At Last, It All Added Up

At Last, It All Added Up

"Based on such vague criteria?" Coulson found it unbelievable. "I can't imagine how you managed to pass this down through the generations. Did you just rely on blind luck, like buying lottery tickets?"

"More or less. In the East, we call it leaving things to fate." Evenson curled his lip. "Of course, it's probably easier than winning the lottery, since there are still patterns to follow. People suited for initiation usually have more energy than others and sharper minds—that is, they're healthy and intelligent."

"Healthy and intelligent? I feel like every top student at MIT could become a mage, then." Coulson spoke with slight sarcasm. This was no longer the Middle Ages. In this age of advanced technology, decent medical and sanitary conditions gave most people healthy bodies. As for intelligence, even if elite students at higher-learning institutions were not geniuses, they certainly could not be called stupid. Otherwise, why didn't you try getting in?

"Sorcerers. Don't confuse them—we and mages are two different professions," Evenson corrected. "That only means they're suitable for initiation, and the success rate is not high. It would be impressive if even one out of a hundred people like that succeeded."

"What happens after initiation?" Although Coulson felt the success rate was indeed rather low, it made sense when he thought about it. Otherwise, universities would have had to add Magic classes, or there would be Magic universities.

"Afterward? Initiation only makes the body stronger and the mind quicker. Nothing else." Evenson turned toward Melinda. "There's a saying you should know, Melinda: a master opens the door, but cultivation depends on the individual. After initiation, the teacher imparts knowledge, but whether you can learn it, how much you can learn, or whether something goes wrong all depends on your own fate."

"Master what? Can someone explain that? Mel?" Melinda, a Chinese American who spoke fluent Chinese, would certainly understand the proverb. But Coulson, a complete foreigner, had no idea what it meant. Besides, Evenson had said it in Chinese, because he did not know how to translate it into English either.

"It means I bring you into S.H.I.E.L.D., let you receive training, and teach you skills. But whether you become a Senior Agent afterward or die on your first mission depends entirely on you." Melinda patiently explained it to Coulson, though the explanation sounded rather ominous.

"Or maybe he simply can't learn and never becomes an agent. But overall, it's a fitting comparison." Evenson did not forget to tease him. "That's right. After initiation, only a small number can become official Sorcerers. The rest can manage, at best, one or two little tricks—and they definitely won't be as entertaining as David Copperfield's illusions."

"How do you test whether they can become, uh, official Sorcerers?" Coulson's question sounded somewhat stupid. What was there to test? If you taught them spells and they could learn them, then they qualified; if they could not, then they did not. But one had to consider people who learned slowly. Suitable prospects were hard to find. What if someone was merely slow, but you decided they could not learn and kicked them out? Who would be accountable for that?

"Different eras had different methods of testing. In the Middle Ages, a teacher would directly give the student a Magic book. Those who had undergone initiation but were unsuitable would generally feel an instinctive fear upon seeing the book and want to get away from it. Of course, some would force themselves to approach and read it, but they would not understand what was written inside. It was like an elementary school student reading relativity—they knew how to pronounce every word, but once the words formed a sentence, they had no idea what it meant. Of course, that was the best outcome."

"And the bad outcome?" If there was a best outcome, then naturally there had to be bad and worst outcomes, so Coulson asked at once.

"The bad outcome? Hmph." At the mention of it, Evenson pulled a cold smile across his face, like an adult telling a child a horror story. "There's a kind of person we call Half-Buckets. They can understand some of what's written in the book, but they truly aren't suited to become Sorcerers. Their fate? Heh heh." Evenson let out another cold laugh.

"They died?" Melinda asked cautiously. She thought death was already the worst possible outcome.

"That book is called the Necronomicon. The materials used to make it are rather special." Evenson spoke playfully. "It is made from human skin. When those Half-Buckets read it, the power within the book skins them alive and devours their skin. Those people usually endure a long period of agony before they die."

"There was a reason the Church nearly went mad slaughtering people accused of being witches back then." After saying that, Evenson looked up at the two across from him and saw the horrified expressions on their faces. After all, just imagining someone being skinned alive made every inch of one's flesh ache. At that moment, Evenson also let out a long breath in his heart. Damn it, I finally managed to make the story hold together.

Yes, he had made it all up. Otherwise, he had transmigrated here and learned Sorcerer skills from Azeroth. Where could his system of power possibly have any history or lineage in this world? But he had to have one. Otherwise, what, had he invented a Magic system from scratch and taught himself? Was he planning to become a saint through sheer physical cultivation next?

As for why he had not simply followed Coulson and the others' lead and claimed he was a Mutant, thereby avoiding all this trouble? That would not have worked. If he were officially classified as a Mutant, S.H.I.E.L.D. would definitely test and compare his blood samples, then put them on file. What if the tests showed he was one hundred percent an ordinary, natural human being, pure and unpolluted? How would he explain that?

So Evenson felt it was better to tell the truth outright. It also clearly told S.H.I.E.L.D., I'm a Sorcerer who uses Magic, not some genetic mutant. You don't need to come around every few days to draw my blood and run tests. You could slice me up like lamb for hotpot, and you still wouldn't figure out what's going on. What? You want to force me to teach you Magic? That's a good thing. Why force me? You want to learn? You're welcome to. But the threshold for this line of work is high. You're lacking both natural talent and acquired foundation—you don't even qualify to be an apprentice. And even if you become one, you might not be able to learn it. Besides, the risks are enormous. If things go wrong, you get skinned alive. Are you afraid or not?

And it was not even a lie. Learning Magic truly required exceptional talent; saying one in ten thousand was modest. Besides, Evenson was currently the only person here who understood Magic. He was the authority and held the final right of interpretation. He could say whatever he wanted, since no one else understood it.

"Where is that book?" Recovering from his horror, Coulson immediately asked about the Necronomicon's whereabouts. A book that could skin people alive was far too dangerous.

"Right here." Evenson propped his chin on his left hand while the fingers of his right tapped rhythmically against a black-covered book resting on the table.