My body is convulsing on the ground after what felt like the strongest zapping to date.

“Was t-this n-necessary?” I stutter the words, with even one of my facial muscles still spasming.

“Respect, young Luciani, is something you’ll have to learn,” Magister Mulligan doesn’t smile in the slightest while answering.

It takes me a few minutes to collect myself and get up again under the accusatory gaze of the old man.

“Why Dreamscape?” That’s the first thing I ask when I regain complete control over my vocal cords. “It sounds like something that would bring you to another dimension rather than visualize stuff. Plus, what will change anyway? Aren’t I just going to go through the same pain all over again, but, what, this time, there’ll be visions of flowers and roses? Is that it?”

“The Vanedeni did not name it. It’s a technique that, based on my research and that of other [Heroes], predates our society. It should belong to an era that has been erased from history—an era where the Dragons, of all creatures, were the masters of magic. Keep in mind; it is all speculation.”

“Why is it even relevant then?” I sigh.

Magister Mulligan looks at me like I’m stupid.

“All legends have, at the very least, a grain of truth in them,” he explains. “If the Empathetic approach lasted this long, there has to be a reason. Survivability is the only measure of strength when you know how long certain creatures can live. A Dragon’s lifespan is seemingly infinite, but their survivability beyond a thousand years is actually quite low since they are spiteful creatures that incarnate the very worst of what a race could be.”

This man hates the Dragons with passion, I think to myself.

“Ok!” I basically shout, exasperated. “I don’t want to die, ok? I just don’t want to fucking die! If this Dreamscape is as good as you say, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever will save my goddamn life!”

“Good!” Magister Mulligan claps his hands. “Finally, the right attitude!”

“Right attitude?! I’m desperate!”

“That is the right attitude,” the old man nods. “But let’s not waste any more time. Your training takes precedence. I eagerly await the day you become worthy of my magical teachings, Joey Luciani.

“The Dreamscape is not a gradual process but rather a projection of the self onto reality. The technique consists of imbuing every action, skill, and even simple steps you take with sudden intent.”

I stare at Magister Mulligan after he goes silent.

“Ok, and?”

“That is it.”

I feel like a few veins just popped in my brain.

“I imbue my actions with intent?! These Vanedeni conquered the fucking world by imbuing their actions with intent?!” I feel tears going down my face, and I put a hand through my hair, feeling helpless. “Christ, what have I gotten myself into?!”

“Indeed, young Luciani,” Magister Mulligan says calmly, without a hint of irony. “And if you feel that this task is simple or unworthy, then you are even more naive than I thought.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” I retort, my voice starting to feel hoarse from all the shouting. “Just tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do!"

The old man sighs and raises a single finger, conjuring a small flame on top of it.

“Intent is not simply a matter of desire or direction. It is not merely the will to act. It is a force, one that bridges the gap between thought and reality,” the flame on top of his finger slowly turns black. “It influences magic, skills, and even what classes are available to you. The Dreamscape technique does not create illusions or alter the world in any physical way. Rather, it is a method of perception and understanding. This?” He lets the flame detach from his finger and float in front of me. “This is Dragonflame. From a Black Dragon—hence the color. It is hard to classify this in a Tiered sense—Tier 7, perhaps, would be the most fitting. However, not one [Archmage] outside of Kome has ever recreated it. Why? Because Dragonflame involves intent. Do you understand, now, what this implies?”

As the old man speaks, I feel a wave of dizziness washing over me, a sense of vertigo that seems to emanate from the very core of my being. It's like I'm standing at the edge of an abyss, teetering on the brink of comprehension.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Nausea rises from the bottom of my stomach up to the back of my throat as I open and close my mouth in a looping motion.

“The technique involves the realization that everything you do, every breath you take, every step, every word, every thought, is a manifestation of your intent,” Magister Mulligan continues. “The technique trains you to be aware of this at all times. You do not merely walk; you decide to move, engage your muscles, and shift your weight. Every single action, no matter how insignificant it may seem, is imbued with purpose.”

“And… that’s it? You create a special flame because you, what, visualize stuff?”

Magister Mulligan dispels the flame that’s levitating in front of me and shakes his head.

“This is the greatest gift I could give to a misguided child like yourself, Joey Luciani. You shall make of it what you desire. Now, I believe my presence has been nothing but distracting. It is time for you to prove that you could have indeed cured your mother and that you might even cure your friend’s mother or die. Let’s see if you stop being a coward or if you die like one.”

“You...” I stammer, at a loss for words.

“I have coddled you enough,” Magister Mulligan offers, a grimace playing on his lips, “Perhaps, you’ll die a coward. But this is the path forward, young Luciani. Prove that you are special and live or refuse and die. This is the path of a [Hero].”

And with that, he turns away from me, slowly disappearing and leaving me alone with my thoughts and fears. I stare at the empty spot, a strange mixture of anger, fear, and... yes, determination welling up within me.

“Fine!” I call out to him in spite, my voice echoing in the emptiness of the colonnade. “Fine! I'll learn this stupid... Dreamscape thing. Fuck you, Magister Mulligan! Fuck you!”

Magister Mulligan doesn't reappear, nor does any electricity run through my body.

After taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I move toward the Vanedeni sword with a sense of purposeful dread. It’s a leviathan – a Godzilla – among blades, nearly as long as I am tall, its edge glinting ominously under the dim lighting of the colonnade. The hilt is a mystery, studded with runic symbols.

Right, the enchantments Magister Mulligan mentioned… that’s another piece of homework I’ve got to complete, I think to myself, passing my hand over my face.

Each step towards the sword becomes a feat of fortitude and spite, my heartbeat echoing the rhythm of my footsteps. The aftereffects of Magister Mulligan's zapping still linger in my body. The raw pain has now subsided, only to be replaced by a pervasive soreness in my muscles. It’s a discomfort that has become all too familiar.

As I reach for the sword, I’m struck by its colossal size again. I stand for a moment, drinking in the sight and grappling with the enormity of the task before me.

How the fuck am I going to do this?

I remember the agonizing pain from the last time I had attempted to lift it, a memory that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

I glance at the few black Runes etched into my skin, the remnants of a choice I had willingly made. Each rune signifies enhanced strength and resilience—in the future. Because why give me something that I could use now when you can put me through the most painful torture? Every time I barely exert my muscles, the Runes retaliate with an unbearable torment. It's a constant tug-of-war between the promises of power and the punishment of pain.

Determined, I reach out and wrap my hands around the hilt of the sword. Its cold, metallic touch sends a chill through my veins. I gather myself, taking a deep, shuddering breath as I prepare to imbue intent into my actions.

I close my eyes, banishing the doubts and the fear.

I need to concentrate.

I picture myself lifting the sword, swinging it as effortlessly as a twig. I envision the precision in my movements, the clarity of my purpose, and the power that lies dormant within me. As I do, the hilt does feel lighter in my hands, almost weightless.

I visualize myself standing tall, the weight of the Vanedeni sword nothing more than an extension of my strength. My grip tightens, the anticipation almost palpable in the air.

I see myself as the [Hero] I aspire to be, unyielding in the face of adversity, triumphant against the odds.

The image is vivid, almost real as if it's merely a heartbeat away.

Then, I pull.

Reality crashes into me like a cold wave, washing away my fabricated tranquility. The sword hasn't budged as pain seizes my entire body, and my vision goes black.

The sword just lies there, just as cold and heavy as it’s always been.

I should be able to at least fucking lift the handle!

It’s the pain, Joey, a voice in my head tells me. The pain makes it even harder—it makes you weaker.

I let go of the hilt and pant, holding my weight with my arms resting on my knees. I swallow a few times and wet my lips before looking down again.

I grit my teeth.

Furious, I give it another try, straining against the unyielding weight. Pain erupts, the Runes on my arms flaring with an intensity that rivals the sun, threatening to pull me into the depths of unconsciousness. My vision blurs, my breath comes out in ragged gasps.

I teeter on the edge of blacking out.

"Damn it!" I bellow as I release the hilt again, the sound echoing off the ancient stone columns, my outcry a reflection of the storm brewing within me.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do this?!”

Humiliation mixes with frustration, a bitter cocktail that makes my insides churn.

I’m standing before a mountain that refuses to move, a challenge that mocks my desperate attempts. My rolling emotions rise to a crescendo, and I let out a primal scream as I bend down and try to lift the hilt again, a testament to my desperation and defiance.

Visualize the motherfucker! Visualize!

In the echoes of my outburst, pinpricks of fiery pain go up to my brain—this time, knocking me out.

I collapse onto the ground, defeated…

But my hands are still locked around the hilt of the sword, my knuckles white from exertion.

My body screams in protest, the pain from the Runes scorching my nerves.

A solitary tear travels down my cheek and splatters onto the ground.

At that moment, a raw, unfiltered truth settles into my bones. I’m alone, grappling with an impossible task.

I'm nowhere near to becoming the [Hero] I envision.

I'm just a boy holding onto a dream that seems to be slipping further away with every failed attempt.

I wiggle closer to the sword, the cold hilt now resting against my forehead.

“How… How…”

My sobs are the only noise breaking the silence.