A Prophetic Dream from the Father

"You reek. Go take a bath." The Sorcerer Supreme waved her hand, signaling Salomon to hurry up and clean himself. The stench of coagulated blood and sweat from all kinds of Dark Magic Creatures was something even Vampires would dislike, and everyone here was normal.

"And one more thing." Before her disciple left, The Venerable One added, "Athena told me you won’t need to go there again today. Little Lorna has already returned home safely. For the time being, the wise War Goddess will personally hunt down those idiots, so you can rest easy."

"You should know that my anger comes from guilt, shouldn’t you?" Salomon said to The Venerable One before leaving. "Marduk’s target was me, and Mephisto’s target was me too. They want to use me to sit in that chair. If innocent children die because of me, I’ll never be able to forgive myself."

"It’s a good thing to be able to taste guilt. Right now, what you need most is to make yourself smell nice again. The world won’t stop turning without you. Vengeful boy, go enjoy dinner with the Witch. You need to relax. When the time for revenge comes, I promise you’ll be standing at the very front."

Salomon bowed and respectfully withdrew from the meditation chamber.

"You should have called us, Boya." Bayonetta gently stroked the hair of her lover lying on her lap, her tone carrying a rare tenderness. Since she and Salomon had met, they had gone from wanting to kill each other over their opposing positions to becoming attached because of memories from five hundred years ago. Over such a long time together, Bayonetta had never seen Salomon so angry. She could feel rage congealing beneath every inch of the Arcanist’s skin when he had returned home.

"We’re bored stiff," she said. "There are too few Angels in Europe. Jeanne and I can’t keep pretending to be nuns; that only draws Affinity Angels, and it’s less exercise than a yoga session."

"But this counts as official business, darling." Salomon closed his eyes, enjoying the Witch’s caresses and the intoxicating scent of her faint perfume. He nuzzled against Bayonetta’s thigh. The Witch lightly pinched his nose until Salomon grumbled in dissatisfaction, only then releasing him and turning her attention to other parts of him.

Because he had been too angry earlier, Salomon had chosen to deal with his enemies in close combat rather than use magic. As a result, he had been covered in the blood of his enemies. He had changed into a fresh set of clothes, and his previous clothing had been burned. Even his bathwater had been poured out into an uninhabited wilderness—after all, no one knew whether a basin of bathwater mixed with the blood of every kind of Dark Magic Creature might give birth to some grotesque thing in this chaotic universe.

He was exhausted now, especially after dinner. He could barely keep his eyes open. Bayonetta wanted Salomon to sleep in bed tonight, but Jeanne strongly objected. She tossed aside the Cheshire Cat she had been fiddling with and tried to drag Salomon to his feet. Fortunately, Bayonetta stopped Jeanne’s absurd behavior in time, allowing Salomon to continue resting properly on her lap.

"That was an operation aimed at you. We’re qualified to go to Hell and kill that Hell Lord. Don’t forget, Boya, you’re the weakest one in this household—" the Witch said with a smile, "—if we don’t count the Cheshire Cat and your little maid."

At that moment, the apartment doorbell rang. Salomon opened his eyes and struggled up from Bayonetta’s lap, telling the Artificial Human to see who had come. When the Artificial Human returned with the news, the Arcanist’s eyes narrowed as though he were considering something.

"Who is it?" Jeanne asked curiously.

Not many people knew this address. She could not guess who would pay them a visit after dinner. Salomon gave the answer. "Father Morlu," he said. "That drunken Black priest. He came for me. He told Dinah that he had something very important to tell me. He said my disaster was near, that I had already strayed onto the wrong path, and that I was about to descend into the Palace of Death."

"You think highly of this fellow. You didn’t even get angry after hearing such threats." Bayonetta raised her own question. "Why?"

"He may have seen the one who gave me the Holy Marks." Salomon stood up and patted down his wrinkled shirt. "I still have a score to settle with that person." He asked the Witch, "Should we receive him?"

"Since he wants to be a guest, let him in."

Father Morlu brought a bottle of liquor even when visiting, though this bottle was for himself. "I know about what happened to you, including what you’ve already encountered, before it happened," he said bluntly. "I know you’ll want to ask where I got this information. All I can tell you is that I learned it while praying."

"Not while drinking yourself unconscious?" The Arcanist never spared anyone with his tongue, especially servants of God.

"Hmph!" Father Morlu could not refute the Arcanist’s mockery, because he really had dreamed of what Salomon experienced after drinking himself unconscious, and he could not lie. The reason he remembered it was precisely because ordinary people could not possibly remember what they dreamed after blacking out from drink, yet even now, he still remembered what he had seen in that dream.

That was why, the moment he woke from his hangover, he had immediately flown from Europe to New York without wasting a single moment.

"But you’re drinking again now." After hearing his explanation, the Arcanist looked disdainful. He suspected Father Morlu had drunk himself stupid—given the way Father Morlu drank, it was already a miracle that his liver had not failed.

"This is the best cure for a hangover." Father Morlu shot an unhappy glance at the Witch beside Salomon.

Witches were women who practiced evil arts, the hounds of demons, Delilah who cut Samson’s hair, the great whore of Babylon who rode the beast with seven heads and ten horns and led the Holy Child to the slaughter. Morlu was extremely displeased by Salomon’s closeness to Witches. However, he knew Salomon would never listen to him. He had come only to warn Salomon that danger was approaching.

"I dreamed that you faced a Three-headed Poison Dragon amid black fire capable of burning away souls." Father Morlu took another swig of strong liquor. He drank so quickly that Salomon even suspected this bottle had been bought from the supermarket downstairs, and that the liquor Father Morlu had brought from Europe had long since run out.

"The poisonous dragon had a green serpent’s tongue, and its venomous saliva turned into poisonous grass when it fell upon the ground," the priest said. "I saw you riding a warhorse without saddle or stirrups, facing the poisonous dragon with lance and sword. I saw you use your lance to pin the poisonous dragon to the ground…"

"Wait, wait, why does this story sound more and more familiar?" Salomon hurriedly interrupted Father Morlu’s nonsense. "This is clearly the story of Saint George Slaying the Dragon. A lot of what you said does match me quite well—for instance, my warhorse truly has no saddle or stirrups, and I really do have a sword and a lance—but that doesn’t prove you’re right. Did you forget your dream and decide to make something up?"

"Then how do you explain that I dreamed of that incident before you were attacked?" Father Morlu glanced at the Arcanist over the rim of his bottle. He swallowed his drink and coughed twice. "You have always refused to believe in God. This should not have happened to you." He looked at the two exceptionally alluring Witches. "You truly are the Messiah, the second Messiah. The responsibility you must bear is far greater than it is now. From the moment you were born, you were meant to become a savior. Do you remember what I told you before? You can perform miracles without accepting external magic power. What is stopping you from doing so? Your teacher?"

"No, my height," the Arcanist said with complete seriousness. Father Morlu obviously did not accept that utterly nonsensical explanation, yet it was the truth.

"In any case, you had better study properly the things you took from the monastery. The Lord’s wisdom is all within them; those are things you can understand. Don’t look at me like that. I know those people from the Golden Dawn. They also came to the monastery seeking wisdom, but they took very little away because those were things they were fated to never understand. They were not even qualified to receive the Holy Blood." Father Morlu stood up, preparing to leave. "My dream is what will soon happen. What you need is the Lord’s power."

"Forget it. If God truly is omnipotent, then we humans are merely ants. The burnt offerings we present are insect limbs, and our worship is the murmuring of mosquitoes. It means nothing to God—unless He is a narcissist who delights in hearing praise. Morlu, would you enjoy the worship of mosquitoes?"

It seems there were too many Bible references mixed in. I’m a little worried you won’t understand them… Should I explain them separately?

Thankfully, I drink alone. Otherwise, when I get drunk, my habit of talking too much nonsense is really…