Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

Evenson was devastated.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He had used marriage as his trump card. Clea hadn’t even opened the door.

Then he’d casually announced that Aoyama was dead, and suddenly she had unlocked the door, thrown it open, and nearly flattened his face in one seamless motion.

That reaction was a little excessive.

Evenson silently swore an oath.

From this day forward, I will make Nick Fury replace every door on this aircraft with sliding doors.

"Evenson, are you all right?"

Clea saw him lying on the floor with both hands over his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

She immediately looked alarmed.

She pulled him into the room, shut the door behind them, and helped him sit down.

"Let me see. How badly are you hurt?"

She gently pulled his hands away and examined his injuries.

Evenson’s heart warmed.

She’s worried about me.

All right. Considering how concerned she is, I’ll let what just happened slide.

Then, without warning, Clea reached out.

Crack.

She snapped his crooked nose back into place.

Evenson’s eyes went wide.

"HHHNNNGH!"

He clutched his nose, trembling violently as he sucked in air through his teeth.

Stay calm.

She’s treating the injury.

She’s trying to help.

She’s concerned about you.

Damn it. Next time I forget to activate Demonic Armor, I’m officially an idiot.

"Looks like there’s no serious damage."

Clea pulled out a tissue and wiped the blood from his face.

She turned his head from side to side, carefully checking him.

"Since that’s settled..."

A cold glint flashed through her eyes.

She grabbed Evenson by the collar and kicked him upright until their faces were level.

"Tell me. Is Aoyama really dead?!"

Evenson stared at her.

He was beginning to understand just how serious this was.

Clea released him and turned away, muttering to herself.

"If he really is dead, what happens to the manga?"

She sounded genuinely distressed.

"I’ve been reading it for years. The main plot still hasn’t been completely explained, there are countless unresolved mysteries, and half the emotional weight comes from the history behind it."

She lifted her head slightly.

"Usually, if an author dies, their assistants or children can continue the series..."

Hope briefly appeared in her eyes.

Then she crushed it herself.

"No. They don’t have the master’s skill."

Her expression darkened.

"They’ll ruin the story. Worse, they’ll destroy everything that made it special."

Evenson remained silent.

He had suddenly become very afraid to tell her that he’d made the entire thing up.

Clea looked as though she were facing an existential crisis.

Then she turned toward him.

A strange light flickered in her eyes.

"You might actually be useful."

"Me?"

Evenson pointed at himself.

He couldn’t understand how he’d entered the conversation.

He couldn’t draw manga.

At best, he could write a novel.

And if he tried that, he’d probably get chased by angry readers every time an update was late.

"I’ve heard you have a fairly good relationship with Mephisto."

Clea’s gaze turned ominously sweet.

Evenson carefully watched her expression.

How did we suddenly get here?

"My relationship with Mephisto..."

He hesitated.

"It’s all right. Not bad, but I wouldn’t exactly call us close friends."

"Excellent."

Clea’s smile became even more unsettling.

"Aoyama’s soul should be in his hands, right?"

Evenson immediately objected.

"Not necessarily. He might not even have gone to Hell."

"Hmph."

Clea folded her arms.

"One Chapter a week."

Her voice was filled with righteous fury.

"And each Chapter is barely a dozen pages. That’s worse than some novel update schedules."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Someone like that doesn’t go to Hell? What, does Heaven have an employee shortage?"

"You’ve got a point."

Evenson clapped enthusiastically.

Then he stopped.

"Wait."

His expression changed.

"You’re not thinking..."

"Exactly."

Clea looked almost frighteningly pleased.

"Bring Mephisto here. You or I can negotiate with him."

She raised one finger.

"Resurrection is probably out of the question. That would violate the natural order."

Evenson nodded slowly.

"But we can have Aoyama finish the manga in Hell."

Clea’s eyes gleamed.

"Then he can send the completed Chapters back to us."

She laughed softly.

"Don’t think death is an excuse to stop updating."

Evenson felt a chill run down his spine.

"And Hell would actually be perfect for it."

Clea’s expression became strangely vacant, as though she were imagining the ideal working environment.

"There would be no distractions. No television. No social life. No deadlines except the ones we give him."

"He could sit in his cell every day and do nothing but draw."

"Draw. Draw. Draw."

"And if he stops updating..."

A faint smile appeared.

"He gets punished."

Evenson was sweating.

For two entirely different reasons.

First, he suddenly felt as though he were personally under threat.

Second...

Aoyama isn’t dead.

I made this entire story up!

"Don’t worry."

Evenson immediately stepped in before the situation could spiral any further.

"I’ll handle it."

He smiled confidently.

"Actually, forget Hell. I’ll negotiate with Mephisto and have him resurrect Aoyama."

Clea blinked.

"Resurrect him?"

"Of course."

Evenson launched into the explanation before she could question him.

"Creative work depends heavily on the artist’s environment. If we force him to continue drawing in Hell, his circumstances will affect his work. His art style might change. The tone might change. Readers would notice immediately."

He nodded gravely.

"That would be unacceptable."

"So I’ll have Mephisto resurrect him and remove his memories of dying."

Evenson was talking faster now.

"No one around him will notice anything strange. As far as everyone is concerned, he’ll simply continue living exactly as before."

"And, most importantly..."

He smiled.

"He’ll keep updating the manga."

Clea hesitated.

"Is that really okay?"

She looked troubled.

"Bringing someone back from the dead just because we want more of their work..."

"It’s completely fine."

Evenson answered far too quickly.

"You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it. Nobody else will ever know what happened."

Clea stared at him.

Then she sighed and turned away.

"I just woke up."

She paused.

"I have no idea what happened a few minutes ago."

"I understand."

Evenson nodded vigorously.

"I’ll take care of everything."

Thank God.

He had finally managed to put the lid back on the disaster.

If Clea had kept pushing, he might actually have had to travel to Japan and somehow arrange for Aoyama to die just so his lie would make sense.

"Anyway..."

Clea waved dismissively.

"You should leave my room now. You’re interrupting my game."

Evenson stared at her back.

Seriously?

Wasn’t there an expression about killing the donkey after it had finished grinding the mill?

This was worse.

He hadn’t even gone to do the job yet, and she was already ready to send him packing.

Then he noticed something.

Clea stood with her back to him, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Her fingers were digging into her sleeves.

Her knuckles had gone pale.

And they were trembling slightly.

Evenson smiled.

So that’s how it is.

She was pretending not to care.

He took a breath and steadied himself.

"There is something I need to explain to you."

Clea visibly relaxed.

Then she turned around.

"I believe I already told you..."

Evenson interrupted her.

"I know."

He looked directly at her.

"I’ve thought carefully about what I said."

His voice was quiet.

"And I meant it."

Clea fell silent.

"All right..."

She nodded.

Then she asked the question she’d clearly been carrying with her.

"Were those two demons telling the truth?"

Her eyes locked onto his.

"Are you really attracted to me because there’s something missing from your soul?"

Her voice faltered slightly.

"Is that really why you wanted to be with me?"

She stared into his eyes.

The question carried an unspoken plea.

Tell me it isn’t.

Evenson drew a slow breath.

His lips were dry.

He ran his tongue across them.

He opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Tried again.

Stopped again.

On the third attempt, he finally forced the words out.

"Yes."

Clea’s expression froze.

"At first..."

Evenson swallowed.

"At first, it really was."

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