The following dawn, Kamar-Taj gathered to honour the Ancient One's cremation under Kathmandu's solemn rites.
A pyre of neatly stacked cedar rose in the courtyard, and atop it the Ancient One lay in her familiar beige robe, hands folded over chest and abdon, her face composed in final tranquillity.
Except for the Masters standing watch at the three Sanctums, every disciple had returned. Clad in plain sashes, they ford silent rows before the flas, heads half-bowed while their fingers traced mudrā of farewell. For centuries the Ancient One had shielded Earth; each sorcerer present had felt her guidance, and her passing left a jagged hollow in the world's defences.
Karl Mordo stepped forward to recite the eulogy in Tibetan. Though the Ancient One was born a Celt, decades of guardianship had woven her life into the mountain kingdom now giving her rest. When the last log collapsed to ash, several Masters collected the remains; others wiped tears without a sound.
Evening had settled by the ti the pyre burned low, yet one final duty remained.
"Ten days ago the Ancient One foresaw her own death," Mordo announced, voice carrying across the courtyard. The words punched straight through Malrick's chest, twisting with regret. She had started arranging her succession the mont he left this universe.
Mordo continued, "She told —and most of you—that barely a month ago Kamar-Taj welcod the most powerful and dependable Master alive: Superman."
He gestured toward Malrick, and every gaze pivoted to him: curious, respectful, never disbelieving. In this age even the most remote villages had heard the na.
Many still found it odd that a being renowned for physical might also mastered the mystic arts, but none questioned the results. The crowd parted as Malrick joined Mordo.
"Please, call Master Malrick," he said quietly.
Mordo's eyes lingered on him. The Ancient One had died the very night Malrick returned; had she clung to life only long enough to secure his promise? Given his strength, Earth could ask for no sturdier shield.
"You have all seen his power," Mordo said. "Half a month ago he demonstrated his command of the mystic forces—channeling Cyttorak to forge the Crimson Bands and drawing on Watoomb for the roaring winds. Those spells alone earned our awe."
He straightened. "By the Ancient One's decree, and with the Vishanti's blessing, Malrick is to beco the next Sorcerer Supre."
Mordo offered the formal salute; robes across the courtyard bent like wheat before the sun as every Master echoed him. Malrick answered the gesture, outwardly calm while privately marvelling at how thoroughly the Ancient One had arranged this mont.
When the salute ended, he turned to Mordo. "Is that all? Tradition speaks of trials, does it not?"
"Ordinarily the candidate would complete the Vishanti Trials and best the other Masters," Mordo admitted, "but the Vishanti have already confird their choice. No further rite is required."
Malrick surveyed the circle of Masters. "I am still a newcor in your eyes. A friendly contest will show everyone what I can do—and build confidence for the dinsional threats ahead."
His real thought was simpler: a brief clash now would forestall objections later, when his plans grew bolder.
Mordo hesitated. "You shrug off nuclear detonations, yet you wish to duel us? Soone could be hurt."
"I will rely on spells alone," Malrick assured him, forming a quick seal.
Reluctantly, Mordo gathered the Masters and explained the challenge. Few of them had ever witnessed an investiture; curiosity soon outweighed their grief. Within half an hour they had assembled in the training ground: sorcerers from Hong Kong, London, and New York ringing the arena at a thirty-tre distance—Rintrah the minotaur looming cheerfully among them. Conversation crackled in a dozen languages, the excitent washing away funeral gloom.
Mordo began reciting the customary rules. "Regional groups choose champions in rotation, and if the candidate needs a respite—"
"Hold on," Malrick interrupted. "I endure blows better than most cities. Face together."
He raised a hand before the murmurs could swell. "This is not an insult, only proof of my capability."
Mordo tried to object but Malrick gently pushed him toward the line of challengers. "Archmage Mordo, you should stand with them. The test starts now."
For several heartbeats the ring was hushed. Masters glanced from one to another, weighing caution against eagerness.
Then the first sigils flared to life.
The new Sorcerer Supre would earn his mantle in brilliant light, not solemn shadow.
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