"That's him!"
"I know this guy, he has two really beautiful girlfriends, hey..."
Bang—! Before the burly middle-aged white man could finish his sentence, his head was slammed into the bar counter. The sturdy wooden surface broke under the immense force, exposing the deep yellow wood chips to the air. In an instant, the man lost consciousness. Solomon, with a blank expression, gripped his neck and slammed his head down again. The wood splinters scraped his face, drawing blood. Even the seasoned bartender, startled by the mage's brutality, crouched under the counter.
The others in the bar quickly drew their guns, preparing to shoot at the mage. However, Mr. Reeser, who had entered the bar with Solomon, was faster. The former CIA agent was an expert marksman, and his shots were always non-lethal. Every person who tried to draw a gun had a bullet meet their limbs—perhaps two, as even top-tier agents could lose track of who they'd already shot in such a chaotic scene.
Mr. Reeser didn't kill anyone, at least not intentionally. He just used the bodies of the thugs to shield himself from bullets.
Solomon tossed the unconscious man aside and punched another thug charging at him. He then pulled out his explosive-tipped gun and turned to shoot at the bartender, who had drawn a shotgun. The 0.5-inch caliber, hand-crafted by fallen angel artisans, was rocket-propelled. The bullet smashed into the concrete wall behind the bar, and milliseconds later, the high-explosive charge inside detonated. The concrete wall behind the bar caved in, and the deafening explosion drowned out the sound of gunfire in the bar.
The bartender's face was covered in blood and blisters, a result of the rocket-propelled bullet grazing him. Blood poured from one of his ears, and he was soon knocked unconscious by falling debris from the ceiling. The dust from the collapse obscured everyone's view, making it hard to see even their own fingers.
The screams didn't stop, but Solomon closed his eyes as the dust rose. Relying on his exceptional hearing, he moved toward his targets. He kept his promise—he didn't intentionally kill anyone—but he never agreed to let them go unharmed either. Years of martial arts training allowed him to swiftly locate the thugs' vital points. By now, he had snapped or crushed the joints of his thirteenth thug. The bulky magazine of his prototype explosive-tipped gun had proven useful.
No one could stay conscious after being hit on the head by something as heavy as a brick.
"Hey, that's enough." Mr. Reeser found Solomon among the fallen, howling thugs. Solomon was picking out the most satisfying joints from the bodies around him. He grabbed the mage's shoulder. "The first one's the only one who really needs medical attention. I think his neck's broken, he'll be drinking juice from a bed for the rest of his life."
Solomon shrugged off Mr. Reeser's hand. His arm, still aching from firing the gun, would likely have been broken if not for the fact that Rodan's explosive charge was too light. Also, activating three saintly marks had helped.
"I only promised you I wouldn't kill anyone, Mr. Reeser. That doesn't mean I won't make sure they spend the rest of their lives in a wheelchair—just to make sure everyone is safe and my life isn't disturbed." He held his gun, walking toward the next thug who was still groaning in pain. He seemed to take pleasure in stepping on the knee of someone who couldn't escape, crushing it with a satisfying snap.
The fourteenth.
"Remember our deal. Next, I need to meet with your partner to make sure he signs the contract."
"I guarantee it. You've achieved your goal, now let's go, the police are on their way."
The short-haired man with glasses, sitting at the other end of the bench, had his neck stiffened. He was Mr. Reeser's partner, Harold. Solomon wasn't sure where they were, but Reeser had brought him here, and he wasn't familiar with this city. He only knew he was still in New York, and he could still see the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
The evening breeze by the river was chilly, and Harold had put on a thick coat. But "putting it on" didn't seem accurate, as he was practically buried inside it.
"Mr. Damonette..."
"You can call me Solomon."
"Alright, Solomon. Since you're still busy reviewing your A-Level courses, I'll get to the point. I thought this was a confidentiality agreement, but in reality, I've never signed a magical contract before. Aside from some books, I've never even touched parchment. You should know that neither I nor John signed with our real names. You don't seem to mind? In legends, magical contracts always require true names..."
"This is your true name. A true name is a name that grants a person their true essence, not the one given at birth. Since you've chosen this name, it represents you." Solomon looked down, checking the signatures on the parchment, without lifting his eyes.
"Okay, but that's not what I'm talking about," Harold slightly turned to look at Mr. Reeser, who was keeping watch outside. "Before this, I didn't believe in magic—until, well... aliens, portals, and the whole world went crazy. This thing isn't over, Solomon. The thugs you and John attacked were just small fry. A new power is rising in New York..."
"If it weren't for your warning, those thugs would've broken into my apartment..."
"And then they'd be dead. I've seen your methods; you're professionally trained. It's hard to imagine you're a wizard."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"The point is, they won't give up that territory. You're very likely to be attacked again."
"Then it'll be up to you to save their lives, Mr. Harold." Solomon shrugged and stood up from the bench, twisting the prototype explosive gun in his hand. As soon as he grabbed the weapon, Mr. Reeser's sharp gaze shifted back across the river, as if he had eyes growing on the back of his head.
"I've learned my lesson. I'll activate all my defenses next time I leave the house, even if it's just to buy some seasoning." Solomon said. "Next time, those guys won't have such good luck. Also, here's a hint: my girlfriend's better at fighting than I am, I'm the weakest one in the house."
"That's quite the revelation. Anyway, I'm glad you kept your word, Mr. Damonette." Harold stood up, and Solomon noticed one of his legs was slightly stiff. "I hope that if something like this happens again, you'll let us handle it."
"If I have the time, or if they come at me with donkey jawbones for revenge. By the way," Solomon said, "I don't know how you guys got the tip that someone was in danger... but if you ever encounter supernatural threats—like magic or aliens—that Mr. Reeser can't handle, remember to call me. It's my duty."
"We probably won't run into that kind of thing. But it was nice talking to you, Solomon."
"I feel the same. Goodbye."
As Solomon disappeared in a flash of light, Harold raised an eyebrow at Mr. Reeser. "Quite an experience, wasn't it?" he said with a smile. "Oh, magic! I'm going to look for some books about magic in the bookshelf."
"Don't forget we've signed a contract," Mr. Reeser said softly. "I didn't even understand what the contract said."
"It was in Latin, and it means, 'If the contract is violated, the soul will be offered to the Holy Trinity.' I've read the terms, don't worry, we can discuss it."
"It's a pity. Zoe definitely doesn't know about wizards. She even said she knows everything about this city."
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