Chapter 809

Evenson had to admit, the gift he’d brought was substantial.

At least, judging by the Ancient One’s expression, it was substantial enough.

The Ancient One had lived for centuries. As the Sorcerer Supreme and the undisputed authority of the magical world, she’d received more gifts than she could possibly remember. Yet somehow, none had ever left her quite as speechless as this one.

Her facial muscles twitched twice.

After considerable effort, she managed to produce something resembling a smile. Even her hands, hidden within her sleeves, were trembling slightly.

There weren’t many things in this world capable of leaving the Sorcerer Supreme completely at a loss for words.

This was apparently one of them.

The Ancient One was already regretting the conversation that had started all of this.

When she’d approached Evenson about accepting a new disciple, she’d genuinely only wanted to discuss the matter. She had never intended to collect some sort of engagement gift or ceremonial payment.

Unfortunately, Evenson had apparently interpreted the conversation rather differently.

Once the idea of giving a gift had entered his head, he’d latched onto it with impressive determination.

And when he’d already announced that he was going to give her something, refusing would have been awkward.

It would have looked like she was belittling him.

So she’d simply let him do whatever he wanted.

At the time, she’d assumed he’d probably put a few hundred dollars into a red envelope.

Even an empty envelope would have been acceptable. The gesture was what mattered.

If there happened to be money inside, even better. She could simply take it out and add it to Clea’s dowry later. Surely the Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t going to accept money from these two.

But this thing...

The Ancient One stared at the enormous door.

First of all, she had no idea where Evenson had gotten it.

It certainly wasn’t new.

There were still pieces of wall attached to the frame.

Judging by the material, whoever had owned the building hadn’t exactly been struggling financially. The wall appeared to have been made from reinforced glass, and there were still obvious scorch marks around the edges where something had melted through it.

And then there was the paint.

The entire door had been painted bright red.

Fine. Red was festive. In some cultures, it even represented good fortune.

But then Evenson had painted a yellow horizontal stripe across it.

And a black arc above that.

The Ancient One stared.

Oh, God.

He had actually turned it into an enormous red envelope.

There was even a yellow circle in the middle with the words GOOD FORTUNE AND PROSPERITY written inside it.

Even if she abandoned every shred of dignity she possessed, there was no way she could put this thing into Clea’s dowry.

"I wonder if you are satisfied with my gift, Sorcerer Supreme?"

Evenson looked completely oblivious to her suffering.

He had simply presented her with such a magnificent gift that, surely, she should at least say something nice about it.

The Ancient One’s smile twitched.

"Well... this... this..."

I would like to pick up this door and beat you to death with it.

Her eyes drifted around the room.

The other sorcerers who had been present earlier had mysteriously disappeared.

Even Clea had retreated to one side of the room. She was holding a teapot and staring intently into it, apparently trying to determine the exact number of tea leaves required to demonstrate Kamar-Taj’s hospitality without crossing the line into wastefulness.

"Yes..." the Ancient One finally said through clenched teeth. "Very good. Very good."

It was a lie.

But the Ancient One had received the gift.

And there was an old saying about not striking someone who came bearing a smile.

Surely kicking him doesn’t count.

"Great."

Evenson’s face immediately brightened.

"Since you’re satisfied, I’ll go all the way and take care of the installation too. One-stop service."

He began looking around Kamar-Taj’s vast compound, apparently trying to determine where his magnificent door would look best.

"Actually, that main hall we passed earlier looks pretty good. I noticed there are quite a few valuable artifacts inside. Might as well improve the security."

"Wait."

The Ancient One moved with surprising speed.

"Wait."

There was absolutely no way she was letting him install that monstrosity in the main hall.

Leaving the doorway completely open would be safer.

"Well..." She paused, searching for an excuse. "As you know, due to certain historical circumstances, I don’t really spend much time at the London Sanctum."

"And besides, I’m a fairly quiet person. I prefer a peaceful life far from the noise of New York. I spend most of my time here."

She pointed toward Clea.

"So... you can install the door at the New York Sanctum."

Clea’s hand suddenly jerked.

The teapot nearly slipped from her fingers.

The Ancient One ignored her.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell Evenson that the door was hideous and that she wanted him to take it back.

But having it installed somewhere she had to look at every day?

Absolutely not.

He could put it anywhere he wanted.

As long as she never had to see it again.

"That makes sense," Evenson said thoughtfully.

Apparently, he had interpreted her explanation in an entirely different way.

So, according to his understanding, the Ancient One personally guarded Kamar-Taj’s main sanctum. No thief in their right mind could possibly infiltrate the place under her watch, meaning additional security wasn’t necessary.

Meanwhile, she apparently didn’t care much for those "Saxon bastards" in Britain, so London could fend for itself.

The New York Sanctum, however, was different.

Clea had grown up there.

Giving them the door would surely make her happy.

Everybody won.

"Then let’s do that."

Evenson stuffed the door back into his bag, already planning to install it at the New York Sanctum the next time he had the opportunity.

It would also earn him some goodwill with his future father-in-law.

Two birds with one stone.

He looked around.

"Wait. The guest of honor still hasn’t arrived, has he? Where is he?"

Today was supposed to be the day the Ancient One accepted a new disciple.

The teacher had arrived.

The guests had arrived.

The gifts had arrived.

The only person missing was the man who was supposedly at the center of the entire affair.

Stephen Strange.

Which raised an important question.

Was he planning to collect the gift money and run?

"He should have landed by now," Clea said, finally setting down the teapot. "Senior Brother Mordo already went to pick him up."

"Pick him up?"

There was nothing strange about Clea knowing Stephen Strange’s ambitions. Kamar-Taj had been keeping an eye on him for quite some time, and the entire town was effectively under their influence. Very little happened there without them noticing.

But sending someone to the airport?

Evenson couldn’t understand it.

"Are you people serious?"

He spread his hands and looked at the Ancient One.

"I know you’ve been planning to recruit this guy for a long time, but you can’t let him know that."

"He just got off the plane and you’re already sending someone to pick him up. Doesn’t that make it look like you’re desperate for him to become your disciple?"

"Relax," Clea said. "We’re not idiots. Mordo went in disguise. Strange won’t know who he is."

"Still not good enough."

Evenson shook his head.

"You’ve got no strategy whatsoever. Amateur hour."

The Ancient One raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? And what would you suggest?"

Different people had different areas of expertise.

When it came to questionable schemes designed to psychologically manipulate someone, a Warlock was apparently worth consulting.

"First, you need to increase the mystery and pressure."

Evenson’s expression became serious.

"He needs to understand that this isn’t some ordinary place. Then you make him experience firsthand what it means to have magic withheld from him."

"You need to establish the proper power dynamic."

"In short, you want him kneeling outside the gate, begging you to take him as a disciple. He should be crying and promising anything you ask."

"Then, and only then, do you reluctantly agree to accept him because you’re moved by his sincerity."

The Ancient One stared at him.

"That sounds exhausting."

She rubbed her bald head.

"When I used to take disciples, it was much simpler. The people in the magical community would practically fight over the chance to become my student. Even ordinary people in the outside world were easy enough."

She shrugged.

"I could set off a few fireworks in some insignificant village and have people lining up to worship me. Why make things complicated?"

"Forget it."

Evenson rolled his eyes.

"If you’re not good at this, I’ll handle it."

The Ancient One gave him a flat look.

The last time you took on a disciple, Crombwell was still alive. Of course things were simpler.

"But..."

Evenson rubbed his hands together.

"I’m willing to put in the effort, but I’m unfamiliar with the area. You’re going to have to give me some assistance."

"What kind of assistance?"

"First, lend me a thousand dollars."

He didn’t hesitate.

"Then... I need one of your disciples."

The Ancient One narrowed her eyes.

"What kind?"

"The kind who looks extremely politically correct."

A pause.

"And actually is."

"That can be arranged."

The Ancient One nodded.

"Mordo. Come here. I have something for you to do."

Dr. Stephen Strange had once been one of America’s most successful physicians.

He was among the best doctors in the country, particularly when it came to surgery. Neurological and intracranial procedures were his specialties, and his skill was exceptional.

He’d achieved fame and fortune before he’d even reached middle age.

Unfortunately, success had gone to his head.

After performing surgery, he’d been exhausted.

It was late at night, yet he’d insisted on driving himself home.

Driving while exhausted would have been bad enough.

Instead, he sped through the streets because there were no police around.

Then he decided to listen to music while driving.

Then take a phone call.

Then, because apparently that wasn’t enough, he started looking at videos and pictures on his phone.

At that point, he’d practically completed the checklist for "How to Cause a Catastrophic Car Accident."

Murphy’s Law took care of the rest.

Before Strange had even finished looking at the screen, his car slammed into a truck hauling steel rebar.

The vehicle went over the side of the road.

It rolled several times before crashing into a river.

Along the way, it also managed to kill a fish that had never once considered the possibility that its life might end in a traffic accident.

Perhaps Strange’s years of saving lives had earned him some measure of cosmic goodwill.

Despite the severity of the crash, he survived.

His hands did not.

For a surgeon, his hands were his livelihood.

During the accident, they had been pierced by more than a dozen pieces of steel rebar.

The damage was catastrophic.

Calling them "hands" without an accompanying diagram was almost optimistic.

Doctors eventually managed to reconstruct them.

Barely.

But they were no longer capable of the precision or strength required for surgery. Worse, they trembled violently and spasmed without warning.

Stephen Strange’s life collapsed overnight.

And just when he thought he’d reached rock bottom, he discovered that rock bottom had a basement.

The arrogant surgeon couldn’t accept that his career was over.

He became irritable.

Angry.

Impossible to be around.

One night, a woman he’d been seeing came to his home carrying things to comfort him.

His wounded pride got the better of him.

He lashed out at her until she left.

They never officially broke up.

They simply stopped speaking.

That only made Strange more desperate.

If he could restore his hands, he told himself, everything else would return.

His career.

His reputation.

His life.

Even his girlfriend.

So he sold nearly everything he owned and tried every possible treatment.

No experimental procedure was too ridiculous.

No rumor too absurd.

Recently, he’d heard about a red healing potion that had become extremely popular in Hell’s Kitchen.

He’d paid an absurd amount of money to acquire one.

He’d watched gang members who had been nearly beaten to death stagger into hospitals, drink the stuff, and walk out ready to go beat someone else half to death.

Yet when Strange used the same potion on himself...

Nothing.

Not even the slightest improvement.

Did someone dilute mine with tap water?

The explanation he’d received was that his nerve damage was too severe for the potion to have much effect.

Strange had not found that reassuring.

So he’d turned his attention toward the new civilian prosthetic limbs appearing on the market.

At first, everything had gone smoothly.

They were even preparing to sign the contract.

Then the account manager received a phone call.

When he returned, he gave Strange an apologetic smile.

The prosthetics could restore normal movement.

But they couldn’t restore his career.

Not as a surgeon.

The medical authorities simply wouldn’t allow a doctor using those prosthetics to perform surgery.

It wasn’t a technological limitation.

It was a regulatory one.

And Strange was running out of options.

As if that weren’t enough, the problems in his personal life continued piling up.

Representatives from Fisk’s investment bank had somehow learned about his financial situation.

They began visiting his house almost every day.

They wanted repayment.

They wanted the house back.

But something about the whole situation was bizarre.

Strange had heard enough about Wilson Fisk to know what kind of man he was.

Bank employees working for Fisk were not exactly known for being gentle.

Yet whenever these men showed up at Strange’s house, they didn’t threaten him.

They smiled.

They bowed.

They practically begged.

"Doctor Strange, a debt is a debt. We all understand that. But it’s the end of the year, and we really can’t keep delaying this. Please, I’m begging you. I’ll get on my knees if I have to!"

Strange couldn’t even figure out who owed whom money anymore.

He felt sorry for them.

Unfortunately, sympathy didn’t create money.

He prepared himself for the inevitable lawsuit.

Instead, nothing happened.

The bank didn’t blacklist him.

They didn’t sue.

They simply continued sending representatives to his house to cry about the debt.

Eventually, Strange began to wonder if someone powerful was secretly protecting him.

But who?

And more importantly...

Why?

He had no idea.

Then, when he’d nearly exhausted every possible avenue, a former colleague casually mentioned something that changed everything.

There was a patient who had once been paralyzed from the neck down.

Now the man was completely healed.

He’d even been seen playing basketball on the street.

It was a miracle.

Strange immediately began searching for him.

For once, luck seemed to be on his side.

He didn’t need to hire a private investigator.

He didn’t have to spend weeks following rumors.

The clues practically landed in his lap.

Eventually, he found the man playing basketball beneath an overpass.

And from him, Strange heard about a mysterious place called Kamar-Taj.

That was enough.

He spent nearly all the money he had left on an economy-class ticket to Nepal.

If Kamar-Taj truly existed, then perhaps it was the only place left in the world that could save him.

The moment Strange left the airport, he found transportation to the town.

A tractor.

More specifically, a hand-operated agricultural tractor with a load of bricks attached behind it.

The driver was a middle-aged man with deep, weathered eyes, the sort of man who looked as though he’d spent a lifetime watching the world change around him.

He was also remarkably kind.

He didn’t even negotiate the price.

He simply drove Strange straight toward the town.

By the time they arrived, Strange felt as though every bone in his body had been shaken loose.

He climbed down, stretched his aching limbs, and immediately began asking around about Kamar-Taj.

That was when four large men cornered him in an alley.

Strange took one look at them and immediately understood what was happening.

Robbery.

One of humanity’s oldest professions.

His pride refused to let him simply hand over his belongings.

So he tried to outsmart them.

First, he pretended to cooperate.

Then he looked for an opening.

Then he tried to turn the tables.

Instead, the four men beat him into the dirt.

By the time they’d taken everything he had, Strange was sprawled on the ground.

Then a man in robes dropped from above.

The stranger moved with frightening efficiency.

Three moves.

Maybe four.

The four thugs fled.

Strange stared after him.

The man was wearing robes.

He had appeared from nowhere.

And he’d saved Strange at precisely the moment he needed it most.

Kamar-Taj really was a place of miracles.

Not only might they be able to heal him, but one of their people had just appeared when he was at his most desperate.

And the man who had saved him...

Well.

He certainly looked like a man of integrity.

Very politically correct, too.

Strange immediately thanked him for saving his life.

Then he explained that he was searching for Kamar-Taj.

The robed man maintained an indifferent expression.

Nevertheless, he led Strange toward Kamar-Taj itself.

The man was Mordo.

And the entire encounter had been arranged by Evenson.

Evenson himself was hiding nearby, watching everything unfold from a secluded corner.

Once Strange and Mordo disappeared, the four thugs who had just robbed Strange emerged from the alley.

They supported one another, clutching their stomachs and limping dramatically.

"Boss," their leader called. "We finished the job. Can we get paid?"

"Of course."

Evenson immediately pulled out a stack of cash.

"Here. One hundred dollars each."

The thugs accepted the bills.

Of course, they were working for Evenson.

The entire town was effectively controlled by Kamar-Taj. Anyone foolish enough to rob someone asking about Kamar-Taj right under their noses would have to be suicidal.

And without an agreement beforehand, these four men wouldn’t have dared attack Mordo, either.

The leader looked down at his hundred-dollar bill.

"That’s it?"

He looked wounded.

"That won’t even cover the medical expenses."

Evenson’s expression hardened.

"Don’t push it. Mordo pulled his punches. You aren’t actually injured."

The man opened his mouth.

"And you skipped two lines of dialogue," Evenson continued. "Your expressions were also terrible. That’s more than enough."

The four men immediately stopped acting injured.

Their backs straightened.

Their groans disappeared.

Suddenly, none of them seemed to have a single problem with their legs or stomachs.

They turned to leave.

"Wait."

Evenson crooked a finger.

"The stuff."

The thugs sighed.

Apparently, there would be no opportunity to make a little extra money.

Reluctantly, they pulled several wallets and other belongings from their clothes.

Everything they’d taken from Strange.

Evenson collected the items and inspected them.

Passport.

Return ticket.

Identification.

Various documents proving exactly who Stephen Strange was and where he’d come from.

Evenson gave a quiet laugh.

Then the documents in his hands crumbled into ash.

"You thought you were leaving?"

He smiled.

"Let’s see how far you get without these."

The American embassy was behind one of the Ancient One’s wards. An ordinary person couldn’t even find it.

So Stephen Strange could forget about going home.

For the time being, he was staying in Nepal.

And if everything went according to plan...

He was going to Kamar-Taj whether he liked it or not.