Chapter 419: Religious Reformation

"I read your paper. Not bad at all. You might even secure an impact factor in Nature's sub-journal," Stark remarked casually.

"Good grief. How has everyone read the first draft of my paper?" Solomon frowned, quickly piecing together how it might have spread. He understood Athena's access to it—after all, the Merton College network was deeply entwined with her influence. Jane Foster had seen it too, given that she was his academic supervisor. That much made sense. Even Nick Fury's access was understandable, considering S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intelligence capabilities. But Stark? That indicated either Stark had ties to Solomon's academic mentors, J.A.R.V.I.S. had hacked into Oxford's servers, or maybe even Solomon's unprotected personal computer. Perhaps all three were true.

"This is a serious breach of privacy, Stark," Solomon said sternly.

Stark simply shrugged. "Relax. I assure you it won't spread beyond me," he replied, feigning innocence. "I used to be a student too. I know how many innovative papers get rejected outright—I've had my fair share. You know how we recruit talent at Stark Industries. If you ever want to join, I could offer you a prime position."

"Stark Industries is hiring nuclear astrophysicists?" Solomon asked, genuinely curious. It made sense for the company to recruit in fields like thermal engineering, electrical engineering, and metallurgy, but astronomy was a puzzling addition.

Nuclear astrophysics was a highly specialized sub-discipline. As a tertiary branch of physics, it was derived from astrophysics and further divided into fields such as solar physics, stellar physics, and planetary system studies. Jane Foster's guidance had exposed Solomon to both high-energy astrophysics and space physics, with occasional forays into radio astronomy. Now, with her research on wormholes expanding, even Darcy had thrown in the towel, leaving only Solomon and Dr. Selvig able to keep up.

If it hadn't been for Darcy's plea for Solomon to cast a spell boosting her intelligence, she might not have even completed her thesis.

"I'm not limiting my vision to Earth," Stark explained. "A few months ago, I launched a satellite with better range and resolution than the Hubble Telescope. Haven't you seen my announcement on Twitter? Stark Industries' stock prices soared."

Stark continued without pause. "We've already had two alien invasions. Who knows when the third one will hit? I need people to look to the stars, not panic about aliens hiding under their beds. Some White House officials I speak with think their weapons can destroy any invader. But I know better—those weapons would cause more collateral damage than the aliens themselves. Humanity must reach out to peaceful extraterrestrial civilizations if we want to make real technological progress."

"So, you plan to expand your Iron Legion?" Solomon gestured toward Stark's suits and the dismantled components strewn across the lab. "A surgical strike force with heavy firepower for support? You want your legion to act as a deterrent against alien threats?"

"Bingo!" Stark snapped his fingers. "Super soldiers are obsolete. AI is the future. Training a super soldier is a lengthy, costly process, but an army of intelligent machines can be replicated. Honestly, your reliance on alchemy is outdated by a few centuries. You should embrace science."

Solomon remained silent, unwilling to refute Stark's statement. After all, he too used AI for various tasks. However, Stark's dismissal of his alchemical expertise was irksome. With a quarter of the Aether particles under his control, Solomon's advancements in alchemy had skyrocketed, with Paracelsian principles guiding his progress.

"Oh dear," Solomon chuckled, emphasizing the sarcasm in his voice. "Have you finally realized that you're the bottleneck holding J.A.R.V.I.S. back? Without you, I'm sure J.A.R.V.I.S. could operate at full potential. No matter how well-engineered your suit is, you can't withstand 12 Gs. Poor J.A.R.V.I.S. even has to keep your air conditioning running to prevent you from suffocating on your own body odor."

"I've been training! And I'm not smelly!" Stark retorted indignantly.

"Training for what?"

"Close-quarters combat. I hired a coach," Stark grumbled, pointing to a wooden Wing Chun dummy in the corner. "I'm also programming a close-combat algorithm. It'll incorporate various martial arts techniques, enabling predictive counterstrikes based on opponent movement. Bottom line—I created the damn suit."

Stark's desperate need to validate himself was almost comical. Realizing how absurd he sounded, he quickly grabbed a tray of tacos delivered by his one-armed robot assistant, Dummy. Waving the food in front of Solomon, Stark stuffed his mouth full, chewing furiously as Dummy poked him in confusion.

"Buzz off, Dummy, you idiot! I'll disassemble you and sell your parts to some African warlord," Stark mumbled through a mouthful of food. "We're done. We're not friends anymore."

"Sure," Solomon replied indifferently.

"Okay. Friendship over. Time to reconcile. Let's get back to work."

"Ahem."

"You said we'd stay in contact through letters. What happened? Is something wrong with Damon? Did that little nun abandon him? Just shoot him—I only care about his sister," Solomon muttered impatiently, glaring toward the street outside his house. Being interrupted while grocery shopping wasn't exactly his idea of a pleasant afternoon, especially by a drunken priest from across the Atlantic.

"It's not about Damon. And the nun? Yeah, she got excommunicated—she's pregnant," Father Moru replied, pulling a gleaming silver pigeon from his battered leather jacket. The pigeon was one of Solomon's enchanted artifacts, meant for discreet communication with the Church, not for surprise visits. Noticing cookie crumbs on the pigeon's wings, Solomon rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Clearly, Moru had misinterpreted its purpose as a ceremonial token rather than a subtle warning system.

"The Pope wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury—about you," Moru whispered, lowering his voice. Although Queen Elizabeth I had long reconciled the differences between the Catholic Church and the Church of England, internal tensions persisted. Moru knew better than to draw attention to himself.

He tapped the pigeon, revealing its hidden mirrored surface.

"About me?" Solomon's curiosity was piqued. He gestured for Moru to continue.

"Pope Francis wants you to visit the Vatican. If that's not feasible, Westminster Abbey will do. They're interested because you study the King James Bible," Moru explained nervously, avoiding Solomon's gaze. "Think of it as a formal invitation to a banquet. Attend a Mass—either in Rome or London."

Since the miraculous Mass that had left many clergy members marked with stigmata, Moru's standing in the Church had soared. Those cardinals and bishops, now bearing what they believed were holy wounds, had become Moru's staunchest allies.

Moru understood Solomon's disdain for organized religion. The Church's relevance was shrinking, especially in the wake of repeated alien invasions. While some zealots saw these events as divine punishment, they were of little use to the Church's long-term survival.

To secure the Church's future, Moru needed Solomon—the so-called "saint." He hoped Solomon could guide the Church through reforms as transformative as the Protestant Reformation. To win over the entrenched clergy, Moru needed Solomon to display his "divine" nature during a public Mass.

The Church of Rome was fighting for survival, and Solomon was their best hope.

Moru wasn't just aiming for reform. He wanted Solomon to become the next Pope.

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