Chapter 360: A Day in Solomon’s Life

This was the prime of life—not too immature, not yet too burdened with adulthood. With a trim figure that filled out a crisp gray suit without seeming overly mature, Solomon also possessed defined muscles beneath his shirt. His hair, rebellious but tamed, could be slicked back to complement a deep blue or crimson tie. If he wanted, he could take an old family sedan and drive his date to a graduation ball.

For Solomon, things were a little simpler. First, he attended an all-boys school, so there was no such thing as a dance partner to distract him. Second, he already owned his car—an Aston Martin perfectly suited to his bespoke suit. Its sleek waistline matched the tailored cut of his jacket, with none of the middle-aged bulkiness found in gaudy luxury cars.

The only minor inconvenience was the car's UK license plate—a private plate, no less. In the US, such plates were uncommon, and most traffic officers had no idea how expensive they were in the UK. If he were stopped, he'd have to ensure his hands stayed visible at all times to avoid any "misunderstandings." That said, with enough politeness and charm, one might even share a light joke with the officer—after all, in a capitalist society, a wealthy young taxpayer commands a certain respect.

Fortunately, these issues didn't exist in the UK. Solomon's only real concern was the dreadful traffic.

The aliens had come and gone (more accurately, they'd been driven away, which was the one piece of good news). Life in London resumed, albeit amidst the lingering buzz of UFO sightings. Even the deaf old men had caretakers who relayed the events of the invasion, prompting them to recount their youthful encounters with much friendlier extraterrestrials. Those old-timers would claim today's aliens reflected the rampant racism of modern times—aggressive and unkind.

As proud, proper Londoners (referring to natives, not the wealthy newcomers), they weren't exactly keen on "superheroes." A bunch of flying weirdos battling in the sky didn't inspire much trust or gratitude.

Just yesterday, a house caught fire—caused by a small lizard engulfed in flames. Meanwhile, a group of children swore they'd seen flower fairies, which brought comfort to some older folk who feared today's kids lacked imagination, preferring rock music and video games over fairy tales.

Solomon's destination was one such eccentric household.

Here, steaming apple pie paired with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream awaited, accompanied by sweetened but milk-free tea. The host displayed one of the few commendable habits of British hospitality. When Solomon drove through a portal and parked his car in the courtyard, the butler's unflappable demeanor remained intact. He took the keys and parked the car as if to say Solomon was the impolite one.

This was a meeting where Solomon would need to display his noble manners.

Such invitations were common, but Solomon only accepted those involving scholars—not business magnates (looking at you, Stark). This host required particular care, not merely because of her title but because she was destined to encounter the mystical world. Solomon needed to prevent her from revealing the truth.

If she signed a contract, all would be well—she could fuss all she wanted after that.

The spirited young woman, however, seemed almost nervous before him. Solomon assumed his previous displays of power had intimidated her. In reality, Lara Croft was simply excited; historical mysteries lay within her grasp.

"I've heard of Sir Richard Croft's renown," Solomon began as he settled into a plush armchair, contract in hand. "And you've been quite the subject of London's tabloids. My apologies, but this is a necessary formality, Miss Croft."

Thankfully, Lara wasn't burdened with the naive notions of certain left-leaning ideologies. She readily accepted the straightforward terms, assuming it was the price for Solomon answering her questions. In return, he agreed to address certain historical enigmas, particularly those surrounding King Arthur—the fate of Excalibur, his own identity, and more. She pledged not to share or record any of this knowledge.

Lara also mentioned her upcoming expedition to the Dragon's Triangle, seeking Solomon's insights about the region. This put him in a bind, as the area contained the tomb of an Umbra Witch. While devoid of overt magical threats, it was perilous enough to endanger ordinary adventurers. Ultimately, Solomon refrained from revealing the truth, knowing this expedition would be a pivotal moment in Lara's life—a path he could not interfere with.

This task, light in comparison, was merely one of many on Solomon's agenda. After bidding Lara farewell, he drove to rural Finland.

There, he found Queen Frigga and Allfather Odin dressed as ordinary humans, strolling along an overgrown cobblestone path. Ahead of them loomed majestic snow-capped mountains beneath thick, leaden clouds.

Solomon parked at a distance and walked to meet them, following their path. Odin leaned on a seemingly ordinary staff, though anyone with mystical sight would see the radiant magical aura emanating from it. The Allfather seemed less than pleased with Solomon's arrival. Since stepping down from the throne, Odin's royal demeanor had all but vanished.

Solomon overheard his grumbling about the interruption to his leisure time. Frigga gently patted his shoulder, reminding him of his status.

"What status? We're just an old couple living in the countryside now."

"Really? Because the neighbors tell me you've been claiming to be my grandfather."

"Well, we have to give mortals some kind of explanation…" Odin muttered defensively. Frigga smiled wryly and invited Solomon to join their walk. She asked him to keep an eye on Odin while she foraged for mushrooms and herbs, lest the old man sneak off to hunt in the mountains again.

"Ah, that explains why the neighbors rave about my 'grandfather's' strength," Solomon said with a sigh. "Apparently, you've been sharing bear meat with them? You're lucky the local authorities aren't keen on filing reports—and that bear meat is delicious."

Solomon shifted to a rare tone of admonishment, addressing Odin's turned back. "If you insist on hunting, at least don't let the locals see you carrying a bear over your shoulder. And for heaven's sake, don't hang the pelt outside. That's hardly the behavior of an ordinary old man."

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