My vision swims as the Master-Class Golem falls to the ground, finally deactivated. I stare at it, waiting to make sure it’s real and not an ambush like it has already happened twice before. Twenty-three hours doesn’t sound like a lot until you have to fight for that long with a killing machine whose only directive is to murder you.

I look at my arms. The faded runes have disappeared from half of my body. I have completely exhausted their potential.

Standing hurts. I collapse.

I strain my neck to look at the puppet again, my breath full of blood and dirt.

It’s off…

I won.

A flurry of notifications appears in front of me. Something golden flashes in my eyes for a second before retracting—the requirements are not fulfilled yet.

Then, I pass out.

…

When I open my eyes, I’m looking at the sky. My heart is pounding in my chest, not yet realizing that the battle has ended… Well, is it the sky that’s above me? Well, it’s the ceiling in this space that looks like the sky. I’ve never actually asked Magister Mulligan if it’s really the sky.

“It’s an illusion,” I hear the old man say from the side, standing still and looking at me.

“Good shit,” I say, moving my feet to the ground and sitting up on the bed.

My feet tremble for a second, but all those muscles that grew during the training and the battle steady me.

Can I walk?

I make a step and breathe in relief before raising my eyes to meet the old man.

We look at each other for a few seconds, waiting for either of us to say anything.

“You passed the trial, Joey Luciani,” Magister Mulligan says with a hint of hesitation, “you can now be considered a disciple of mine in full and… a Vanedeni.”

I get distracted from his words when my eyes move back to my limbs and clothes, where I find just rags, blood, and filth all over me.

“Don’t you have some cleaning spells?” I say, smelling my arms and retching.

“It’s part of our customs to let the warriors who have undergone a great trial clean themselves so they can unearth the new man they’ve become from under the blood and grit. I have prepared a mirror, hot water, and towels.”

I look to the side and, in place of the puppet, there’s a huge floating mirror and an open cupboard full of towels, on top of which rests a giant bucket of steaming water.

“So,” I croak, moving carefree, finally not feeling any pain in my body. And even if I did, I would probably not even notice by now. “A Vanedeni? What, a race change?”

“The trial you underwent just now has crowned you a fitting member of my people. I omitted it, but it is our custom that full disciples only be Vanedeni.”

“Racist.”

“Not at all,” Magister Mulligan shakes his head, “The Vanedeni are not a race. We are Humans. But we are also committed to being… more. Only those with the will to do so can be called Vanedeni. Several of my people, even some of the most famous, have lost the privilege of being called such. Mauser is the greatest example of that. Only outside Kome would someone call him a Vanedeni.”

Mauser, the [Necromancer]… Claudia’s cancer…

All of this felt like a fever dream. I wouldn’t even believe that I had a fighting class if I couldn’t reach for it in the back of my mind. I almost can’t believe anything about what happened or what’s currently happening. It’s a sudden moment of clarity where everything that’s real seems to merge with dreams.

Focus.

“And what do you call him?” I say nonchalantly, walking slowly toward my cleaning station.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“A dog,” Magister Mulligan replies with a straight face.

“Dogs aren’t that bad.”

“They are only moved by the need for food and shelter, Joey Luciani. They might appear good, but their loyalty is bought and sold. And so was Mauser’s.”

“It would be nice, you know, to chat,” I say, feeling some of the nervous energy that kept me alive still coursing through my body, the adrenaline still pumping through my heart, “but shouldn’t we discuss the fact that I almost died several times yesterday and that I have no idea when the duel will be or anything like that?”

“You have six hours,” Magister Mulligan says, “I told your friends to rest and not make any more food.”

“Huh, cool,” I say, looking at my disheveled appearance in the mirror. “How come my hair is so long and—wait, did you say friends? Who did Flaminia bring to help? Was it Tiberius and Quintus? And why didn’t she say anything?”

“You should focus on cleaning yourself.”

“Can’t you just tell me?” I sigh. “You almost killed me, master. Can’t I, at least, get one little piece of info on who made my food?”

“No,” Magister Mulligan said plainly. “It would distract you.”

“Alright, alright,” I groan. “I’ll just ask Flaminia then.”

I take the bucket from the top of the cupboard, look at it for a few seconds, and just dump it on my head. I’m sure Magister Mulligan can make another—

“GLURG—” I slam the bucket to the ground and take a deep mouthful of air while staring wide-eyed at the metallic cylinder in front of me. “What the hell?!”

“It’s a never-ending bucket,” Magister Mulligan says off-handedly, “the water in it never ends.”

…

Knowing how it works, the never-ending bucket is not as bad as when it almost drowned me. If you trickle it well enough, it’s better than a shower.

“You saw the levels and the skills, right?” I ask the old man while I scrub my hair and face.

“Yes. You went very close to an interesting class, young Luciani. But being close is not enough. It’s going to be hard to get there again. If you weren’t on the path of becoming a [Mage], you should have been ashamed of yourself. With all things considered, though, your performance was acceptable, although barely so.”

I glance at the [Archmage] and bite my tongue to avoid cussing at him.

“Well, at the very least, I won’t lose the duel,” I say, ripping my tattered shirt apart. As the rags fall to the ground, my eyes go wide at the physique underneath. I had gotten the impression that I had definitely gained some muscle and lost my little pouch… but this?

“Wow,” I say while I tilt the bucket first over my chest and then over my back, feeling my muscles flex and seeing them with anatomical precision in the mirror. “With the long hair and all, I almost can’t recognize myself.”

“It’s part of the rite of passage—there’s more strength in tribulations than all the other continents have ever realized. It will be completed when you slay your opponent.”

I take a deep breath at that.

“I thought you would be opposed to killing that Elf,” Magister Mulligan voices his thoughts out loud.

I lick my lips, not replying.

After washing my upper half, I take a moment to stare at myself in the mirror and marvel at the muscle I’ve put all over my frame. I stare at my hands, looking at the calluses and scars on them. I clench my fists, feeling the insane power of my grip, and smirking.

“Many find themselves changed in ways they could have never foreseen. Adulthood, young Luciani, starts with blood. The first kill marks the path of a man. Your honor, which you’ve never cared about, must be restored by eliminating that vile Elf.”

I stop looking at my hands and unclench them. I turn to Magister Mulligan with a sigh, “My mother would definitely agree with you.”

Magister Mulligan just stares at me as I clean the rest of my body.

“The Vanedeni style their hair in preparation for battle, child. Would you like to partake of my people’s tradition?”

I feel like saying no, but the man in the mirror doesn’t seem to share my same opinion. I went into this training with very little self-confidence, with no notion of how anything like what Magister Mulligan often talks about could even be possible. So, on impulse, I accept.

“Yes, why not,” I say. “Just give me a second to put on some pants before this becomes any weirder than it already is.”

…

“I thought you’d use magic,” I say, feeling the man’s hands pull my hair up and twist it.

“I could,” Magister Mulligan says, “but this is part of the traditions we observe. Older warriors prepare the young ones and talk some sense into them before a battle to avoid them getting killed by their own foolishness.”

“Huh, what’s the motivational speech, then?” I ask.

“Motives matter less than principles,” Magister Mulligan says. “Otherwise, Mauser would be hauled as a [Hero]. Instead, he betrayed all the principles that the Vanedeni stand by. He thought his motives, his devious ambitions, would matter more than what we had built so far. That’s how civilizations collapse, though. Some say that’s how the Dragons got to this point—personally, I think they were never more than overpowered lizard-brained creatures.”

“You really hate Dragons, old man,” I say.

Magister Mulligan sighs.

“I don’t hate Dragons, young Luciani. They are a great warning of what one might become after losing themselves. Death is a part of everyone’s life. Your world was surprisingly allergic to it.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “I…”

“I’m giving you the privilege of not reading your intentions.”

“Oh, thanks.”

I just stare at the mirror while sitting, thinking of what’s about to come next.

Killing.

That’s one thing to consider.

Killing a man.

One of the many things to consider.

But for all it might sound odd, there’s something more pressing on my mind than the thought of having to take a life. In fact, the more I look in the mirror, the more a realization slowly sinks in.

I’m not the person I was anymore.

What I just survived… What I just did…

I am not the old Joey Luciani anymore.

I feel the remaining anxiety and tension slowly melt away from my body, and a new self-confidence settles in my heart.

I…

I am special.