Ronan slowly turned his head, glancing at the figure behind him.
The newcomer was an elderly man with a full head of silver hair—his body was frail, yet he stood remarkably straight, a pair of sharp, piercing eyes that seemed capable of seeing through a person's soul.
Beyond that, he wore a very vintage suit, with an old-fashioned pocket watch hanging from his chest.
He looked every bit like a gentleman from a storybook.
Yet this seemingly unremarkable old man exuded the aura of a powerhouse, one that Ronan could feel.
This guy wasn't simple.
Ronan narrowed his eyes, because with his arrival, the atmosphere on the bar's entire second floor grew tense.
"Mr. Kerr."
What Ronan hadn't expected was that when this Mr. Kerr appeared, everyone else on the second floor—whether seated or standing—showed signs of nervousness.
Even a few rowdy drunks quieted down in an instant.
The bearded brute, who'd just been itching for a one-on-one with Ronan, now stayed silent.
This guy seemed to hold a lot of sway around here.
"Alright, it's late—go home to your kids."
"As for you lot, spend the next month helping out here to offset the money you borrowed."
"Might as well teach you a lesson—not everyone's someone you can mess with."
The old man named Kerr waved his hand, as if shooing a bunch of kids back home.
And with that decision, not a single person dared argue—even the bearded brute, who'd lost the most, could only obediently shuffle downstairs with the crowd.
Soon, the entire bar was cleared out—even the bartenders and waiters had vanished somewhere.
The bar was left with just Ronan and this old man.
"Kerr Shaw."
"The one in charge here."
The old gentleman extended his right hand.
The name sounded ordinary, but his words gave Ronan pause.
"When you say 'here,' do you mean this bar, or this town?"
Ronan extended his own right hand, eyeing this Kerr Shaw.
He chuckled, shaking hands before saying with a smile, "Interpret it however you like."
That line was practically an admission of what Ronan had suspected.
The one in charge of this town, huh…
Ronan narrowed his eyes, slipping his right hand back into his pocket.
"Looks like I've found the right person."
As he spoke, Ronan's mind raced with thoughts.
This town was definitely hiding something weird.
"I don't know who you're looking for—take these chips and go. I'm old, and there's a lot I don't want to get mixed up in anymore."
"What I can promise is that you'll leave this town safely—they won't follow you."
Kerr Shaw looked at Ronan, still wearing that same expression.
Ronan, meanwhile, mentally rolled his eyes.
This Kerr Shaw clearly knew Ronan wielded extraordinary power, yet he was talking about leaving the town safely.
Was he underestimating Ronan, or did he think offering this kind of favor would make Ronan back off?
"If I wanted to make money, why wouldn't I go to Las Vegas?"
"You say you don't want to get involved in conflicts, but in reality, your background means you can't escape them."
Ronan shook his head—he didn't buy Kerr Shaw's words, and the reason was simple.
This town had been under magical protection all along.
That alone was enough for Ronan to conclude there was a massive secret here.
Otherwise, it wouldn't be like this.
"What exactly do you want?"
Kerr Shaw frowned, the first time he'd shown such an expression.
Ronan smiled, his lips parting slightly as he spoke a name.
"Agatha Harkness."
The moment that name dropped, Kerr Shaw's face flashed with shock.
He definitely knew her!
"How do you know about her?"
It was Kerr Shaw's knee-jerk response.
The reason was obvious—this name hadn't been mentioned in centuries.
In Kerr Shaw's eyes, anyone who knew her should've been long dead.
Even if it weren't for the "stories" passed down from his ancestors being so vivid, he'd have thought she was fictional.
"I'm from Kamar-Taj."
Ronan said just that.
If the other side came from a lineage with a magical heritage, they'd absolutely have heard that name.
Sure enough, when he heard "Kamar-Taj," a look of realization crossed Kerr Shaw's face.
Clearly, he knew the place.
"So you're from the holy land of sorcerers, Kamar-Taj."
"You're so young—already the Sorcerer Supreme?"
Kerr Shaw studied Ronan, his words carrying a hint of probing.
Ronan smiled at the test.
This level of probing was just to figure out his exact status.
Anyone familiar with Kamar-Taj would likely know that right now, there was only one Sorcerer Supreme there.
And that was the Ancient One.
"No need for pointless probing."
"I'm not the Sorcerer Supreme—the current Sorcerer Supreme is my teacher, the Ancient One."
Ronan shook his head—he was done playing riddles with this guy.
Because he had a lot on his plate.
"A disciple of Master Ancient One, huh…"
Kerr Shaw narrowed his eyes, clearly aware of the weight behind calling her "teacher."
By tradition, all sorcerers at Kamar-Taj learned from the Ancient One—they should all call her teacher.
But in all these years, the Ancient One had never taken a disciple, and the sorcerers there called her Master Ancient One or the Supreme One.
Now, this young man before him called her teacher.
Kerr Shaw understood the significance of that.
"Looks like Master Ancient One took on a fine disciple."
"But I've heard Kamar-Taj sorcerers don't meddle in Earth's affairs."
Kerr Shaw looked at Ronan.
And Ronan caught the subtext.
Simple—you Kamar-Taj folks don't usually get involved, so why are you here?
"I told you, I'm here for someone."
"Agatha Harkness, and…"
"The copy of the Darkhold in her possession."
Ronan glanced at Kerr Shaw, laying out his goal.
His meaning was clear—this falls under our jurisdiction too.
At the mention of the Darkhold, Kerr Shaw sighed.
Because when it came to that, Kamar-Taj had every right to step in.
"Since you know that name, you must also know she's long gone from here."
"So coming to us won't help."
Kerr Shaw sighed, as if he were helpless.
Ronan didn't buy his nonsense for a second.
A witch who'd lived for centuries—sure, her blood ties with these people might've thinned, but there was still a connection.
To say they didn't know where Agatha Harkness was? Ronan wasn't buying it.
That's right—when he'd heard Kerr Shaw's last name, Ronan had pieced it together.
Because he'd recalled a name.
Sebastian Shaw.
One of the X-Men universe's villains, a relative of Agatha Harkness.
More precisely, they shared a common ancestor named Abigail Harkness, a relative of Agatha's back in the day.
So, from that angle, this town might've been founded by Abigail Harkness and her clan.
Figuring this out, Ronan pretty much had it sorted.
"I just want to know where she is—because once Kamar-Taj gets involved, things stop being simple."
Ronan looked at Kerr Shaw, unmoved.
Seeing Ronan's resolve, Kerr Shaw finally sighed and gave an address.
But when Ronan heard it, his face involuntarily darkened.
Because the address Kerr Shaw gave wasn't anywhere else—it was New York!
F***!
So all that time on planes and buses was for nothing?
Damn it!
New York, suburbs.
Inside a seemingly ordinary farm.
To New York's masses, this place was a farm with zero presence.
But living here was an old hag who'd been around for centuries.
Oh, Ronan didn't mean every centuries-old person was an old hag—just Agatha Harkness specifically.
When a golden portal from the Sling Ring slowly materialized on the farm, Agatha Harkness, busy inside the house, suddenly stopped what she was doing.
She opened the door, staring expressionlessly at the growing golden portal.
Soon, a young man stepped out from the other side—strikingly youthful, devilishly handsome.
The kind of handsome that'd land him at least eight girlfriends.
Seeing someone waiting to greet him, Ronan paused slightly.
But soon, a smile spread across his face.
"If I'm not mistaken, you must be Ms. Agatha Harkness."
Ronan grinned at her.
Agatha Harkness studied him, then slowly nodded.
"A sorcerer from Kamar-Taj…"
"Far from the Ancient One's level, but compared to her at your age, you're not far off."
Looking at Ronan, Agatha Harkness seemed almost wistful.
Was she… jealous of the Ancient One?
Ronan twitched his lips, unsure what to say.
Was this praise?
Uh… probably?
The Ancient One must've been pretty strong back in the day.
So this was praise… right?
"I've stuck to the Ancient One's rules—no summoning extradimensional evil gods, no casting dark magic on regular folks."
"What I didn't expect was that now she doesn't even bother monitoring me herself—she sent a junior instead?"
"Is she looking down on me?"
Agatha Harkness narrowed her eyes, a strange aura rising from her.
Ronan twitched his lips again, looking at her with a hint of exasperation.
Why do you people love jumping to conclusions?
Fine, jump to conclusions—but why not let someone explain before picking a fight?
What, you just that eager to get beat up?
Of course, as a well-mannered guy, Ronan wouldn't say that out loud.
Yup, just a matter of politeness, nothing else.
"You've got it wrong—I'm not here to monitor you, and this isn't the Ancient One's order."
"I'm here for something else."
Ronan shook his head, quickly cutting off Agatha Harkness's overactive imagination.
He was worried that if she kept it up, his fate would end up like some novel protagonist from his past life—dying in all sorts of creative ways.
Especially since that novelist shared a name with this old hag.
That made it even creepier.
"Something else?"
"The Ancient One never took a disciple all these years, but a decade or so ago, her fate seemed to shift slightly."
"Given your age, that shift from a decade ago—it's because of you, isn't it?"
Agatha Harkness looked at Ronan with an odd gleam in her eyes.
That look seemed intent on seeing right through him.
But before Ronan could cover his vitals, Agatha Harkness suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood.
Her whole demeanor wilted instantly.
She stared at Ronan with disbelief, like she was looking at a monster.
Meanwhile, Ronan was secretly thrilled.
You old hag, trying to peek at this irresistible young man's body—shameless.
Serves you right!
After that stint in the Dark Dimension, Ronan had a rough idea of what secret he was hiding.
If he still pretended not to know at this point, he'd deserve a "dumbass" label.
So, he'd let Agatha Harkness take a look on purpose.
Go ahead, look—curiosity doesn't just kill kittens, it can take you down too, you old witch.
"How… how could you possibly…"
Agatha Harkness still couldn't believe it.
That glance—she'd glimpsed endless darkness.
Kamar-Taj, self-proclaimed foes of the Dark Dimension—how could they have a monster like this?
What the hell was the Ancient One up to?
"So I'm kinda curious—what exactly did you see?"
Ronan looked at Agatha Harkness, putting on an innocent, curious face.
Seeing him like that, Agatha Harkness's temper flared—she nearly spat blood again.
This punk—was the Ancient One sending him here just to piss her off?
"Spit it out—if you say one more irrelevant word, let's see if I can't take you down with me!"
Agatha Harkness's face darkened further—she even felt the urge to turn and storm off.
She was mad, she was mad, she was mad.
Ronan pursed his lips, swallowing the heap of snark he'd prepared.
After all, considering she'd survived a chaos magic self-destruct in the end, with that kind of power, she might actually pull off something wild.
He'd only lived a few years—she'd lived centuries. Dying together? Ronan felt like he'd be the one losing out.
Dying with an old hag—would his tombstone read "died in a tragic love pact with an old witch"?
At that thought, Ronan's expression shifted.
No way that was happening!!!
"I'm here for something simple—just one thing."
"Where's the original Darkhold?"