The figure before them was humanoid, its body a glowing, molten orange-red, radiating intense heat. Its limbs were grotesquely twisted, and it barely clung to a semblance of humanity. For reasons unknown, the devils—or perhaps demons—had fished this soul out of the River Styx and simply left it to languish. When Kamar-Taj's expedition passed through the lower layers of Hell, this pitiful soul had plummeted down from above.
(In Hell, there are numerous passages connecting its various layers—most resembling tunnels. Some are massive and controlled by the Hell lords, while others remain uncounted and unregulated. Aside from the River Styx, these tunnels are the main routes between the layers. The sorcerers, naturally, were using these routes to smuggle themselves through undetected.)
"Why is he saying Stark? Who is this man?" Nick Fury furrowed his brow, staring at the delirious soul. A sudden thought struck him. "Does time flow at the same rate in Hell as it does on Earth?" he asked. "What time is it on Earth right now?"
The sorcerers merely shrugged, unable to answer. Only Solomon offered a half-hearted explanation about the varying time rules across dimensions.
"In every plane, time flows at a constant rate within that plane," Solomon explained wearily. "Travelers perceive time subjectively, and it feels continuous. However, when crossing between planes, they may discover discrepancies in the objective passage of time. It's entirely possible that time spent in Hell doesn't align with time elapsed on the Material Plane."
Nick Fury, therefore, was as clueless about recent events on Earth as the rest of the group. Solomon, however, knew a few things. But he kept them to himself—there was no point in sharing while they were still trapped in Hell. One thing was certain, though: Tony Stark's mental state was likely far healthier than it would have been in another timeline. Without fear driving him, Stark's progress on his Iron Man armor might have taken an entirely different trajectory.
Solomon found himself curious to see Stark's latest creations someday.
Fury's attempts to extract information from the contorted soul were futile. Its consciousness had deteriorated to the point of near-total incoherence. Perhaps this was why the devils had abandoned it; the soul was so saturated with pain that it could no longer provide any meaningful energy. Only lowly imps would bother with such scraps—no self-respecting devil would waste effort on a "dingy" like this. The soul's descent into Hell had not been due to its own corruption, but because someone higher in its chain of command had been tempted by a devil. As a result, the entire group had fallen—a pattern similar to what the earlier infernal offspring case had hinted at: agents of devils embedded within the U.S. government.
"He's a soldier," Fury muttered, leaning closer to catch the soul's fragmented whispers. He pointed at a nearly melted oval-shaped metal tag on the soul's chest. "That's a dog tag—it identifies military personnel. He's American, judging by his accent—southeastern United States. Name's probably Chad Davis."
"Does it matter?" Solomon waved a hand dismissively at the young sorcerer holding the soul. "We're here for Mephisto, not Stark. Let's keep moving." But Fury couldn't let it go. He used a rope from his pack to bind the twisted soul and dragged it along behind him, determined to bring it with them.
"What are you doing?" Solomon asked, exasperated.
"I'm not leaving a soldier behind to suffer in Hell," Fury said resolutely. "That's not the fate he deserves. I'm taking him back."
But Solomon wasn't convinced. "You just want to study a soul, don't you?" he sneered. "That excuse might sound noble coming from Captain Rogers, but you? You don't have an ounce of credibility."
He reminded Fury that the soul's physical form only existed in Hell. Once brought to the Material Plane, it would be yanked back into Hell almost immediately. That was the universal law of this reality. The soul could only leave Hell after fully serving its penance and moving on to the ultimate resting place of the cosmos.
"Is a little piece of metal all it takes to shackle a man's entire life and values?" Solomon continued, his tone sharp with sarcasm. "Did he even know who or what he was fighting for when he enlisted? If he thought he was fighting for humanity's welfare, how could he have ended up in Hell? I'll bet the devil that tempted him regrets it deeply—it's a total loss for them."
Despite his weariness, Solomon couldn't resist poking at Fury, finding rare amusement in their verbal sparring amid the bleakness of Hell.
"He wasn't fighting for humanity—he was fighting for some capitalist's oil. Not for his country, but for profits. After his service, what did he have? No safety net, no real support. The capitalists don't care about their tools once they're used up. Last time I bought fries off the street, they were soaked in oil. Guess what? A squad of American soldiers jumped out of nowhere, pointed their guns at me, and stole my fries. For all I know, this guy was one of them."
Fury shot Solomon a withering look, one that spoke volumes without a single word.
The elder steward glared at Solomon as well. The young sorcerer's lack of focus irritated him, but he couldn't chastise him too harshly. After all, the success of this mission hinged on Solomon breaking through Mephisto's defenses. Even with the Ancient One backing them, the pressure on someone Solomon's age was immense. Let the boy have his moment of levity—so long as he accomplished his task.
"Quiet down," the steward snapped, turning back to address Solomon. "We're almost there. Get yourself ready—we'll need you."
Solomon, grinning mischievously, closed his mouth.
"What the hell is going on? Why is everyone I know suddenly missing?" Tony Stark was livid. Not only had Nick Fury vanished without a trace, but Solomon was also nowhere to be found. Captain Rogers had no idea where Fury was, Agent Romanoff was unreachable, and even Solomon's phone calls went unanswered. Stark had tried using predictive magic to glean some insight, but it was all for naught—Solomon had seemingly disappeared from existence.
School had started, yet Solomon hadn't shown up. His foster mother had simply submitted a long-term leave request on his behalf. Refusing to give up, Stark even visited Solomon's apartment again, only to be greeted by the artificial human. Solomon's so-called "roommate" was nowhere to be seen.
Earlier that day, Stark had visited Happy in the hospital. Happy's condition was grim—so bad that, if not for a mysterious vial of medicine delivered by Agent Hill, he might not have survived. The bottle's design struck Stark as oddly familiar. Only Solomon, as far as Stark knew, still used cork-stoppered glass vials.
Rhodey had come by to check on Stark as well. The U.S. military had offered him protection, but Stark knew exactly what they were after. The military brass still hadn't given up on obtaining the Iron Man technology, and the Battle of New York had only heightened their hunger. Stark flatly refused, knowing full well their motivations. The conversation with Rhodey ended poorly, leaving both men frustrated.
Back at his villa, Stark realized something important—it was Pepper's birthday. Panicked, he rushed to buy a gift. With no Happy to assist him and J.A.R.V.I.S. unwilling to lug packages around, Stark found himself handling everything on his own.
"Hm?" The sorcerers encountered yet another bizarre sight as they resumed their march. A second soul had fallen from the sky, landing near Mephisto's territory. Like the previous soul, this one was molten and warped, its condition nearly identical to Chad Davis's.
Fury's frustration boiled over. He hated feeling blind.
"When does this end?" he demanded impatiently, turning to the elder steward.
"This?" The steward glanced at Fury, a faint smile on his face. "This is only the beginning."
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