The Price of Omniscience (LOTM X MARVEL)

The air grew colder as Adrian and Agatha stepped into the heart of the warehouse—the main hall, a vast and open chamber that reeked of blood, incense, and madness. Candlelight flickered from all sides, casting distorted shadows across the walls. At the center of the stone floor lay a massive ritual circle, painted in dark red runes that pulsed with unnatural energy. The symbols writhed subtly, almost alive, etched with blood—far too much blood.

Robed figures lined the edges of the glyphs, each one motionless, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. Around them lurked vampires, still and silent like statues awaiting orders. And in the center, standing atop a dais surrounded by twisted sigils, was Campbell himself—arms raised, the Black Art held in one hand like a holy scripture, his other smeared with blood drawn from his own palm.

Adrian's stomach twisted at the sheer scale of it—the oppressive weight of the spell pressing down on reality itself. This wasn't just a summoning. This was an opening. A fracture waiting to split.

Before Adrian could even process his thoughts, Agatha stepped forward, her voice cracking like a whip across the stone chamber:

"Stop, Campbell! You don't understand what you're summoning!"

Her presence, her power, instantly drew every eye. Campbell turned, face twisted in grim amusement beneath his hood. The spellbook fluttered unnaturally in his grasp, pages flipping despite the lack of wind.

"So you found me after all, witch," he sneered. "But your meddling is too late. Even if you stop me, the gateway has already been prepared. Vampires! Kill her—buy me the time I need!"

The silence shattered.

The robed acolytes drew hidden pistols and blades. The vampires lunged from the shadows with inhuman shrieks. Claws glinted. Gunfire erupted. Agatha raised her hands as violet flames spiraled into existence around her, forming a magical barrier that shimmered like molten glass. The battle had begun—and the ritual still pulsed at the center, closer than ever to tearing the veil.

Adrian sprang into action, taking cover behind a fallen beam just as the gunfire intensified. He aimed carefully, the silver bullets Agatha had given him glinting in the flickering candlelight. He pulled the trigger—once, twice, again—each shot slamming into vampires or cloaked acolytes, bursting them into ash or sending them sprawling. The battle raged all around him like a storm of blood and fire, Agatha at the center wielding magic like a force of nature. Her violet flames carved through clawed monstrosities and warped the spells flung at her, but even she couldn't cover everything.

Adrian's heart pounded as he fired another shot—and this time, it struck a hooded acolyte in the leg. The man screamed and dropped to the floor, clutching his bleeding knee. His hood slipped back, and for a second, time seemed to stop.

Richards.

The man who had raised him after his father's death. The man he had come to suspect. The man his divination had damned.

Adrian froze.

But only for a heartbeat.

Then he pulled the trigger again—once, directly into Richards' chest. The force of the silver-round impact sent the man sprawling backward. Adrian felt no satisfaction. No closure. Just a cold, hollow ache. His father's death had demanded justice—but the vision hadn't told him Richards was under a compulsion, or playing a deeper role. Doubt crawled up his spine, but the battlefield offered no time for grief.

Agatha's battle was coming to a crescendo. The remaining vampires began to fall, either incinerated by flame or reduced to dust under the weight of her power. Adrian turned his focus toward the ritual's center—toward Campbell. He raised his revolver, lined up the shot, and began to fire.

But then, the hairs on his neck rose. The air shifted.

Danger.

His Seer intuition screamed.

Adrian ducked and rolled just in time as a bullet shattered the stone beside his head. He spun around, gun raised—just in time to see Jones step out from the shadows of a side corridor, revolver in hand, eyes cold and furious. The mob boss's coat was singed, and blood flecked his sleeves—but he looked very much alive.

And he wasn't alone anymore.

Jones emerged from the gloom with a scowl etched across his face. His revolver was already raised, and the look in his eyes was more than anger—it was betrayal. He squinted through the smoke and saw Adrian.

"You're White's kid," he muttered in disbelief, voice rough with contempt and confusion. "What the hell are you doing here—?"

Adrian didn't answer. He couldn't.

His instincts kicked in, overriding thought with action. He ducked behind another marble pillar just as bullets whizzed past, shattering stone and sending chips flying. He drew a deep breath, steadied his grip on the revolver, and returned fire. The boom of gunshots echoed through the hall, a deadly rhythm punctuating the chaos. Two vampires flanked Jones, claws gleaming in the flickering firelight, dashing toward Adrian with feral snarls.

Adrian yanked the sun talisman from his coat and activated it mid-dash. The runes etched into the talisman pulsed with golden brilliance, releasing a wave of ultraviolet light. The vampires shrieked in agony, their bodies twisting into ash mid-air before they ever reached him. Dust and charred bones scattered across the marble floor.

Jones didn't flinch.

He advanced, firing shot after shot, each one narrowly missing as Adrian moved from cover to cover. But Adrian had something Jones didn't—a Seer's intuition. Every time danger surged toward him, a whisper of fate tugged at his mind, urging him left, right, lower. It was like dancing with the world itself, sidestepping death by seconds.

The tide turned.

Adrian took a sharp breath, aimed, and fired—once, twice—forcing Jones to stumble back, clutching his arm. Adrian emerged from behind the final pillar, gun raised, vision clear.

"This is for my father," he whispered.

The last silver bullet tore through the air and struck Jones square in the chest.

The mob boss staggered, eyes wide in disbelief. Blood spilled from his mouth. His body crumpled to the ground in a heap, lifeless, silent.

For a brief moment, the hall fell still again—until a deep, resonant tremor shuddered through the blood-marked floor.

The ritual was nearing completion.