The Holy Son in Marvel

Solomon was exceptionally careful as he constructed the spell model. He followed every instruction in the magic book floating beside him to the letter. Since he hadn't memorized the entire spell yet, he had to take extra precautions—any slip-up could lead to a nasty magical backlash.

This spell had been invented by a conjurer from the Greyhawk world, whose main profession was an information broker. Another spell named after him was the "Ivar's All-Seeing Worm," which had a distinctly spy-centric flavor. But the one Solomon was working on now—familiarly known as the "DM's Freak-Out" spell, or "Ivar's Black Tentacles"—was the conjurer's crowning achievement.

The shadowy tentacle quivered as it rose from the ground, surrounded by shadows that boiled like molten tar. Countless tiny black cilia wriggled and disappeared within the darkness, finally gathering to form a second tentacle. But this one was far weaker than the first; the shadowed area that should have covered 40 feet barely reached the expected size, and the tentacle's short, fur-like bristles couldn't catch even an ant—at most, they could tickle Solomon's feet.

Solomon had no idea where he was going wrong.

Casting a spell was like operating an internal combustion engine: mana was the fuel, the spell structure was the engine and transmission system, and the incantation was the ignition key and throttle. But this spell's power was far below what he'd expected. Maybe his pronunciation was slightly off, or perhaps the spell structure wasn't precise enough. The spell's structure, acting as the engine, flickered a few times before abruptly shutting down. All these factors combined to produce this flawed outcome. Now that he'd managed to cast the spell, his next step was like fixing a car—examining each part to identify and correct the issues.

But troubleshooting a spell was much harder than fixing a car. The "spark plugs" and "bearings" had to be crafted by the caster's own hand. Despite the effort, Solomon gritted his teeth and continued to adjust the spell. Otherwise, this spell might forever be known as "Solomon's Tickler," and he couldn't bear the humiliation.

Solomon sat down, took out a pen, and began jotting down notes in his spellbook. Time was running out—he had a class soon, and there wasn't enough time to dismantle the spell structure fully. He could only make adjustments in the areas he guessed might be flawed—just like the wizards from his memories. Unlike him, most wizards hadn't had a long education in magic from a young age; for them, magical education was much less accessible. At least Solomon could use his experience to correct errors. Ordinary apprentices weren't as lucky.

Most apprentices were more like automatic scroll-copiers under their mentor's direction. Unless they were lucky enough to have a kind, responsible mentor, and could fulfill the contract required to pay back their education costs, very few would make it. Most mentors simply pointed to a stack of textbooks, with no explanation, and left the rest to the students. Wizards were a brainpower-based profession; if an apprentice couldn't grasp the fundamental texts, they'd be better off becoming a farmer.

Even the more responsible mentors typically just annotated their old textbooks and threw them to their apprentices. Getting access to high-level spells and truly understanding the mysteries of magic was incredibly difficult. You either figured it out or didn't; the mentor wouldn't hold your hand.

This made Solomon feel incredibly fortunate. His mentor was the Supreme Sorcerer, the greatest mage in the universe. Without his guidance, Solomon's scattered memories wouldn't have filled in many gaps in basic knowledge. Only through the Supreme Sorcerer's teachings, with extensive foundational knowledge and spellcasting experience, could Solomon advance smoothly along the path of magic—especially in the area of planar studies, where Kamar-Taj had an abundance of expertise.

As Solomon slapped his classmate's back on his way into the classroom, it was obvious to anyone that he wasn't feeling well. He'd just forced another attempt at casting Ivar's Black Tentacles to test if he could reach the threshold of a fourth-level spell. His progress was astonishingly fast but still not enough. For now, he still had to rely on his hand-to-hand combat skills in battle—although, as he reminded himself, even Elminster occasionally picked up a longsword, so it wasn't too unusual for a novice like him.

At Kamar-Taj, arcane students channeled magic from Vishanti and stored it within their bodies. After casting spells, excess mana lingered and was absorbed, gradually increasing their mana capacity and physical endurance. This was why their mentors insisted they train in martial arts. Another reason was that the Book of Vishanti was rather underwhelming—arcane students often had to resort to casting protective spells by slapping them directly onto their opponent's faces. Unlike most apprentices, Solomon had been imbued with magic since birth, which gave him an enormous advantage over others who had trained for decades. Without that head start, he wouldn't have been able to cast a partial fourth-level spell using only his mana and mental strength.

"Hey." A classmate behind him tapped his shoulder. "You don't look so good, man."

"Don't worry, I've taken some medicine," Solomon leaned back slightly and replied. He was closest with his classmates from advanced math; next semester, he'd be taking his A-levels, and they'd been urging him to go into science, insisting that he include advanced math. "I just need a solid nap."

"I doubt you'll make it through this morning," the classmate said, glancing toward the teacher at the board, before leaning forward to whisper, "Anyway, would you be interested in coming to my place next weekend? It's an informal gathering, and rumor has it that little Princess Louise Windsor will be there. My father's got a meeting with the Earl of Essex about a TV series. You should come—I talk about you all the time. If you're interested, you can try our cranberry jelly."

"Your dad is the Secretary of Culture, right?" Solomon asked, slightly surprised.

"I'm glad you remember," the classmate, Bradshaw, grinned, his tone somewhat gleeful. "I'll let you in on something: the Labour Party has lost half of its seats in local councils. My dad probably won't last much longer in his position. Honestly, I wish he'd just leave—he has no clue about television. He thinks making a TV series is as simple as hammering in a nail. God help us, that role used to be called the 'Minister of National Heritage.' If he keeps this up, Britain's TV industry will become an actual relic. Just look at the mess that was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I feel he's partly to blame. You know, I've always believed magic is real."

"Same here, Bradshaw. Magic absolutely exists."

Unsurprisingly, Solomon didn't attend the Culture Minister's gathering. He wasn't interested in associating with the Windsor family. By some declarations, he was a legitimate claimant to Great Britain (excluding Ireland). If the Supreme Sorcerer ever decided to reinstate the monarchy for fun, Solomon might have to storm Buckingham Palace. Better to avoid any acquaintances who'd complicate things if that day came. According to tradition, his title would be Earl of Londinium.

Still, he did get to taste Bradshaw's cranberry jelly. His friend brought it in a Tupperware container on Monday, lamenting all the while that Solomon hadn't attended the gathering. When he heard that Solomon had an orphanage to look after, Bradshaw finally dropped the subject and promised to bring even more jelly before the weekend.

Solomon figured young Lorna might like the jelly. Ever since she'd punched him the other day, she hadn't even texted him, so he'd use this chance to apologize properly.

In the following two weeks, Solomon continued grappling with the challenge of mastering Ivar's Black Tentacles. His goal was to complete the spell structure before finishing the incantation. Constructing a spell structure was much like programming, but he only had a conjuration-based fourth-level spell framework to work with—no "packages" to call upon; everything had to be painstakingly transcribed into his spellbook and filled out manually.

Eventually, his results were limited to summoning a shadowy mire with countless tiny black tentacles writhing like tiny snakes with a faint gleam. Solomon assumed he'd missed something until one night, while practicing at Kamar-Taj, the foolish Cheshire Cat attempted to leap over the shadowy area. The black tentacles instantly caught the poor creature, and that's when Solomon knew he'd finally succeeded—the spell's effect matched the description perfectly.

He quickly dispelled the magic and picked up the whimpering Cheshire Cat, nuzzling it to comfort it.

"A fourth-level spell!" Solomon kissed the cat's round forehead. "Tonight, you get a beef can as a reward, little buddy."

"Meow~ (Not enough!)"

"Fine, two cans, but no more. You're at least fifteen pounds now."

The Cheshire Cat fluffed its fur indignantly.

"Meow! (Slander!)"

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