The book lies on the wooden table. The nosy [Archmage]'s gaze is probably probing while I rest momentarily on my bed. To be fair, I'm not exactly resting—I'm sitting on the edge, safe for the moment but unprepared for what will come next.

Is it cold feet? Or is it the rational part of my mind suddenly kicking in?

To better illustrate what I’m feeling right now, take that visionary of Quentin Tarantino, for example: not everyone gets to tell Salma Hayek to pour tequila down her leg down to her foot and right into your mouth.

Don’t get me wrong; I do want Salma Hayek’s foot in my mouth—hell, I’d kill for that privilege. And no man of culture wouldn’t say the same unless they were a completely deranged degenerate. But see, I think that with great power comes great responsibility. Am I ready to have Salma Hayek’s foot in my mouth?

Perhaps not. Who knows, maybe it’s too big of an honor, and I don’t deserve it. Maybe there’s someone else who deserves Salma Hayek’s foot in their mouth more than me.

Plus, what would your mother think if she saw you in that position? And leave the tequila be, ok? What if it was just the foot? Is that halal? I mean, how does that change your relationship with reality once you go through that door?

Truth to be told, knowing my mother, she would probably say, ‘Go for it.’ She’s never been one to shame me for anything or to make me feel bad about who I am.

Or maybe, the worst thing is that my mother will never have the chance to see Salma Hayek put her foot in my mouth. Maybe that is the greatest tragedy of all. I wasted chance after chance in my life to suck on those toes.

I’d brought so much misery to my mother’s life. I’d had her endure so much crap because of who I am. Therefore, do I deserve that foot now?

Am I worthy?

I join my hands together and slowly close my eyes.

Mom, if you are there, I’d like a word. There’s some stuff I need to tell you. Tell St. Peter he can wait to speak with the Pope again and that this is of the maximum priority...

You have no idea what I would give to see you again, mom.

As I am ready to elaborate a proper prayer, I feel a tingling in my limbs, and I open my eyes to a shimmering light in front of me.

…

The imposing figure of Magister Mulligan watched the young man perched on the bed. He was starting to falter, despite the recent casting of [Mindful Clarity] and the sudden, shocking change of heart that had summoned the [Archmage] to his presence.

Magister Mulligan had naively thought accepting the challenge from the impetuous Elf would force the young [Mage] to realign his priorities and fortify his character. Yet, here he was, filled with doubt and hesitation.

So, why was he doubting himself again? Why was he hesitating?

The distinguished Magister Mulligan was at a loss. He'd never encountered a disciple with such inner conflict.

It is uncharacteristic for the Vanedeni, he thought, absentmindedly stroking his lengthy beard.

His tutelage had molded two of history's most influential figures. He had orchestrated the grandest war of his era from behind the scenes, slaying the mightiest Hydra, Sziezais. And throughout his long career, doubt had scarcely been an obstacle.

Shortage of talent, resources, and worthy adversaries... were familiar hurdles. Even luck, or the lack thereof, had played a substantial part in the Vanedeni demise.

But doubt?

Perhaps I shouldn’t have offered this young man some training. My plans… I don’t think I should push them as far as I had planned. This ill-conceived gamble… If he’s entering the training with this many doubts, he’s guaranteed to die. The Vanedeni are made, not born. And… does he have what it takes to be made a Vanedeni?

More and more, it looked like the answer would be negative. He started comparing the young man to his two best disciples.

Filaer was shy, and Skialaer was too violent. They had their troubles, but they were still two of the greatest [Heroes]—with the proper class. Young Joey Luciani might not be up to the task. Perhaps, he might not even be up to becoming half of what I was planning for.

To become a [Hero], it doesn’t suffice to have talent. If anything, talent is just a small part of the whole endeavor. Otherwise, I would have the class three times over.

This kid has the talent… but he will die.

Magister Mulligan suddenly reached that realization.

It was common for greatly talented Vanedeni to die in battle. The attrition rate to have an entire kingdom level up at their rate meant they were reckless to a fault. And that was applied to people who were not doubting their every move.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

There was also a huge secret about the Vanedeni. The flying vessels, the Bricollae that everyone called the bag of holding were well known but no one had managed to replicate with the same powers of the true Vanedeni craft. Recklessness had played a major role in the Vanedeni ascent, but there was something beyond that.

Something that Magister Mulligan had thought that Joey had.

This kid…

I put this off for too long. It is time to confirm my suspicions.

Magister Mulligan had waited for Joey to grow and mature before using one of his greatest skills. Now, however, he needed to know.

[Soul Projection]

…

“What...?” The words falter, caught between disbelief and a sudden onslaught of emotions. Within seconds, anger flares up, hot and blinding. “Jesus, fuck, you stupid [Archmage]! Did you do this?! How dare you—”

That is not me, young Joey Luciani.

“But—”

“Joe,” a figure interrupts my spluttering rage. Her voice is as I remember it – comforting, familiar. A spectral echo of my mother stands before me, a near-perfect projection of her dark eyes and hair, the honeyed tan of her skin, and the slim strength of her arms. The small beauty mark on her cheek and the sharp, distinctive contour of her cheekbones and nose.

“Ma’?”

Surprise roots me to the spot, freezing my breath and quickening my heartbeat.

“How—”

“It doesn’t matter, Joe. And stop swearing!”

My mother actually slaps the top of my head. My jaw slackens, words lost to shock as tears blur my vision.

In a sudden movement, I spring to my feet, the need to touch, to assure myself that this apparition is real overriding all thought. I wrap my arms around the spectral figure, engulfing her in an urgent embrace.

“Ma’,” I feel my throat burning. “I’m so sorry, ma’.”

I bend down low, crying on my short mother's shoulder in the same way I've done so many times before in my life.

“Shh. You're not a child anymore, so stop the tears,” she admonishes gently, her hand tracing familiar, soothing patterns through my hair. “You wanted to talk, didn't you?”

“Ma’, how long are you staying?! Can I do something to let you stay?! Please, Mana? More prayers? Ma’, I swear I’ll become a virgin and a friar if I need to! Please!”

“Joe, cut the childish jokes,” my mother admonishes me. “You know very well I’m just visiting. Hush now. Sit down.”

She releases the hug and sits on the bed, patting the spot beside her.

“How you doin’?” She winks at me.

“It’s been… hard,” I admit, sinking down next to her. “Claudia… Antoninus’s mother, she has cancer.”

“Oh, I know,” my mother nods. “But you said you’re going to save her, right?”

I shrug, my gaze averted.

“Can I? Couldn’t do anything for you.”

I have to look away, too ashamed to have this conversation, and look my mother in the eyes. I can't bear to face her even though I know she won’t be here for long.

“Joe. Joe, look at me,” she says, pushing my shoulder.

“Ma’,” I whine, “I’m a kid, ma’. How am I going to cure cancer? Like, sure, magic is great, but how?”

“You’ll find a way, Joe. I have faith in you.”

“But should I? Should I give people hope? Should I even try to win the duel?” I recant my previous resolutions.

“You don’t need to ask permission, Joe. You’re an adult. You’ll forever be my little treasure, but you are an adult now.”

“This is the first thing I do alone, ma’,” I tell her. “Baking? We’ve done it together. I could never have been a baker without you. Magic… becoming a warrior…”

“Joe, we don’t have much time,” my mother says with a sad smile. “I just came here to tell you that I love you and that I’m watching you with your dad. He complains a lot, though.”

That prompts a half-sob half-laughter on my part.

“I bet, ma’… listen, there’s a reason I ‘called.’ I don’t know if you already know because you’re an angel or something. Am I supposed to actually become religious now?”

“You know it doesn’t matter,” my mother laughs. “Just keep praying, Joe. And yes, I know. But I would like for you to tell me all the same.”

I bite my lips.

“Ma’, I can’t keep praying like this.”

I go silent for a second, trying to collect my thoughts.

“I can’t keep praying when I am at my lowest. I don’t want to. If I go through with this… I can’t pray while I’m desperate. Next time we call… I want to call when I’m happy, ma’.”

Her spectral hand comes to rest on my cheek, her thumb tracing a comforting path. Her smile beams at me, radiant despite its ethereal form.

“Be proud of the man you are becoming, Joe. You are the kindest child I could have ever hoped for."

For the first time today, the tears coming out of my eyes are because I’m happy.

This means so much more than I could put into words.

I’m a man. I need to act as a man.

As such, I get up and wait for my mother to get up as well.

It pains me endlessly, but this is necessary.

I hug her.

“I’ll see you after the training, ma’. I love you.”

“I love you too, Joe.”

I release the grip before her translucent body disappears.

…

Magister Mulligan had double—triple—no, quadruple-checked that he hadn’t somehow generated a projection of Joey’s mother. He had been the one behind Lorenzo’s apparition thanks to one of his skills, but what [Soul Projection] did was different. In fact, it wasn’t the skill that had generated the vision of the fat baker. This skill’s effect was only visible to its user.

When Magister Mulligan stopped looking at the magic in the air, trying to figure out what was going on, he found Joey Luciani standing in front of the disappearing projection with a tranquil smile.

Why is he smiling? He was panicking until a moment ago.

Now, though, Magister Mulligan had almost forgotten that his skill was taking effect.

In his eyes, Joey’s clothes morphed into a series of tattered rags, and he got smaller and smaller.

The sign of failure, the [Archmage] sighed.

But right as his mother’s projection flickered away, something strange happened.

Joey Luciani started becoming taller and taller: taller than he had ever been. The frayed rags didn't vanish entirely. Instead, they seemed to dissolve in places, replaced by gleaming sections of resplendent armor. A radiant aura of potent magic exploded around him, so overwhelming that Magister Mulligan found himself involuntarily widening his eyes.

Unlike every other time he had seen the skill, a figure appeared behind the man, floating in the air with a hand on his shoulder. It was the spectral embodiment of Joey’s mother, ever watchful, a guardian spirit for her son.

Magister Mulligan found his initial assumptions unraveling, replaced by a renewed sense of curiosity and respect. The decision to backpedal on his original plans seemed increasingly irrelevant.

And so, he materialized before the young man, a subtle smile gracing his seasoned features.

“Young Joey Luciani, the hour of reckoning has arrived.”

“Let’s begin,” Joey retorted with calm assurance, ready to face what came next.