[Solomon exhales slowly as his eyes trace in the direction that his phantom faces, a mirror image. The army descends, from air and ground alike, and the magic circle that spins to life under Solomon's feet takes only a moment to respond. No incantation, no tracing, and yet the magic erupts like a flood, an effortless outreach for the lone man to have the space around him erupt into swirling tendrils of fire that shoot out like thousands of arrows. War screams start to echo into agony as bodies start to drop like stones. Arrows fly with dark energy, but fry like gnats against a fire when they hit the barrier surrounding Solomon, the protective magic radiating out with an iridescent rippling. They descend, attempting to overlap, and the man is suddenly gone - teleported, several dozen meters into their midst, where another massive magical burst sends a shockwave through the ground, knocking many off their feet and sending those closest to the barrier flying with earthen shrapnel.]

The supernatural doesn't tend to care if humanity has any sort of lasting peace. The state of it only matters so long as it is under their terms, their benefits, and not our own. It's been that way for millenia.

At the time, I was the only one who could do anything.