A Wonderful Day

A Wonderful Day

By the final question, Coulson was already eager to end the conversation. He had worked as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for many years, dealing with countless dangerous and unimaginable incidents, yet even so, what had happened today was still an exceptionally unforgettable experience for him.

He had originally thought the target was merely an ordinary Mutant, and one of the less dangerous kind at that. Instead, he discovered that the man used something as unscientific as Magic—and he had actually believed it. He had even come into contact with a magic book capable of distorting perception, the kind of thing that should only exist in movies and novels. Though he had no idea what the book actually looked like, Melinda's reaction remained vivid in his mind. His partner had received S.H.I.E.L.D. education and training from childhood. She was outstanding even among the many talents of S.H.I.E.L.D., dependable and trustworthy, yet she had lost control so badly just now. That alone showed the book was no ordinary thing. At this point, he was almost grateful that he could not remember it at all.

Moreover, the man's power had far exceeded his expectations. With a single word, he had paralyzed both him and Melinda in their chairs. His weapon—a pistol—had been little more than a toy to the man, utterly incapable of posing any threat. Ever since becoming a Senior Agent, Coulson had grown accustomed to controlling the overall situation and keeping the initiative firmly in hand. This feeling of being utterly helpless was terrible to him. He even felt that if he had not come as a representative of S.H.I.E.L.D., but as someone else, he might already have been burned to ashes, dumped into a toilet, and flushed away.

So it was better to end this conversation as soon as possible, before his entire worldview collapsed. "Mr. Richter, you possess extraordinary and powerful abilities. But your life does not seem particularly comfortable. Have you never considered using your abilities to change that?"

There was no helping it. Aside from gaining the powers of a Sorcerer, Evenson, as a transmigrator, had no special talents whatsoever. With the education of an ordinary college student from his previous life, advanced technological research and development was completely beyond him. And even if he could do it, what difference would it make in a world where black technology emerged one after another? Smartphones? Did they know how many mature artificial intelligences existed in this world? So while his life could not be called destitute, it certainly was not wealthy.

That was what puzzled Coulson. Generally speaking, when a poor nobody suddenly mutated, it was common for them to rely on their newfound abilities to rob banks, commit all sorts of crimes, and make as much noise as possible. They practically wanted the whole world to know how extraordinary they were. A very small number even believed they would soon become saints in the flesh, ascend to divine thrones, ignite divine fire, condense divinity, and join the ranks of the gods. Yet the man before him possessed such tremendous power while remaining so quiet and low-key. Honestly, that was somewhat abnormal.

"Agent Coulson, I think you've confused me with those Mutants again." Evenson's tone was slightly displeased. "I'm not one of those nouveau riche who suddenly gain great power overnight and then run around making sure the entire world notices them. Nor am I one of those narcissists who gain a little special ability and decide they're the center of the world. I am fundamentally different from them. I am a Sorcerer. All my power comes from study—highly systematic study." Three years of casting, five years of simulations; Magic textbooks at a professional academic level. Could it get any more systematic than that?

"Unlike them, I wasn't unprepared or at a loss when I acquired power. The process of studying Magic is actually a pursuit of truth. As my Magic grew deeper and my understanding of truth increased, I discovered that even now, I still know very little about true power. Before endless truth, I feel just how small I am, and how fragile human life is."

"You feel that life is fragile, so you believe every life should be treasured all the more. Is that why you don't abuse your power?" Melinda had filled in the blanks herself, imagining an exceptionally noble speech.

"Uh..." Evenson blinked awkwardly. "Why didn't I think of such a noble excuse? I just think getting shot by a Barrett from eight hundred meters away would hurt like hell. But I'm not bloodthirsty. Killing people doesn't bring me any pleasure, nor does it offer much benefit, but it does bring me plenty of trouble. Of course, if someone comes to my door looking to die, I don't mind granting their wish."

Coulson and Melinda exchanged a glance. "Very good. I understand what you mean."

They understood the implications behind his words. When Evenson said that getting shot by a Barrett would hurt, it was actually a hint that he held a certain degree of respect for the existing international powers. He was not some pervert who killed for fun, either. The trouble killing brought him far outweighed its benefits, so he would not casually misuse his power. But for those who came from afar to offer up their heads, who came to his doorstep seeking death, he would not show them any misplaced mercy.

Those words were far less noble than the things Melinda had imagined. Yet Coulson and the others found them more believable precisely because they were realistic. As an agent, idealism could be used to soothe one's temperament, but when it came to handling matters, he believed in realism. He would rather believe that Evenson respected the power of nations and therefore did not dare act recklessly, than believe in his supposed kindness about how fragile life was and how it should be cherished. Human hearts were fickle; only power remained constant. Besides, a false saint was more dangerous than a true devil.

"Then all right. Our mission for today ends here." Coulson and Melinda stood and bid Evenson farewell. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Richter. We'll see you again if there's an opportunity."

"You're welcome to visit again anytime." Evenson stood to see them out, just like an ordinary shop owner seeing off his customers.

Then Evenson gave Coulson and Melinda a business card each. "Listen, the Deadlock Gang sent people to cause me trouble, and I killed them. You didn't pursue the matter, so I owe you one. If you run into trouble in the future, especially anything mysterious, come find me."

Coulson took the card and, after one look, immediately wanted to return it. But that seemed too impolite, so with a twitch of his mouth, he put it away. The card read: Ancestral Exorcist. Available for exorcisms, divination, fortune-telling, palm reading, Bazi analysis, Feng Shui consultation, and related services.

Coulson and Melinda hurried toward the exit. They felt that if they stayed any longer, their worldview would shatter into pieces. But just as they reached the door, Evenson called out to them again. "You know, you aren't the first people to come looking for me because I have special powers."

"Who was it? Or who were they?" Melinda immediately asked. This was no trivial matter. Evenson had concealed himself well, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had only discovered him by chance. So who had better intelligence work than S.H.I.E.L.D., and had specifically been seeking special abilities?

"A minor officer from the Deadlock Gang, but I think he had another identity. Like me, he was a blond-haired, blue-eyed German. I hadn't wanted to kill him because of that, but his attitude was so irritating that I had no choice. Still, what he said before he died might interest you." Evenson said.

"What did he say?" Coulson relaxed slightly. Quite a few Deadlock Gang members had died here. It was not too strange if they had uncovered something. S.H.I.E.L.D. had learned about it through one of their informants, after all. What could a small-time gang possibly know that would interest S.H.I.E.L.D.? But today had been far too strange. Maybe there really was something more to it. Better ask. Yet he regretted it as soon as he heard the answer, because it sent his blood pressure straight to one hundred eighty.

"He said, 'I am merely a pioneer. Cut off one head, and two more shall grow in its place.'"