“None,” my mother replied firmly, her clones appearing in unison to emphasize her answer. “Currently, the answer is none. You lack training with a weapon, you lack discipline in understanding your mana types, and you are woefully unprepared to face even a goblin-based Other. You have no true understanding of your Arte, and your martial abilities consist of little more than kicking bullies in the shins, then running away while shoving the tip of your boot into their backside.”

  I winced, but didn’t argue. It wasn’t untrue, after all.

  “Now, dearest, that’s a bit harsh,” my father interjected, his tone softening. “We don’t even know what his mana types are yet—we haven’t asked that. If we’re planning to grant him a caster set, we could plan it based on that.”

  “No,” my mother shot back, shaking her head. “Even Visitors who are predominantly magus need those fundamentals. They all have weapons or martial arts training, and several utility-based skillcubes to boot.”

  “We could have him manifest a healer’s set,” Katarina suggested, her voice a quiet, calm counterpoint to the conversation. Her presence, though subtle, always seemed to fill the room, and I couldn’t help but notice the shift in the atmosphere when she spoke. Of all my sisters, she was the one who commanded attention without effort, a quiet beauty that didn’t need to be flaunted. Even though the moment she stopped talking, I couldn’t even point her out in the room without drastic effort.

  “A healer as a Walker is always ill-advised,” one of my mother’s clones answered, her voice as sharp as my mother’s own. “Walkers walk alone. There’s only a road ahead if one can forge it themselves, and healers need another to assist with the elimination of Others.”

  “We could see about training him with us, then?” Another of my mother’s clones asked, her expression thoughtful, but my father immediately shook his head.

  “He wouldn’t be allowed to take the Walker exam if he went through one of your training sessions. He’d have received assistance from someone of Soul Realm seven or greater.”

  “Well, why not just have him go into another mirage field, or request the mirage field data?” Katarina asked, her voice casual as she shrugged. “While we’re at it, why did you want me here for this?”

  “Great idea, Kitty-Kat!” one of my mother’s clones exclaimed, or perhaps it was the original. I had long lost track of which one was which. “I’ll have his initial Arte mirage field data brought over after tea. As for why you’re here... because you have a missive from the Academy of Memetics.”

  “Oh?” Katarina’s interest piqued, and she opened the letter eagerly. Her eyes lit up with excitement as she read, a broad grin spreading across her face. “Oh! I’m invited to attend as part of an assassination guild attendee! Sweet! Not to steal your day, little brother, but yes! I finally get some damn recognition! And they won’t mysteriously forget my name and documents due to the fields! YES!”

  Her voice was louder, brighter, filled with more hope and joy than I’d ever heard from her. It was infectious, and I found myself smiling despite the tense atmosphere earlier.

  My mother, her eyes misty, moved quickly to embrace Katarina in a tight hug. Each of her clones mirrored the action, and I could see the warmth in their smiles. “We won’t forget where you are, sweetie. They did tell us some ways to combat that.”

  Katarina, normally so composed, let out a laugh and hugged my mother back. Her eyes glistened, and for a moment, I saw the side of her I rarely did—the girl who longed for recognition, who yearned for something more than just being forgotten in the shadows of the family. It was a rare sight, and one I wouldn’t soon forget. Hopefully. Probably. Maybe.

  “Back to you, though…” One of my mother’s clones continued, her tone shifting back to a more instructive cadence. “Let’s rewind a bit. What mana types did they say you reacted with?”

  “Primary Dimension, Crystal Secondary, and Nature Tertiary,” I replied, meeting her gaze. I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed the information.

  “Well, that’s unsurprising on the dimension aspect,” she said thoughtfully. “You have my blood, after all. Crystal is a bit of an oddity in the family, though. The closest connection is your nephew, who has Sand mana in him… and Nature, well, that’s quite a common element throughout both halves of the family, it seems.”

  She paused, as if mulling over something, before continuing. “Have you tried picturing your inner world since the mirage field?”

  I shook my head. The concept of the “inner world” felt abstract to me—something I hadn’t fully grasped yet.

  “Figured not,” she muttered, almost to herself. She raised her hands to stop me from speaking further and continued her lecture. “Do so now, before we continue.”

  Closing my eyes, I tried to picture it, but then I felt a sudden sharp bonk on the side of my head.

  “You don’t have the luxury of doing that in field conditions,” she chided, her voice firm. “You won’t have the time or ability to do that when you’re assailed by other Walkers with ill intent. Picture it while seeing the world around you. Interlace it. I’m NOT letting my children develop a habit that a two-bit portal magus has.”

  With my eyes wide open now, I struggled to concentrate. It was like trying to hold two separate thoughts at once—one grounded in the world around me, the other focused inward. It felt like a herculean effort, but I forced myself to do it.

  Instead of summoning the usual mental image of an interconnected, thriving ecosystem—what I imagined my inner world should be—I felt something else stir inside me. A rock, floating in an endless void of space. On it, a single apple tree stood, its branches swaying gently despite the lack of wind. The apple on the tree wasn’t ordinary, though—it was made of sapphire, a deep, striking blue that gleamed against the emptiness of the space around it.

  “I see it,” I nodded at my mother, trying to put my thoughts into words. “Barely. It’s smaller, weaker, and I wouldn’t call what it has any form of an ecosystem of nature. But yes, I see it.”

  “That’s the norm,” she replied, her tone firm yet understanding. “You’ll have a much smaller, weaker image until you improve dramatically. Sure, you could meditate and dive deep into it to refine it, and I recommend you do, but until you can channel that image and that world under stress—without the crutch of meditation—you’ll never live up to the standards of the world you can create.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  I furrowed my brow, trying to process the weight of her words. “So, how did I…” I began to ask, but before I could finish, another one of my mother’s duplicates, or maybe the original, cut me off.

  “The mirage field did a ton of the work. It wove the path through your body to emphasize the mana and show you how to release it. Tell me, at first, how did it feel to use your Arte while inside?”

  I paused, considering her question. “Honestly? Very little. It felt as if I was simply walking through a land of my own lucid dreams. Like it wasn’t real, just an extension of my imagination. I didn’t feel the weight of it, not in the way I expected. It was as if I could move the paper, but only in a way that seemed… detached. Almost like I was playing with it, rather than truly controlling it.”

  “That is the problem with mirage fields,” my mother continued, her voice tinged with the authority of experience. “Sure, you’re controlling the Arte, and doing so in a safe, controlled environment, but many times you’ll find yourself detached from the state your Arte desires. You’re a Shaper, by your own admission. That generally means you can manipulate a set material innately into a variety of different effects. But you need to learn to feel that material, not just control it with your mind.”

  I let out a sigh, knowing the path ahead would be anything but easy. Before I could respond, one of my mother’s duplicates spoke up, her tone a touch lighter.

  “Oh stop it. Rather than being the Legion we are, let the boy relax with some tea and then continue drilling into him.” The clone waved her hand dismissively, and with a soft shimmer, the duplicates all faded into the familiar wispy smoke that followed whenever my mother dismissed them.

  I turned my attention back to the original, who had quietly slipped away to the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a steaming cup of tea, offering it to me with a knowing smile. The scent of Blackberry, Juniper, and Rose Petal tea filled the air, and I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Four years ago, on my twelfth birthday, I had brewed this exact tea for her. I had thought it was a way to speed up my awakening—what a foolish expedition that had been.

  “Happy sixteenth, son,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Yes, you deserve a gift. And yes, it’ll be a cube… but you won’t acquire it today. I can’t train you, assess you, or even give you more than what I already have in advice. Luckily, we have someone in the family who is still able to…”

  “Ugh…” My father groaned from the corner, rubbing his forehead. “My rotten luck. Do we really have to go to him for this? Surely there’s someone else who could help.”

  Before he could continue, three of my mother’s duplicates appeared suddenly, assaulting him with a simultaneous, disapproving glare, their expressions as sharp as if they’d all been cut from the same stone. The original, standing tall in the doorway, raised her hand to silence him.

  “Get over it,” she said, her voice final. “We are seeing my brother for this.”

  My father let out a long, defeated sigh. “I suppose we don’t have a choice, do we?”

  “No,” my mothers replied, her voice unwavering and synchronized. “We don’t.”

  The tension in the air hung heavy for a moment, but I felt a strange calm settle over me as I sipped my tea. Despite the looming visit, despite the uncertainty of the path ahead, there was something oddly comforting about being with my family. Even in moments of frustration, we had each other’s backs.

  “Well, then,” my mother said, breaking the silence with a softer tone, “I suggest you finish your tea. It’ll be a long trip, and we’ll need to leave before sunset if we’re to get there before nightfall.”

  ***

  My uncle’s home, if such an ostentatious place could be called that, was nestled in the noble quarter of Marr. Towering pillars of polished marble framed the entrance to a sprawling walled complex. The gate, a work of art in itself, gleamed with polished copper that reflected the late afternoon sunlight. The walls were a mix of granite and an unidentifiable green stone, smooth and polished to a mirror-like sheen. It wasn’t jade—I knew that much—but whatever it was, it wasn’t something found in the markets of Marr. This was a display of wealth meant to intimidate and impress in equal measure.

  A man stood in front of the gate, his tall, lanky frame draped in a sharply tailored black suit. The crisp white shirt beneath contrasted with the eccentricity of a bright pink bow tie. His demeanor was as polished as the marble pillars behind him, and his posture exuded an air of practiced professionalism.

  “Greetings, Madam Juliet, The Lop-Eared Legion,” he said, bowing deeply to my mother. His tone was formal, almost reverent, and his words carried a smoothness that bordered on oily. “Master Rodrick extends his greatest welcome, though he regrets that he cannot personally greet you at this moment. He is, as ever, consumed by his latest project.”

  His attention shifted to my father, and the change in tone was palpable. Gone was the polished deference, replaced with a wry edge that practically dripped with disdain. “Greetings, Sir Hubert,” he said, his voice now mocking and casual. “Lovely as always. Tell me, have you been thrown into prison yet for your incessant cheating?”

  My father, unfazed, grinned widely and shrugged. “Nope. Not yet. Never will. Bet on it Winston.”

  The man let out a soft, unimpressed snort, but said nothing further, gesturing instead toward the gates, which began to swing open silently. Beyond them, the estate loomed, a labyrinth of interconnected buildings and sprawling courtyards. Even from this distance, I could see intricate carvings etched into the stone walls, depicting scenes of battles, scientific experiments, and strange, otherworldly creatures.

  Fascinated by the carvings, I stepped closer to inspect them in detail. One in particular captured my attention: a dragon standing proudly on the back of a colossal turtle, both figures encapsulated within one of the marble pillars. Each scale on the dragon’s body was rendered with meticulous precision, some glinting as though catching an unseen light. The turtle was no less impressive—its massive, ornate shell bore patterns so intricate they seemed almost alive, each groove and ridge an example of artistry that transcended the ordinary.

  “Young Master Alexander,” came Winston’s smooth, almost theatrical voice, pulling me from my reverie. “I see the art has captivated you, as it does all who first encounter it. Allow me to extend an offer. Rather than simply admire the grounds' craftsmanship, would you care to meet the artist behind it?”

  I turned to him, his question catching me off guard. “If that’s possible, yes,” I replied, curiosity bubbling up. “Though our primary reason for coming was to ask my uncle a few questions. You mentioned he was engrossed in a project. Is it still the revival of the mandragora tree?”

  Winston’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Ah, the mandragora tree. A remarkable feat, but one that was completed nearly two years ago. No, Master Rodrick’s current obsession is... rather unique. He’s exploring the correlation between the chimes of a clocktower and the ovulation cycles of festers.”

  I blinked, unsure if I had misheard. “The... ovulation cycles of festers? The plant?”

  “Yes,” Winston replied smoothly, as though discussing something entirely ordinary. “And the sound of clocktower bells, specifically. Master Rodrick believes there’s a connection—though what that connection might be, I cannot say. You know how his mind works: an intricate web of brilliance, logic, and the occasional absurdity.”

  I couldn’t help but gape for a moment. The claim that my uncle had successfully revived an extinct medicinal tree from the Revelations Period was extraordinary enough, but the idea that he was now pursuing such an outlandish hypothesis left me speechless. It was paradoxical, really—Winston delivered his explanation with the utmost professionalism, yet the content itself was baffling.

  “Is... is he serious?” I asked, my voice betraying my disbelief.

  “As serious as the polished green stone in these walls,” Winston replied with a slight bow. “Now, shall I escort you to him, or would you prefer to marvel a bit longer at the artistry of the grounds?”