Chapter 350: The Interweaving of Life and Death

Rage, excruciating pain, and the black dagger plunged into the gap in Solomon's abdominal armor, tearing through flesh and muscle with a malicious upward twist. He could feel the blade piercing his liver. The unbearable agony forced a strangled cry from his throat, but the sound was ground down by shame and pain that burrowed deeper than the blade itself.

Unable to suppress his emotions, Solomon activated the stigmata far beyond his established safety threshold. The Kabbalistic essence roared to life, golden flames spilling from his eyes. A radiant halo like the sun formed behind his head, and before Hela could react, Solomon unleashed a monstrous roar. Steam hissed from his dragon-shaped helm, filling the frigid air.

Far away, in the cold mountains of Italy, a priest attending a mass clutched his abdomen as a massive wound suddenly appeared, spraying blood onto the crimson robes and pews. The other clergy members remained in prayer, seemingly unaware. Moments later, identical wounds opened on all the monks present.

Father Moro stood unperturbed at the altar, bathed in warm, heavenly light.

In the dark realm of the dead, Solomon released his shield and gripped his sword with both hands. Swinging it like a hammer, he smashed Hela away, sending her crashing into the opposite obsidian wall of the bone-filled hall. The force of the blow was so immense that a fleeting burst of white mist formed and vanished in an instant.

Pulling the dagger from his abdomen, along with the other black blade lodged in his shoulder, Solomon crushed them in his gauntleted hands. Miraculously, his severed arteries knitted themselves together, and the blood pooling in his abdominal cavity disappeared.

Solomon now embodied both wrath and pride, a terrifying blend of divine majesty and human ferocity. Angelic hymns and demonic roars punctuated every word he spoke, amplifying his presence in the desolate hall.

"You!"

The Dragon Wing boosters screamed as Solomon hurtled toward Hela. Their swords clashed in a frenzied dance of death, silver and gold against black and green. The battle was one that no mere mortal could hope to interrupt.

Hela let out a guttural, joyous scream. This was exactly what she desired: in her desolate domain, death ruled supreme. Kill or be killed—this was the essence of her existence. For the first time in ages, she had found a worthy opponent.

Solomon moved too fast to track, his sacred sword repeatedly piercing Hela's body. Yet every wound healed as if it had never been. He crushed her seemingly delicate limbs with his bare hands, only for them to twist and reattach instantly. Despite losing much of her former power, Hela's immortality remained intact. Her wounds healed faster than Solomon's, and even when he severed her limbs, they reappeared moments later.

Hela was born of death itself, a manifestation of eternal silence in the mortal plane. Her body carried neither blood nor life, only the ceaseless flow of death and rebirth.

Solomon delivered a powerful punch to Hela's stomach, shattering her knee underfoot before grabbing her neck and slamming her into the ground. He narrowly dodged a thicket of black swords that erupted from the floor, pinning her from behind. With a mighty thrust, he drove the sacred sword through Hela's back, pinning her to the obsidian floor.

The glowing blade anchored her to the cold, green-tinged ground. Black swords erupted around her, and Solomon used them as makeshift nails, pinning her arms and legs in place. He withdrew his sacred sword only to drive several more black blades into her chest.

Though effectively restrained, Hela showed no concern for the numerous swords embedded in her body. She lay as if blooming amidst the chaotic thicket of black steel, her expression one of twisted delight.

"Let me see your face," she demanded in a low, maniacal voice. "Show me your face, warrior. You're no mere Midgardian knight. Tell me your name!"

Solomon hesitated briefly, then allowed the helm covering his face to retract. The fierce, silver dragon's visage dissolved, revealing a young face, weary and drenched in sweat. His golden eyes glowed faintly, lending him an air of maturity and authority far beyond his years. Rising mist from his breath shrouded him in mystery.

"I am the disciple of humanity's master, the heir to the Sorcerer Supreme, bearer of the sacred sword and spear, wielder of the Vishanti's arcana," he declared. "I am Solomon Messiah Damonet Pendragon."

"You cannot kill me!"

"I know."

"I will remember your name! I am the Queen of Asgard and your queen as well!" Hela's cruel smile deepened. "Even if you escape, I will find you. When I break free of this cursed prison, we will duel as equals. And I will make you kneel, Solomon! I, Hela, am your queen!"

In Asgard, Queen Frigga's eyes widened in shock as she observed the scene through her scrying mirror. Though Solomon's methods were brutal, the outcome pleased her.

"Well, it seems Hela likes him," Frigga remarked, astonished yet satisfied.

The Sorcerer Supreme chuckled derisively, earning a sharp glare from Frigga.

"How do you plan to get your disciple out of there?" Frigga asked. "Odin's prison can't simply be opened."

"Kamar-Taj has studied the Tesseract," the Sorcerer Supreme replied, setting down her fork. With a flick of her wrist, a silver-gold figure appeared in the room. Solomon crashed through the wooden floor, sending dust and golden sparks flying.

"You did well, my dear disciple," the Sorcerer Supreme said to a disgruntled Solomon as he stood up. "Both in battle and in preparing smoked salmon."

"Master, Your Majesty," Solomon greeted weakly before collapsing into a chair at the dining table. He sighed deeply, utterly spent. The still-warm Dragon Wing boosters hissed against the chair, releasing a faint smell of burnt wood. Exhausted from two consecutive battles with the stigmata active, Solomon wanted nothing more than to rest. As for Malekith, he couldn't care less—if Thor couldn't handle him, perhaps Hela would make a better ruler.

The Sorcerer Supreme slid a plate of smoked salmon toward Solomon. He glanced up, his golden eyes now extinguished, and began eating with the help of an unseen servant that cut and fed him the fish.

"Do you have to use magic even to eat?" the Sorcerer Supreme teased, ruffling Solomon's sweat-dampened hair in mock disgust. A flick of her finger and all the sweat and dried blood vanished from him.

Solomon offered a weak smile, accepting her help as he continued his meal in silence.

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