The Holy Son in Marvel

The mystic gripped his wand tightly and leapt over a low shrub, landing hard on the creature lurking beneath. It let out a wailing cry, but Solomon quickly silenced it with a magic missile. The missile couldn't kill the ghoul, though, so he nimbly jumped back, dodging the creature's filthy, razor-sharp claws. Chanting an incantation, he struck the ghoul's head with an open ring of fiery, orange light—the Raggadorr Ring.

This wasn't the first ghoul he had encountered tonight. The forest was like an endless dungeon, with unknown numbers of buried bodies that could spawn ghouls, prowling like hounds in the shadows. So far, he hadn't found any trace of the other three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but the ghouls seemed endless. If it weren't for the single-use wand loaded with fifty magic missiles, these creatures alone would have exhausted him.

Thanks to his second-circle spell, Darkvision, Solomon managed to avoid tripping over the twisted roots exposed in the forest. However, his vision was still limited to sixty feet, and attempts to use Dancing Lights had only drawn more attacks.

After dealing with the ghoul, Solomon suddenly heard the sound of hoofbeats. This was unusual, as the forest floor was too soft and damp to produce such a sound, even with iron-shod hooves. The hoofbeats stopped nearby, and Solomon could hear a horse snorting. The surrounding brush rustled as something moved through it. Solomon tightened his grip on his wand, keeping the dead ghoul's body at a distance to avoid interference.

However, it wasn't a monstrous creature that emerged but several human figures dressed in local clothing. Still, he remained cautious; the stench of rotting flesh clung to them, their decomposing eyes filled with soil and maggots. Some of their bodies bore ghoul-inflicted wounds, making it clear they weren't alive. These weren't undead risen from concentrated negative energy—they were corpses animated by an unknown force.

One by one, Solomon struck them down, summoning a radiant blaze from the heavens with Vishanti's Holy Flames, a spell he had modified himself. Fire and light posed a dire threat to whatever force controlled these corpses—the brilliant flames burst in the pitch-black forest, scorching flesh and bone and driving shadows back. In a brief glimpse, Solomon saw a swarm of oversized, three-foot-long, twin-headed maggots crawling out from within the charred corpses.

These maggots were likely controlling the bodies, though Solomon didn't care to know exactly what they were.

Solomon retreated, drawing his wand of Fireball, and cast a spell towards the maggots and corpses. A blinding flash shot through the shadows, and the explosion sent waves of flames over shrubs, trees, and shambling bodies. Dirt and leaves scattered in the blast, along with blackened limbs and decayed entrails, which rained down like hail.

The shadows dissipated as the blast dried out the underbrush, leaving small, crackling fires in its wake. The corpses hesitated, seemingly afraid of the flames. Solomon turned and ran, feeling as though he were in a more wretched situation than in The Walking Dead, as the smell of burning corpses intensified in the heat.

After Solomon left, the bodies went still, and a figure—tall, jet-black but lacking African features—appeared among them. His elongated limbs curved unnaturally, and he held a book titled The Book of Azathoth. This dark figure nudged the burning leaves with a boot, sighing in mild frustration. This was only a game for him; he had summoned his servants merely to create a horrific atmosphere.

He mused that his brother wouldn't mind these little pranks, so long as the girl returned to him. Apart from that soul, the one that had already been claimed—everything else was inconsequential. He found Solomon's Fireball spell impressive; no matter the world, he enjoyed the chaos and disorder it brought, the explosive mayhem that accompanied it. He also enjoyed anything that could create an even bigger blast, sending scorched limbs flying.

Well, maybe not that last part—it did smell rather bad.

But then again! The black figure blinked. Maybe one of his avatars would enjoy it?

No, no, why was he even considering that? Go away! Don't mess with my thoughts, and don't interfere with my game!

Tonight's chaos was hardly enough to satisfy him. No, it wouldn't end here! Comedy and tragedy had to intertwine; reason and folly had to consume one another. He would make sure the blind zeal that wormed its way into everyone's minds intensified. He would show everyone the scriptures he had written.

What had he written, anyway?

Ah, yes.

The black figure licked his lips, flipping open the book. On the pages, it read:

> "On the final eighth day, God returned to earth, surveying all he had created in the encounter with the Thousand-Faced One. God asked the man why he wandered through the divine world, and the man replied, 'I have come to claim it as my own.'

> 

> The Thousand-Faced One beheaded God with a great sword, usurping his place. Then, from the highest mountain on the land, the man proclaimed, 'My name is Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, and all shall know this name.'"

Yes! That's it! I am their god!

Hehehe!

Solomon continued running through the forest, leaving the blazing trees behind him. The warm, red light illuminated his path until he stepped back into cold shadow. He wasn't sure if the commotion would attract locals, but he had no time to think about it—he needed to confirm whether any other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had arrived here. Protecting them from the horrors of the magical world was his mission.

But as he moved in the direction of the cave, Solomon caught a rancid stench, a sickening blend of animal musk and decaying protein that made his eyes burn. Out of the bushes emerged a massive black-furred arm, which split into two at the forearm, each finger ending in a sharp, hooked claw. The arm alone was as long as Solomon was tall. Its owner lumbered out from the shadowed thicket, and its head was unlike any typical beast's. Glowing pink eyes extended from the sides of its head, while a massive, vertical maw stretched from the top of its head to its neck. The maw was lined with rows of jagged, yellow teeth, dripping foul-smelling saliva. From above, one could even glimpse the creature's throat.

As it spotted Solomon, it let out a jubilant roar. The sacrifice it had long awaited was now before it, a delectable human to devour.

"Alright," the mystic muttered, glancing at his wand and then at the massive creature and the distance between them.

Then, he turned and ran.

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