My forehead rests against the icy pommel of the gargantuan Vanedeni sword. A single thought dominates my mind—I can’t do this. Perhaps, if this had been a movie or a book, a training montage after a good mentoring speech would have worked well enough. But the situation I’m facing is not something that can be solved through sheer willpower alone.
"This is impossible," I whisper, a dull echo resonating amid the colonnade.
I raise my head for a second, staring at the still puppet several yards away.
If I can’t even lift this sword… How am I going to fight that thing?
Rising to my knees, I clutch the sword's hilt, the cold metal a stark contrast to my clammy hands. The sword is massive, so heavy I can barely lift it, let alone wield it. I'm not in a movie.
This is real fucking life.
I scrub my nose with my sleeve, blinking back the tears that blur my vision. I need to find a way out. Yet the debilitating spikes of anxiety swamp all rational thought, replacing it with corrosive self-doubt. The sarcastic voice in my head paints a grim picture.
See, this is exactly what would have happened if you had gone to med school. Look at you—you could have been content. You could have just looked for a wife and had your little happy family.
Truly the American Dream, huh? Grind hard, spend yourself to the bone, get successful, and then die alone in a ditch.
You are alone. There’s no one here, and there’s no way you will ever be able to wield a sword that heavy. Runes? If anything, they are clearly making it impossible for you to accomplish the task. Magister Mulligan? He’s just another person who should have minded his own business—you should have never listened to him.
You will bleed red and shit yourself as you die. Alone, Joey. Without your mother, without a friend, and even without one of those unbearable chefs you had hired as your subordinates back on Earth.
Alone.
I look vacantly at the sword in front of me, paralyzed.
…
Unseen and hidden within an invisible pocket of space, Magister Mulligan studied Joey’s efforts. The young man had tried to use the Dreamscape technique, but he had failed miserably.
Magister Mulligan had never intended for his novice apprentice to master the Dreamscape in such a limited timeframe. Like he had done with many other Vanedeni before him, he thought it would simply be enough to spur his pride.
“Perhaps, I exaggerated,” Magister Mulligan mumbled, looking at the incredibly heavy sword on the ground.
He had been expecting a breakthrough, a genius idea like the one Joey had had when he misinterpreted the request made by the book. If the young man’s talent for fighting was even half of what his magical talent amounted to…
Magister Mulligan shook his head.
At the end of the day, only bearing through all that pain would have allowed him to lift the sword. Talent wouldn’t save the young man from the hard work needed to pass this trial. Even the Dreamscape, as the Earthling would have put it, was just ‘dangling a carrot in front of his eyes.’
“I might have been wrong—very wrong,” Magister Mulligan muttered, surrounded by [Silence] spells to conceal his presence better. “I should not have pressed him this hard. Not even a true Vanedeni…”
“If he fails, he will never qualify to be a [Hero]. Skialaer and Filaer… maybe…”
The old man kept mumbling as he reconsidered his actions. He had not told the young man the whole truth, and now he was starting to think that, perhaps, that was a terrible choice.
In fact, the trial that Joey was being subjected to had come with more than a few strings attached and the implementation of a few new things that the old man had considered beneficial.
With the actual results in front of him, however, he wasn’t sure that this had been the right move at all.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Perhaps, he should have reconsidered.
“A Vanedeni path never goes back… only forward,” Magister Mulligan spoke, stroking his beard.
…
Still trembling, I decide to stand up and think of something.
“Ok, let’s think,” I reiterate to myself.
Anxiety is still gripping my throat and stomach, but at the very least, I can try and make something out of it.
“Anxiety is good, anxiety is good,” I repeat the mantra that I had learned in therapy. “It’s just an adaptation to warn us of where the danger lies. Don’t let it spiral.”
But for all I am trying to convince myself, my mind is still stating the obvious: there’s no way I can lift that sword in these conditions.
How the hell am I supposed to do it, then?
“Ok, let’s try and be rational about this,” I lie to myself as I start pacing around, hoping the motion will keep the anxiety at bay. I also add a large swing to my arms—it might seem strange to you, but the way anxiety radiates to my limbs makes it hard for me to think. It’s nothing close to the burning pain of trying to lift the sword, but it’s definitely no joke, either. So, I swing my arms around in a silly way as I take large strides.
“Ok, what about the sword? What do I need to do? I need to fucking lift it off the ground and pray to God that it will generate those whatever they’re called—those muscles. The magic muscles, yeah. So, lifting the sword… How do I lift the stupid sword, then? Assuming there’s no way I can lift the sword like this…”
A thought comes to me.
“Right, let’s focus. Well, let’s actually [Deep Focus].”
I activate the skill, which finally helps me calm down a little and focus on the matter at hand. Now, my vision has become narrower, and my stride more even.
“Lifting the sword… I can’t lift the sword. I was never physically fit. I don’t go to the gym; I don’t run. I do have stamina in bed, but I don’t think that’s going to help here unless they exchange the duel for winning at Love Island or something.
“I am not fit. I can’t lift the sword. That’s the starting point. It makes no sense to keep bashing my head against the wall and expecting a different result.”
I purse my lips and keep my head low as I walk toward one of the sides of the colonnade and start circling its border, still looking at the ground.
“Magister Mulligan inscribed some black Runes on my body that trade an exponentially increased recovery and muscle growth for tremendous amounts of non-negotiable pain. So, pain-reducing stuff is out of the equation…”
I keep pacing.
“But pain does diminish with the intensity of training. The less I pull on the sword, the less pain there is. So, the pain is relative to the effort…”
Something goes off in my head as I feel myself instantly getting much closer to a solution.
“Let’s say this was Earth, and I wanted to bench press something like that sword… how would I do that?”
The fact that I have not exercised in a long time doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about exercise. In fact, it’s quite the contrary. I had spent enough time browsing the internet and talking to personal trainers when one of my therapists suggested that exercise would alleviate my anxiety—which it didn’t. However, I had researched and paid for top-notch trainers because if I really had to work out, I would have wanted to work out in the best way possible.
“I have been pigeonholing myself…” My eyes suddenly widen. “Progressive overload, damn it! Yes, yes!”
I suddenly sprint back to the sword, waving my arms over my head. Well, wait. I try to sprint back to the sword, but then a sharp jolt of pain goes through my body, and I fall face-first on the ground.
But I got it! I got it!
“Yo, Magister Mulligan! YO! Come out! I have an idea to finish this training!”
The old man doesn’t appear back in front of me, but I’m pretty sure he’s listening.
“Listen, yo, you might not have read these particular memories, but why don’t we progressive-overload this shit?! I am pretty sure I could make some [Light] constructs to lift that sword with my whole body or something, but I am pretty sure you can, like, bend metal and stuff to make exactly what I need. And maybe you have plates? I mean, I had dates, but I finally realized I needed the plates!”
Now, Magister Mulligan slowly appears in front of me with a light frown painted across his face.
“Explain yourself, young Luciani.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple. Build me some machines based on the blueprints I’ll sketch out for you, and give me some plates. Hell, not even plates. If you want, you can enchant that stuff to make it heavier or something. Yeah, yeah! It doesn’t matter! I can sketch out the machines needed to get stronger. You know how your Vanedeni are super strong, right?” I almost trip over my words from the excitement.
“Yes?”
“Well, I am not. And guess what could make me stronger? Training with weights that I can actually manage! We can target the muscles I need to get stronger in isolation so that when I get to lift the sword, I don’t actually pass out from the pain! It’s stupid to think that I can movie-train to lift the sword! But I am pretty sure that if I really skip out on sleep as you suggested, use the machines, the dumbbells, and the barbell, I can simulate the movements I need to lift the sword! Dude, do you even realize the implications of this?!”
Magister Mulligan only returns a click of his tongue as a reply.
“Please, Magister Mulligan, please.”
“The Vanedeni are indeed much stronger than you, even as young as twelve years old. I would normally suggest a Vanedeni child get acquainted with the weight of the sword instead of wasting his time with these fancy ideas. There’s nothing better to learn to swing a sword than actually swinging the sword. But I think I see your point, young Luciani. So, tell me what you need, but beware – every hour you lose, not training against the puppet is an hour the puppet has gotten stronger. Now, an hour has passed, and it would barely stumble against you. In two days, it will have already surpassed your current mobility.”
“Oh, old man, don’t worry. We’re going to Jane Fonda this so hard you can’t even imagine.”