Chapter 9: Bald Qiang

Sorcerers are proud beings.

In Europe, during the era when magic flourished most, magical families refused even to intermarry with ordinary people.

Only when magic began to fade and gradually slipped out of mainstream society’s view did people start to claim, “Magic is nothing but a legend.”

People would rather believe that everyone in the world is just like themselves.

But in fact, the power of magic has always existed—at least, this is true in the Marvel universe.

Upon hearing these words, Meimu’s first thought was: Is Kaecilius out of his mind?

Then again, there are always those who fancy themselves born noble. This incurable self-satisfaction often appears in people born with silver spoons in their mouths.

Even in modern Europe, traces of nobility remain. The simplest example: if there’s a “von” in someone’s name, it means noble heritage.

Examples like this abound, just as in the Harry Potter novels, where wizarding families call non-magical folk “Muggles” with disdain.

He truly felt grateful that when the People’s Republic was founded, all the landlords were swept away—otherwise, by today, there would be ten thousand times more snobs looking down their noses at others.

Meanwhile, Kaecilius continued to preach his gospel of darkness, though he soon remembered his main purpose.

“Meimu, isn’t it?” He yanked Meimu’s hair again. They were so close that Meimu could smell the foul stench from his mouth—a reek tainted with dark power. “Oh, it seems your talent isn’t entirely worthless. Well, perhaps a ten-thousandth of that Stephen’s, at best.”

Meimu cursed inwardly.

To think he possessed only a ten-thousandth of Doctor Strange’s magical talent—well, so be it.

But one must never lose face!

After all, not a single lackey who sided with Dormammu ever came to a good end.

Afraid as he was, terrified as he might be, Meimu kept his face stern and silent, refusing to show the slightest weakness as he met Kaecilius’s gaze head-on.

“Oh? Still have some spine, do you? Very well, I’ll give you a chance. Swear fealty to me—Kaecilius, Dormammu’s mightiest servant. If you do, I’ll let you prove whether you’re worthy of the darkness’s favor. Otherwise…”

Before Kaecilius could finish, one of his henchmen lifted what was left of Douglas’s severed head.

On that half-destroyed face, terror and horror were forever frozen. The garish colors of blood and brain matter were enough to sting the eyes at a glance.

Meimu felt sick, a wave of nausea rising in his throat.

“Kneel before me! Swear to become the most wretched slave of the Lord of Darkness! At least then you’ll be a bit nobler than those worthless, insect-like mortals,” Kaecilius pronounced his final verdict.

As these words fell, the Chinese youth before him began to tremble violently.

Meimu slowly raised his head. That once-ordinary face now carried an extraordinary hue.

Indeed, he was a scapegoat.

Before crossing over, he had been a mediocre student, lacking in talent.

But lacking talent didn’t mean he couldn’t become an elite, or a remarkable person. Did that mean he had to walk the crooked path with Kaecilius?

Was a loser’s life not a life at all?

A bitter smile curled his lips. He never expected, after all his twists and turns, to fulfill that age-old question:

“Do you want to be a coward for life, or a hero for a single second?”

“Coward? Hero?” The words echoed endlessly in Meimu’s heart, tasting of profound bitterness.

In his first twenty years, he had endured more than his fair share of ridicule. The neighbors’ children were always better than he. He had never become the gleaming pride in his parents’ eyes—but that didn’t mean he had no bottom line, nor that he would tread the path of darkness!

Kaecilius’s lofty threats and scorn fell squarely on the last shreds of dignity Meimu clung to in his heart.

His expression twisted into something fierce and terrible.

“Oh?” Startled by Meimu’s savage look, Kaecilius frowned darkly.

He said nothing, but his henchmen immediately tightened their magical whips.

Kaecilius stared coldly at Meimu, “You overestimate yourself, mortal! Have you thought through the price of defying me?”

His anger was palpable—like a man bitten by an ant too small for its own good.

Veins bulged, arteries and veins in Meimu’s neck swelling with the rapid rush of blood. Though his teeth chattered in fear, through clenched jaws he spat out words thick with murderous intent.

He seemed nothing like an ordinary man. Instead, he resembled one of those medieval knights who, knowing death was certain, still charged the enemy, roaring: “Kaecilius, either kill me now, or one day I’ll kill you!”

His hands, bound tight, could not make fists, but his fingers curled into claws, as if ready to rip Kaecilius apart the moment he broke free.

Meeting Meimu’s black, burning eyes, sensing the wild fury blazing within, Kaecilius smiled instead. “Not bad—more spine than those so-called guardians, at least.”

With a flourish, Kaecilius turned away, tracing a circle in the air with his left hand. A portal wreathed in golden sparks appeared before him.

As he stepped through, he cast a sentence over his shoulder: “Kill him.”

Kill him… so this was the final judgment.

Hearing these words, Meimu was utterly despondent.

Of all the people who crossed over, nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine out of ten thousand met untimely deaths. He never expected to be among them.

But perhaps it was only right. If history was so unreliable, and the damned scales of fate so erratic, perhaps he was destined to die.

Meimu squeezed his eyes shut, hard.

And then, the world spun violently.

For a fleeting second, he thought his head had been lopped off and was spinning seven hundred and twenty degrees through the air.

But almost immediately, he realized something was wrong.

A shout rang out.

Screams echoed.

Opening his eyes, Meimu saw the situation had changed.

A mysterious figure in a black warrior’s robe and hood was dispatching the brown-robed zealots with blinding speed.

No ordinary man could move like that.

One zealot cracked a whip, but the man in black dodged with a sidestep, grabbed the zealot’s wrist, and landed no fewer than ten knee strikes at point-blank range in a single second.

But most importantly, Meimu saw a bald woman.

In every anime or movie world, nine out of ten bald people are powerhouses.

Precisely because baldness is the mark of supreme strength, she was known as the Bald Sovereign.

Meimu could have wept with relief.

At last—he’d found his people!

It was her—the Ancient One!