Abor reveled in the flow of energy for a long, long time.

He did not move. He didn’t shake or even breath, deeply.

All Abor did was hom in on the flow of energy as it came to him, absorbed into his skin. As it came to him, he processed it with a mixture of thinking and sensation; words came to mind as he felt the energy crawl into his skin and those words formed free, new sensations which beget memories, which— in turn— formed flashes of paradise.

Abor never felt more perfect. More at peace.

But he knew he could feel even better— with more life. With more energy.

What happened next, happened in a blur. But Abor launched himself from his pedestal— what he had come to known as The Spot in the Stone Room with the Weird Markings on the Ground that he Always Sat Upon— and he went out into the world.

Amusement parks, schools, stores, gas stations, libraries. Every place frequented by people. He visited those places and more. All of them were on his list since his list was concerned with humanity and the places humanity went to enjoy themselves from the monotony of work and life.

Running on pure adrenaline, by the time he returned to his pedestal, his little magician’s alter in the center of the ghost-filled room, he was exhausted. How many siphon traps did he set? He didn’t know, but it was surely hundreds.

On the stone platform once more, in that dark ghostly room he had once feared but now felt at home in, he felt the energy begin to flow through him. At first, it was but a trickle— obviously, traps can only be sprung once prey has unwittingly entered them, and when traps were set at places like stores and schools where prey only enters at very exact time intervals, the wait can be tedious. But once the traps snapped, and the energy began to flow, there was no stopping the good times.

And so, as the minutes passed, and Abor felt the energy flow from but a trickle to a rush, what was intoxicating before was now downright stupefying.

But in a good way.

On the inside, Abor’s chain of sensation and memory turned into a whole cineplex of sensation-driven memory and images; words were replaced with whole books and memories with grand tapestries of mental pictures intertwined with complex sensory molecules. Abor felt like he was at his most creative and most alive. He felt important, vital, like with a flick of his wrist he could will matter into his hand.

In fact . . . he said to himself, holding out his hand. Having caught sight of a chunk of masonry on the otherwise of the room, he willed the piece into his hand.

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Plonk.

And it came.

Smiling bigger and brighter than he ever had in his life, Abor felt on top of the moon and sun. As a younger child, he had, of course, tried to playfully summon objects into his hand when he felt silly or after being hyped up on sugar while watching a sci-fi epic. But, obviously, during those times, nothing ever came into his hand. As he expected. But now . . . actually seeing objects fly into his palm from across the room? It was beyond egofying.

Holding the object in his hand that he had summoned, Abor knew that he could do anything. Or had the potential, at the minimum. And he was elated. And yet, what should he do? Vaguely, he recalled the ruminations of the warmth in his ear, but the words of that entity— ghost?— were not indistinct. Or were they?

Abor swirled some concentrated energy into his palm and held it up to his ear and temple. He was trying to use the magical energy to bolster his memory. And to his surprise, it worked.

“Build the new pathway— and thrive.” Those were the words. That was what was whispered into his ear by . . . someone, or something.

Pathways. Thriving. Life. Family.

Words like those were powerful. And to him, who valued his mother above all else, especially so. It was not super clear in his memories, but he did remember some half-meant mantra by a teacher . . . or perhaps someone from on TV, talking about finding one’s own way in life. And Abor figured that this recent mention of ‘building a new pathway’ was something along those same lines. At the very least, he did not think anything was amiss in the concept. He would, after all, define this pathway for himself and he already had the definition he wanted.

Looking through his grimoire once more, Abor found a newly decoded page on “Wizards and their Towers.” It amounted to this: all wizards housed themselves in towers (literal or not). And the more powerful a wizard was, the higher their tower was and the more books and cauldrons they could have and tutor. It was like being both a principal and a teacher in a rich school. And to Abor, the place he was now, was his tower. Others had clearly been here before him, but they were gone now, and his time was just beginning. Abor knew his destiny was to build this place up, this place that once frightened him, and to forge it into a new center of all things magick; he would create a place where all were welcome and none who fit the criteria were turned away. And then, once it had been built, he would be able to find his way in the world and invite his mother to live with him. No more struggling with bills and no more medical emergencies. All would be peaceful, and all would be well. Abor would make sure of it.

But what was the first step? Abor wondered about the pathway and how he would be best suited in creating his ideal tower. Lay more siphon traps? Sure, that was a given, but seeing as how he was already awash in more energy and power than he knew what to do with, surely there was a more concrete step to take?

Again, Abor turned to his grimoire. He didn’t stop reading until he had found what he was looking for. His search stopped on a page titled (something to the effect of) “Astral-Geographical Transmutation.”

The content was tricky and hard to understand, let alone master, but if Abor was understanding it correctly, the book meant transforming with magic the everyday world. And boy, did Abor have some ideas . . .

Caressing the book as he ruminated on his dream, little known to Abor, his ideal was already starting to come true; taking a cue from his mind, the immense quantity of energies swirling around the young master were already forging the new destiny of a place which had once been legendary, but now stood in disrepair.

And at its helm, would be Abor.