It has always been interesting to see how most people back on Earth thought I didn’t like confrontations—facing problems, that is. Sure, I can’t stay in a car alone or look at a credit card contract without having a panic attack, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally dysfunctional. If anything, I think my mother taught me how to approach problems with people from a very young age.

I can’t handle contracts. People, though?

I knew I would have to deal with Truffles at some point, and I’m happy of how it turned out between us.

Sadly, I’m far from an ‘I will face every problem in my way’ kind of guy. I’m more of ‘yeah, I know I’ll have to face problems along the way eventually.’

And there’s exactly one person I have been thinking about lately.

Quintus and I cross the short bridge that brings us to the inner park inside the Pratus, away from the [Merchants] shouting at the top of their lungs.

At some point, we all have to face our problems.

“Quintus, you go ahead,” I gesture at the ex-[Soldier]. “I wanted to have a chat with Stan before coming home.”

The one-eyed [Baker] of mine nods, and we take different paths. Soon, I’m close to the massive statue of [Prince]… what’s his name again?

It doesn’t matter, I clear my voice and walk up to the man always resting underneath the colossus of stone.

“Hey, Stanimal,” I say as I approach the homeless man begging for money while his gorilla-sized dog eyes me with suspicion.

“Friend,” he nods.

“How you doin’?”

“It’s a beautiful day, and the passersby have been quite generous with their charity today.”

I look down at Grigio and then back at Stan.

“Listen, do you mind if we go for a short stroll? I wanted to chat about some stuff.”

“Sure,” he says as he slowly props himself up.

Stan looks like a destitute Gandalf, a very tall man with an even bigger past on his shoulders. He looks at the massive statue behind him for a second before leaving its shadow.

We both start strolling through the verdant green and surprisingly neat grass in the park.

How do I put this? I think to myself, trying to decipher what’s the best way of bringing up the topic. But before I can even formulate any sentence, Stan gives me a long look and a grimace.

He’s guessed exactly what I wanted to talk about.

“Is this about the fight at the inn?”

I might bother to look surprised if I didn’t know for sure that Stan is a hidden expert of some kind.

“Yeah,” I nod. “How did you disappear like that?”

The old man looks around—not just the park, but far up to the rings of statues and then merchants around this huge plaza-cum-park that is delimited by the lines of bakeries, restaurants, and other buildings—simply, the Pratus.

His eyes then scan the Elves walking around us. Grigio, the monster-dog, follows up a few steps behind.

“I have enough experience in being invisible.”

“So, let me change my question. Why did you? Couldn’t you have helped while we were getting our faces caved in?” I frown.

When he turns to look at me, there’s a deep understanding of what’s been left unsaid at the moment. As in, ‘yes, Stan, I know you are probably a freak of nature in some way.’ But the reply looks like, ‘well, Joey, are you sure you want to open this can of worms?’

And do I? Do I want to open this can of worms?

“I know, it’s mostly on me Stanimal,” I say before he can actually reply. “I should have stayed calm, and that would have prevented the escalation of violence. I should have tackled Truffles before he could create any trouble. But in all that happened… why didn’t you at least take Truffles? Or one of the guys?”

Stan doesn’t reply immediately. He keeps looking away, switching from resting his eyes on other Elves, statues, or even trees. He turns to pet the massive dog that follows him everywhere, and slowly inhales before turning at me.

“I don’t involve myself in violence—not anymore,” he says plainly.

“Why? You are the biggest mothertrucker I have ever seen. You are tall and sturdy. Just carry around a stick to bash people with. Don’t you help the other guys at the park, already? What’s with helping prevent violence?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“You are too young, friend,” Stan speaks slowly, “you wouldn’t understand.”

“You are telling me that getting our asses kicked, possibly stabbed, wasn’t enough to keep you there after you shared drinks with us?”

This mother—I’m getting angry here.

Stan doesn’t reply.

“Talk to me, Stanimal,” I say with a serious voice. “Can I do something? Can’t I help, somehow?”

He stops walking.

“Stan?” I try, but he just shakes his head.

“This discussion is futile. I shall return to my begging.”

Stan makes to turn and walk away, but I grab him by the shoulder, with Grigio suddenly barking like crazy at me.

“Shut the hell up, you stupid dog,” I snarl back as I try pulling Stan back and address the tall Elf. “Yo, I’m talking to you! Hello?!”

“Remove your hand,” Stan says in a plain tone. “This is futile. Involving yourself in tragedy will only result in more tragedy. You can only remove yourself from these matters if you wish to live a happy existence. Now, the hand.”

His last two words are so heavy I almost stumble forward and fall on my face.

Wait, was that an aura?

“Look, I can help. We are already doing great for the people her. Can’t I help you?”

“Joey,” the old man suddenly turns to look at me like a parent would with a toddler trying to handle a hammer, “not everything can be solved through money or food. I deal in problems mightier than your imagination can fetch. The life I chose is so to avoid trouble not just for me, but for everyone at large.”

I look at the old man with a frown on my face.

“What if someone died?” I suddenly ask. The question makes me uncomfortable, and it feels like I’m pushing him, but I really want to know his answer to that.

“If someone died, that would have been terrible. But my involvement would have just increased the likelihood of anyone getting hurt. I am… tired. Yes, tired, friend. Grigio takes care of the minor problems that might arise in the camp, but I keep out of the rest.”

Ok, this is the breaking point. If I keep asking questions, I might clearly get roped into some side-quests. Or worse, the main quest.

At any other moment, I would have simply said my goodbyes and followed Quintus right into the homeless camp, right? Why would I bother with some world-ending quest when there are so many good-looking female Elves more stacked than a nuclear bunker, huh?

And I kind of have to shut up the part of my brain thinking about the quest right now because I see the pain in Stan’s eyes. They look more tired than usual, containing a weariness that is not given by his age but by whatever burden he’s carrying.

He is suffering.

And this might not just be a quest for me.

This might be his quest.

Who knows, maybe I’m not even the protagonist of this very story in front of me, but just a side character.

It’s time to stop being selfish.

That’s why I stop listening to the alarm bells going on in my head, against my better instincts, and put a hand on the big homeless man’s arm.

“My man,” I say, “I might not be an [Archmage] yet, but I’m pretty sure that whatever you are going through, I can at least chip at it.”

“Joey, even if you were an [Archmage], it would take…” Stan stops halfway through. “Your heart is in the right place, friend. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do. [Prince] Vespasianus himself could not solve this problem—and he was the best Elf we were ever given.”

“But what is the problem, Stanimal? What is it?”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t say anything.

“Listen,” I say, steading myself, “I need an answer here. I am no [Prince], but I can tell what is basic decency. You prohibit Truffles from taking walks outside because it’s dangerous and you care for him. But then why didn’t you help him when he was that drunk? Are you a man, Stan? Or are you a coward?”

This time, the tall man turns slowly to look at me, but the person I’m looking at is not the same Stan I’ve known so far.

No.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he speaks now in an altered voice, deeper and solemn.

“So?” I swallow, feeling some pressure building up around us.

“Are you foolish enough, Joey Luciani, to think you could affect a war between continents?” His voice drags the words. “I would just like to mend the mistakes I’ve made in the past. But it would take someone so grand, so special that they would rival Vanedenis’ legends to accomplish something like that. Anyone less than that would be lower than [Prince] Vespasianus… [Hero Prince] Vespasianus, Joey. And he failed.”

The air around us changes, becoming much denser than I have ever experienced air being. In a span of seconds, even an act as normal as breathing starts becoming difficult.

Stan’s eyes have changed: I’m looking at a majestic Elf, taller than life itself, with a presence strong enough to crack stone. The air becomes even heavier, and I now feel compelled to bend my knee in front of him, to lower my head in front of whatever quest I’m being presented with.

With the next question, his voice sounds solemn, as if echoing on the walls of a royal court.

“Do you think you are that special, Human? Do you think you could become a [Hero]? Do you think you could ever face such a challenge?”

Each of his words adds weight on top of my shoulders, forcing me to bend my knee in front of him and to accept my metaphorical defeat at the end of the question.

And all my life I have bent this knee, I have looked the other way when something like becoming a [Doctor], sorry, a doctor, was presented in front of me. I knew there was a miserable life behind those choices, a life I could possibly not live in any happy manner.

But even looking at the now angry expression of the man, there’s something that makes me hesitate. There’s something that makes me stand straighter than I was standing before.

I raise my face to align my eyes with his.

Behind the rage, the weight of this moment, there’s still pain, there’s still sadness.

Have I become more miserable since learning magic?

As if to reply to me, I feel a little electrical current running up my spine, strengthening my stance.

Or have I become more… me?

I close my eyes, with a small tear escaping from each.

The weight on my shoulders is unbearable—it should be. But some words come to me so clearly that it almost feels like they are being spoken to my mind.

Giusè, show the committee who’s the best baker in the world.

Lorenzo’s memory comes to me together with the pride he taught me.

I tremble.

I don’t even know how, but I now push the weight I was feeling on my shoulders, dispelling it in a matter of seconds.

“I don’t think I have what it takes,” I tell this version of Stan. “But perhaps I can help some people. If not you, I’ll then help Arminius since you mentioned him. I might not be special, Stanimal, but I can try to make people less miserable. That, I can do.”

“Not everyone deserves help—not everyone can be helped,” the angry voice speaks one last time before the air around us goes back to normal, and I’m suddenly staring at the same Stan I’ve known since coming to Amorium.

“Perhaps,” I say with a slight smile. “But who knows, maybe I’ll change your mind, Stanimal.”

I give a custom wink to the huge Elf, ignoring the stupid dog’s growls, and I start walking toward the homeless camp.

There’s some work to do.