Chapter Twenty-Eight: Emperor Weishan

Michael first made a trip to the company. If he didn’t hand in something soon, Norman would probably be displeased. He submitted the improved serum formula to Norman, along with his theory about amplifying emotions.

“The serum can’t completely eliminate side effects—it can only mitigate them. It will make good people better and bad people worse. If someone’s character is straightforward and clearly leans toward good or evil, there won’t be any split personality issues. But if someone’s psyche is complex, they’ll be overwhelmed by heightened emotions, and the risk of dissociation remains.”

“The reason Steve became Captain America wasn’t because there was only one spot for the experiment, but because, in those chaotic times, only Steve’s temperament was suited to the serum.”

“I see,” Norman said, grasping the concept.

Norman promptly found a docile little monkey and injected it with the serum. The monkey didn’t display any signs of split personality, but when provoked, it still reacted with intense aggression—which fit the nature of primates.

He hadn’t expected Michael to truly be so capable, improving the serum again in such a short time. Norman himself had long since hit a bottleneck in serum research and hadn’t had any new ideas for ages.

“It seems we can proceed to human trials now.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s not easy to judge who is truly good or bad,” Michael replied.

Norman, however, was unconcerned. “If they could find a Steve, so can I.”

After all, it was only a matter of amplifying emotions—as long as you didn’t create a madman.

Seeing that persuasion was futile, Michael decided to say no more. After all, wise words cannot save those destined for doom.

Suddenly, he thought of Connors. “Dr. Connors has been arrested. May I use the remaining equipment from his lab?”

“Help yourself,” Norman replied.

Michael gathered some people and moved the apparatus to Jack Pharmaceuticals.

After handling these trivial matters, Michael finally made his way to the Sanctum. Mordo opened the door for him again, glaring with obvious displeasure, but there was nothing he could do.

“I don’t know why the Sorcerer Supreme took you as her disciple, but you’d better behave yourself,” Mordo warned.

With an innocent look, Michael said, “Do you think she took me as her disciple precisely to make me the next Sorcerer Supreme?”

Mordo spun around in anger. “Do you know what you’re implying?”

“The Ancient One’s retirement.”

Mordo jabbed a finger at Michael’s chest.

“No. Unless the current Sorcerer Supreme dies, there can be no successor—so don’t get any bright ideas. The Ancient One’s power is vast beyond measure; it’s impossible for her to die.”

So that’s how it is.

At last, Michael understood why the Ancient One would die. Perhaps her use of dark magic to extend her life for five centuries was solely to await the emergence of the next Sorcerer Supreme.

With the Time Stone, the Sorcerer Supreme could peer into the future and identify her successor, preparing in advance. Yet, since the next in line came five hundred years after the Ancient One, she had no choice but to linger until Stephen finally appeared.

Living for five centuries—wasn’t that its own kind of curse?

As Mordo said, no one really knew how long the Ancient One had lived. The reason was simple: everyone from her own era was long dead.

“How old is the Ancient One?” Michael asked.

“No one knows. Not even the oldest among us. When they first met her, she already looked exactly as she does now.”

Hearing Mordo’s answer, Michael grew more certain. The Ancient One likely had no desire to continue living; if it weren’t for waiting for Stephen Strange, she would have died long ago. She probably didn’t even wish to prolong her life with dark magic, which was why no one ever knew her true age.

The two reached the Ancient One. Mordo departed, leaving only Michael.

“Michael, are you ready?” she asked.

“I am.”

“Did Mordo tell you about the threshold for learning magic?”

“He did not.”

The Ancient One pondered, then explained, “Ordinary people wishing to learn magic must enter into a contract with the Vishanti and draw upon their power to cast spells.”

Michael smirked, dismissive. “Sounds like the Vishanti are lending out loans.”

“In a sense, yes. The Vishanti is a collective name for three deities, led by Agamotto—they’re an alliance.”

“What do you have to repay when you borrow from the Vishanti? Your soul or your faith? Forgive me, but I find it hard to imagine gods needing anything from mortals.”

Michael’s curiosity was genuine. Demons usually demanded souls; did that mean souls were useless to gods?

The Ancient One replied, “It is the soul. After death, your soul returns to the embrace of the three gods. If, one day, darkness descends, your soul will help the Vishanti resist it.”

“Then what makes gods any different from demons?” Michael asked. “Collecting souls as payment—how is that different from demons?”

The Ancient One smiled. “There’s a great difference. Demons take pleasure in tormenting souls; their realm is called Hell. The Vishanti’s domain is Heaven—they will not toy with your soul.”

“In truth, the gods collect souls to combat demons. If the power of the demons ever suppresses the Vishanti and the other benevolent, orderly deities, the demons would run rampant, and the world would be doomed.”

Michael could see the logic. Demons gathered souls to strengthen themselves, and the gods were forced to respond in kind. It was like nuclear arms: if you build one, so must I. If everyone has them, there’s peace; but if you don’t, you’ll be bullied.

“What about Odin?” Michael asked.

The Ancient One looked at him in surprise. “You know of Odin?”

“I’m not sure how to explain it, but yes, I know Odin.”

She smiled. “He too commands a legion of spirits.”

“Valhalla?”

According to legend, Odin’s Valhalla was the resting place for slain heroes.

“That’s right.”

“Enough about that,” she said, ending the topic.

The Ancient One led Michael to the library of the Sanctum. “The essence of sorcery lies in the use of magical energy—magic itself is energy drawn from the dimension of dark matter. Unfortunately, ordinary humans can’t do this; only gods or their descendants have this talent.”

“That’s why all sorcerers must make a pact with a master—enter into a... loan agreement.”

“But you are different. Like mutants, you are born with the ability to absorb dark energy. So you can learn magic without a contract.”

Upon hearing this, Michael was finally relieved—he had no desire to hand his soul over to anyone.

“Spells are simply methods of using dark energy. But mastering these methods is a sophisticated skill—so what you need to do is... study.”

“Wonderful. That’s exactly what I’m good at.”

This was right up his alley. Creation might take him a long time, but memorizing books—he barely needed a moment.