Chapter 415: A Villain’s Declaration

"Rise," Solomon declared solemnly in the dimly lit chamber.

This room was unlike any other—sealed from the outside world by alchemical wards and bounded by his mastery over the Philosopher's Stone and Æther particles. Within stood rows of alchemically engineered artificial humans. Suspended in nutrient tanks, each of these homunculi shared an unexplainable yet profound connection with their creator.

One by one, they awakened, stepping out of the thick, drying solution. Their appearances were unnervingly perfect: ethereal beauty, flawless skin, and glistening silver-white hair. Yet their expressionless faces exuded an unnatural aura, like living dolls devoid of true sentience. Despite their seemingly delicate frames, those familiar with their design understood that beneath their fair exterior lay a reinforced alchemical core and magical alloy skeleton, capable of immense power.

The homunculi silently followed Solomon's instructions, moving with eerie synchronization toward a large communal shower to cleanse the residual nutrient fluid clinging to their bodies. When they emerged, damp and gleaming under the dim lights, their former incubation tanks had vanished. In their place were fresh towels, neatly folded uniforms, and polished shoes.

Though the scent of the nutrient solution—a metallic blend of milk, blood, and oil—still lingered faintly, they methodically dried themselves and dressed. Solomon observed them closely, but he felt no disappointment at their stoic demeanor. Emotional development was a gradual process.

They recognized him as their creator and knew Dana as their commander. Their awareness of duty and identity had been instilled within them, though they had yet to engage in real conversation or learn how to navigate complex social interactions. They possessed the potential for free will, enough to eventually emulate real humans, yet were bound by the primary mission Solomon had programmed into their very essence.

"Each of you will have a name," Solomon stated, his voice firm yet calm. Through the fragile emotional link they shared, he sensed the faintest embers of devotion flickering in their souls. All it would take was a gentle breath of encouragement to ignite an uncontrollable blaze of loyalty.

This was both the strength and flaw of homunculi—absolute obedience. They would serve him with unwavering faith, a trait that came with its own set of complications.

"As long as you remain true to your mission, you will earn my respect," he continued. "You will meet your commander soon. She will teach you everything you need to survive and thrive. Be confident, girls. Do not doubt yourselves. Your service will endure until the end of time itself."

The homunculi would soon begin intensive combat training in both firearms and melee weaponry. Wakanda had accelerated the production of Solomon's specialized equipment—explosive-tipped projectiles and rocket-propelled tungsten-core rounds. These explosive arrowhead bullets, designed for the "boom gun," had destructive potential comparable to military-grade grenade launchers.

T'Challa and Shuri, however, had voiced skepticism about Solomon's emphasis on close combat. Wakanda's traditions and Black Panther training emphasized mastery of hand-to-hand combat, but they preferred avoiding unnecessary melee engagements in modern warfare.

"Close combat is still crucial," Solomon asserted as he discussed his strategy with T'Challa. "I do not fear bullets or flamethrowers. The only threats I truly respect are those that meet me blade-to-blade. In future battles, there will be times when satellites and long-range systems are unavailable. Some enemies will endure fire and radiation without flinching. When that happens, our swords will do the talking."

T'Challa regarded the training arena thoughtfully. "This circular structure is where you intend to train those… artificial soldiers?"

"Precisely," Solomon replied. "Swordsmanship demands relentless practice. I've spent years honing both sword and spear techniques, just like you. No matter how technology evolves, there are traditions that noble warriors must always maintain."

"You wield a spear?" T'Challa asked with intrigue, eyeing the various weapons lined up along the walls.

"A shorter Spartan-style spear," Solomon explained, sensing the Wakandan king's competitive spirit. He welcomed the idea of a friendly sparring match. As their collaboration deepened, cultural and ideological clashes were inevitable. A bout of respectful competition might help bridge some of those divides.

For example, Shuri had withdrawn from hands-on genetic experimentation, focusing solely on theoretical research and offering support to Dr. Maya Hansen's team. This shift eased tensions without compromising the project's progress.

"And your shield?"

"A circular one."

"Too heavy," T'Challa remarked with a grin. "I'll use a Kikuyu shield and short spear. Prepare yourself to experience Wakandan craftsmanship firsthand."

"I'm looking forward to it," Solomon chuckled. After this duel, he planned to hand over Stark's reverse-engineered molecular disintegration field to Wakandan researchers. With this technology integrated, his artificial army would be fully equipped.

His next move? Fulfilling his promise to assist the artificial intelligence entity with a delicate matter. In exchange, he would gain access to the AI's full capabilities—laying the groundwork for dominion over global information networks.

The scenario was almost absurdly villainous, straight out of a comic book. Solomon couldn't help but laugh at the irony. If his true intentions were exposed, he knew how Stark, Steve Rogers, and S.H.I.E.L.D. would perceive him: a textbook supervillain destined to be defeated by righteous heroes.

But he had no intention of losing.

Meanwhile, the absence of the android maid Dana caused more disruption than expected. For a full week, the witches subsisted on Hawaiian pizza, much to their horror. What should have been a simple lunch turned into a culinary disaster due to their mischievous kitchen experiments. Without Dana's expertise, even basic sauces like French beef jus proved elusive.

Bayonetta had taken charge of roasting beef bones and various meats, ensuring the fats rendered without burning. Jeanne sliced vegetables with precision, tossing them into the simmering broth. Solomon, on the other hand, rummaged through the fridge for stored stock and white wine—essential ingredients for slow-cooking the sauce.

This meticulous process typically took three to four days to achieve perfection, which was why it was often delegated to Dana. During those days, the apartment would be filled with the rich aroma of beef jus, an irresistible invitation to the senses.

Without Dana's assistance, however, Solomon was left at the mercy of the witches. Jeanne teased him mercilessly as Bayonetta kicked him out of bed. A plump Cheshire cat curled contentedly in the witch's arms, smugly occupying Solomon's former spot.

The feline purred loudly, stretching lazily without a care in the world.

"This is your punishment for skipping dinner, Boya," Bayonetta teased with a devilish grin. "Tonight, the only company you'll have is this cat."

Solomon sighed, chuckling at the double entendre. When Bayonetta started with her playful innuendos, there was no stopping her.

It was going to be an… eventful evening.