After some discussion, we’d simply left my stunned attacker in the field. Merlin was keen to see if I could heal and revive Tosser with my Qi and then work on refining my new attack technique on him. However, that felt dangerously close to crossing a line from self-defence into something the good people of Geneva had a whole convention over.

Also, I was increasingly distracted by the smoke columns that were popping up in the distance, dotting the landscape in a fairly macabre way. You know what they say? Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds being raped and pillaged by an invading army.

Or something like that.

“Is there really nothing we can do?” I asked Merlin for what felt like the thousandth time.

My dear, unless you can convince every single one of them to engage in melee combat so you can use your adapted [Dark Kestrel strike]...

“[Can of Whoopass]”

I’ve told you, I’m not calling it that. There’s a long and prestigious history to those who use the Kestrel techniques, and I’m not going to sully their culture in such a way.

“Counterpoint. You want my help, and I’m nothing if not stubborn. I once sang the entire score from Hamilton until my boyfriend bought me the shoes I wanted.”

That doesn’t sound too bad...

“Remember, I’m extremely white and from Birmingham.”

Even so...

To be fair, he did quite well to last until the rap in ‘Guns and Ships’. I could usually bring people to horrified acquiesence well before then.

As I was saying, there’s very little to be done at your current power level. You cannot... I’m sorry, are you really this juvenile?

“Watch me engagin’ em! Escapin’ em! Enragin’ em! I’m-”

As I was saying, you cannot just open a [Can of Whoopass] on them individually and hope the others wait in line for their turn.

“Sounds to me that someone neglected his study of the 2002 Royal Rumble.”

There was a pause during which Merlin appeared to find hitherto unplumbed depths of patience.

What you - we - need to do is find a way to replicate several decades’ worth of cultivation in short order so that you are remotely useful in the coming struggles. As you rejected the chance to practice some techniques on your would-be attacker, we now need to find another safe yet impactful method.

“For future reference, I draw a hard line on torture, okay?”

As long as you understand, that will make our path both more perilous and uncertain.

Truth be told, I wasn’t one hundred per cent happy with this side of Merlin. There’d been a couple of occasions now where I wondered if my perception of him as Giles-to-my-Buffy might not entirely be the fitting metaphor. After all, my understanding of Merlin was coloured by hundreds of years of folk legends that led to Gandalf, Dumbledore and every other elderly, benign super wizard I’d ever read about. I needed to remember that just because everything I’d come across said he was a good guy, it didn’t mean I needed to let my usually acute ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’ guard down.

Obviously, whenever that particular alarm went off, I did my best to get into a toxic, co-dependent relationship with them. Merlin hadn’t, as of yet, asked me to lend him money to pay off a bike loan, so he had that going for him.

Nevertheless, there was definitely something a bit off about his power-at-all-costs approach to things. I didn’t want to cast aspersions at this early stage of our relationship, but if he asked me to start collecting infinity stones, I was most definitely out.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“There’s got to be some sort of training we can do that walks the line between horrific torture of a helpless individual and taking on an entire army one-on-one.”

There was an ethereal sigh.

There are countless approaches we can take, but cultivation - traditionally - takes time and effort. I don’t have the time, and let’s be clear, I doubt you can manage the effort. Although, and now I sensed Merlin was speaking to himself as much as to me, you mastered that technique more efficiently than expected. The boy’s body has clearly undergone significant tempering to allow you to cycle freely with such little experience. Maybe...

I waited for that sentence to complete. When nothing seemed to be forthcoming, I passed the time by cycling a small amount of Qi into the palm of my hand.

I needed to know more about all this.

I understand, at least on some level, that the glowing purple ball I was holding was ‘magic’.

And this magic came from within me.

The artist’s studio I could visualise was the centre of that power, and I could use this magic, this Qi, in various ways. I could use it to make myself stronger - say ‘hello’ decimated wolf carcass - I could project it outside my body to deface the local landscape with witty graffiti and, in a complicated way I needed to think about more, I could combine it with 90s wrestling moves to defeat would-be rapists.

It had been an odd couple of days.

For me, this felt like quite an extraordinary level of personal growth, but whatever Merlin had planned clearly needed something more from me.

As I was pondering this, I realised I had returned to my internal artist’s studio. It was the work of moments to conjure up a brush and encourage the flow of purple energy around my body. I sensed this was something I should try to do whenever possible - all the cultivation novels that had been pressed upon me highlighted the importance of this routine.

But it felt like there was much more I could do here than just encourage the paint to pass around my body. Checking that there was nothing to inhibit that gradual flow, I gently dipped the brush into the palette that appeared in the air.

Everything there was a version of purple - reminding me much of my wardrobe back home.

I carefully selected shades that resonated with the mindset I sought. Soft mauve and calming indigo mingled with darker violet, reflecting the imagery I wanted to achieve.

A canvas popped into being before me, replacing the Vitruvian version of me. Well, not replacing it. It was more like I’d opened another tab in my internal browser.

That metaphor didn't work for me. I'd spent long enough as a data entry admin drone never to want that sensation again. I concentrated and felt the infrastructure shift. Now rather than browser tabs, I felt the different sections of my internal landscape were represented by pages in a book.

A lovely, leather-bound journal with acres upon acres of unspoilt creamy parchment.

Christ, I’m such a book geek.

Without knowing quite what I wanted to achieve, I dipped my brush into the first of my purples and set to work. As it so often had in the past, the brush became a conduit for my emotions. Each line, each curve on the canvas, mirrored my internal ebb and flow.

As I painted, key memories from my life, good and bad, washed over me like waves crashing against a shore. Yet, as always, at the centre of that storm, I found peace whilst working on the canvas. I guess for the longest time, painting had been a form of meditation for me, trying to find some way to reconcile with the past and find peace.

Yet there was something more, I don't know, tangible about this method. Like the difference between shadowboxing and then actually being in the ring. With each layer of paint, I could feel the Qi responding, slowly aligning with the colours and the calm rhythm of my brush.

The once erratic and wild energies within me - what did Dad call me? His little helion? - began to find balance and structure. Like one grand high master cultivating motherfucker, I guided the flow of Qi with unwavering focus, tempering its intensity and directing it towards tranquillity.

I had been going for some time before I felt Merlin join me and begin to subtly direct my brush. At first, I resisted, but it was that sort of arrogance that had blighted my whole life. Just occasionally, it didn't hurt not to be a strong independent woman - especially when experimenting with magic forces beyond my understanding.

So, through gritted teeth, I let him direct the flow. Slightly. At least a tiny little bit.

Through the canvas, we painted a new narrative for this Dark Age version of me. It was a story of resilience, finding strength in vulnerability, and embracing the scarred past as an integral part of my journey.

It was precisely the sort of thing the Hallmark Channel would produce in a heartbeat.

I mean, it made me want to vomit, but perhaps there were worse things than schmaltz. Memories of finding a letter from my sister, a busy road, oncoming traffic and a little voice that just went “fuck it, why not?” at precisely the wrong time tugged at my mood but were quickly washed away under this balm of purple.

As we put the final touches on the painting, a new sense of calm enveloped me. I hadn't appreciated quite how much tension I was carrying until it melted away.

I have a cunning plan.

The change of vibe Merlin introduced here was so startling I completely missed the opportunity for Blackadder-based humour.

“Sorry, what?”

I’m encouraged by your recent development. So, knowing your joy in all things 90s, we’re going to try and Groundhog Day a training montage.