"Those are your standards?" Coulson asked incredulously. "They’re so vague they’re practically useless. How has your... tradition... survived? Do you just stumble across apprentices through sheer luck?"
"More or less." Evenson shrugged. "In the East, we’d call it fate. Though it’s a little more reliable than buying a lottery ticket."
He leaned back.
"There are signs. People suited for initiation usually have exceptional vitality and sharper-than-average minds. Healthy bodies. Quick intellects."
Coulson couldn’t help smirking.
"So every top student at MIT should qualify to become a wizard."
"A Warlock," Evenson corrected automatically. "Please don’t confuse us with mages. Different profession."
He continued before Coulson could reply.
"Those qualities only make someone eligible for initiation. Even then, success is rare. Out of a hundred suitable candidates, you’re lucky if one completes the process."
"And after initiation?"
"If it succeeds, the body becomes stronger. The mind becomes sharper." Evenson glanced toward May. "Beyond that, everything depends on the individual."
He switched briefly into Mandarin.
"A master opens the door. Cultivation depends on the student."
Coulson blinked.
"...Care to translate?"
May nodded.
"It means a teacher can only show you the path. Whether you become skilled... or fail... depends entirely on you."
She paused.
"In S.H.I.E.L.D. terms, someone recruits you, trains you, teaches you everything they know. Whether you become a top-level agent or wash out on your first mission is up to you."
"Or maybe you never qualify as an agent at all," Evenson added with a grin. "But yes. That’s the idea."
He folded his arms.
"After initiation, very few apprentices ever become true Warlocks. Most never advance beyond a few simple tricks."
He smiled faintly.
"And even those tricks usually aren’t as entertaining as a David Copperfield show."
Coulson considered that.
"So how do you determine whether someone has the potential to become... a full Warlock?"
It sounded like an obvious question.
Teach them.
If they learn, they qualify.
If they don’t, they don’t.
Except reality was rarely that simple. Some students learned slowly. Dismissing genuine talent too early could be a costly mistake.
"The method has changed throughout history," Evenson said.
"In the Middle Ages, masters simply handed an initiated apprentice a grimoire."
"Someone who lacked true compatibility would instinctively fear the book."
"They’d want nothing to do with it."
"Some forced themselves to keep reading anyway."
"They could recognize the words."
"But they’d understand them no better than an elementary school student reading Einstein."
He shrugged.
"That’s actually the best-case outcome."
Coulson frowned.
"...What’s the worst?"
Evenson’s smile slowly changed.
It became colder.
Sharper.
Like someone preparing to tell a campfire horror story.
"There were people we called half-learned."
"They understood just enough to be dangerous."
"They weren’t suited to become Warlocks..."
"...but they could partially comprehend the grimoire."
He let the silence stretch.
"The results were unpleasant."
May spoke more quietly than before.
"They died?"
"Oh, eventually."
Evenson rested one hand lightly on the counter.
"That particular grimoire was known as the Book of the Dead."
"Its binding wasn’t made from leather."
"It was made from human skin."
He watched both agents carefully.
"When someone unfit tried to delve too deeply into its power..."
"...the book answered."
"It stripped the skin from their bodies."
"Alive."
"And consumed it."
"They rarely died quickly."
"They usually suffered for a very long time first."
Silence.
Neither Coulson nor May spoke.
The image alone was horrifying enough.
Evenson watched their expressions and quietly relaxed inside.
There.
That finally makes the story believable.
Of course...
Almost all of it was fabricated.
What choice did he have?
He’d arrived from another world carrying Azeroth’s Warlock magic.
There was no ancient lineage.
No hidden order.
No centuries-old school waiting somewhere in the mountains.
If he claimed he’d invented an entire magical discipline by himself...
...that would be far harder to believe.
This version was cleaner.
It explained everything.
More importantly, it solved another problem.
If he admitted to being a mutant, S.H.I.E.L.D. would inevitably demand blood samples, genetic analysis, endless medical testing, and permanent files.
Eventually they’d discover his DNA was perfectly ordinary.
Then what?
Trying to explain that would become a nightmare.
Far better to tell them the truth... or at least the portion of the truth they were capable of understanding.
He was a Warlock.
His abilities came from magic.
Not genetics.
Not mutation.
They could draw blood every week if they wanted.
Dissect him into paper-thin slices.
They still wouldn’t find the source of his power.
And if S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to learn magic?
Wonderful.
He’d gladly teach them.
Provided they met the requirements.
Extraordinary talent.
Successful initiation.
Years of study.
And, depending on the path...
The possibility of a truly horrific death.
Besides...
Learning magic really did require astonishing aptitude.
Calling it "one in ten thousand" was probably being generous.
At the moment, Evenson was the only genuine practitioner on Earth.
Which meant one simple thing.
He was the foremost authority.
He got to define the rules.
Coulson finally recovered.
"...Where is this grimoire?"
His voice had become noticeably more cautious.
"A book that dangerous shouldn’t simply be left lying around."
"It is."
Evenson rested his chin on one hand while rhythmically tapping the fingers of the other against the counter.
Then he casually indicated the black leather-bound volume sitting on the desk in front of him.
"Right there."
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