunt it relentlessly until… let me check the time… right, until twelve hours from now, when I have to go back to school. So, Fury, we have twelve hours to find and kill it!"
"Got it. I've budgeted more time than that, but can you get off the roof of the Jeep already?"
Solomon obediently climbed down and mounted Pegasus. The horse disliked saddles and demanded skilled riders. Fortunately, Solomon had practiced daily at the Ancient One's insistence, and Pegasus was cooperative enough. With golden reins in hand, Solomon sat comfortably astride the winged steed.
"The Hellbreather Spurnog hides in dreams. We need to force it out. It can disguise itself as anything—alive or inanimate. I hope you won't hesitate."
"I'm an agent. I do what needs to be done," Fury said coldly.
"Good. That's the kind of ally I need," Solomon nodded. "Next, we head to the nearest town. Spurnog is there, and I've prepared the necessary spells to deal with it. If we run into police, that's your problem."
Did anyone catch the Shaya reference?_
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