Ah, the old art of getting thrashed in the name of training. What a splendid way to spend the day, huh? There I was, sweatier than a tourist in the Sahara Desert, donning my tank top that had seen better days and a pair of pants that, frankly, weren't in any better shape. And barefoot, because apparently, humiliation likes company.
Before me stood a man who resembled an angry wardrobe, all dressed in black, with an air of a no-nonsense military man. The goatee and short hair only reinforced the notion that he could snap me in half with a slightly more stern look.
"Just that?" He asked, with a hint of disappointment in his voice, as if he expected that I, by some miraculous means, would transform into the reincarnated Bruce Lee after two rounds of "let's see who tires first". I raised an arm, a somewhat pathetic attempt to say "give me a second, I'm processing my own mediocrity here".
The guy let out a sigh that could easily be mistaken for the sound of a deflating balloon – a rather large one, at that. I, on the other hand, groaned as if each breath were my last, before miraculously getting to my feet. "Okay, let's go for the next round." The words came out, sounding more like an invitation to my own funeral than anything else.
Ah, the man before me was not just any man. He was an assassin that Alva had brought from none other than the Market of Assassins Available for Specialized Training™, or something of the sort. And believe it or not, I wasn't exactly the darling of the group. It seems that having Alva's favor painted a giant target on my back – something like, "Please, hate me. Regards, Dean".
"If I could just use the dismantle…" Oh, that sweet fantasy. Just imagine, a little cheat and – poof – the big guy would be left wondering where his physical and magical superiority went. But, ah, what is life without its little deadly challenges, right?
"Alright, Bruce Lee, I know you're good at martial arts." I tried to inject some humor into the situation because, if you can't beat them, at least make them laugh, or so I hope. With a dramatic pause worthy of a third-rate action movie, I assumed my fighting stance – an attempt to say "I'm ready for more, even if my body vehemently disagrees".
"But just so you know, I can do this all day." Of course, the statement was as credible as a three-dollar bill, but the conviction in my voice might, at least, earn me a point for effort. Or, at worst, a consolation prize for stubbornness.
When I proclaimed with all the bravery (and perhaps a bit of desperation), "I can do this all day," Tom, with an expression that mixed confusion and a slight touch of amusement, didn't miss the chance: "You stole that line from Captain America."
Not letting the ball drop, and with a smile I could barely conceal, I retorted: "I don't recall asking you anything, Bruce Lee." After all, if you're going to be on the verge of a physical collapse, might as well do it with style and a bit of insolence.
"My name is Tom," he corrected, although the frustration in his voice suggested he was already reconsidering his life choices up to that point.
"Cool, Tom. I'm going to be Jerry now and turn this fight around, okay?" I declared, trying to puff up my chest with a confidence I definitely didn't feel. Raising my arms, I was more of a second-rate Mike Tyson impersonator than a real threat. Ah, reality… always ready to slap you in the face and remind you that, between being and seeming, there's a chasm that not even the best catchphrases can bridge.
I was about to launch into battle like a fish out of water trying to learn to fly – a sight as pathetic as it sounds. But then, as if fate had decided to give me a break from my humiliations, the divine intervention of the opening door was never so welcome. Alva's triumphant entrance diverted our attention.
She, with her presence that defies the color palette of the universe, looked like a comic book heroine that the printer forgot to add color to. Her black suit, a testament to style that highlighted more than just her curves, announced that she was not a woman to be underestimated. Alva, with her piercing gaze, swept the room and, in an instant, the drama unfolding before her eyes seemed trivial.
The silence that settled was so heavy it could be cut with a knife. It was the kind of silence that made you revisit all the life choices that led you to that exact moment. Tom, previously the imposing instructor who was about to turn me into ground meat, now looked like a student caught in mischief, switching to "soldier mode" so quickly it almost tilted my brain.
"So, is the training going well?" Alva's voice cut through the silence like a bolt, bringing an aura of authority that made the air seem denser. Tom, in a burst of militarism I didn't even know he possessed, straightened up and saluted with a "Yes ma'am!" that was so loud I almost expected the birds to fly away scared outside.
"Well, if training boils down to seeing how much beating I can take, I'd say it's going perfectly. Soon, I might gain immunity to pain," I joke, relaxing my arms and trying to bring a bit of lightness to the tension that permeates the air.
Alva stares at me, and I feel the weight of her attention as if it were an invisible hand assessing me. My black hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat, and my white tank top, now more gray from wear, clings to my body like a second skin. She sees something that goes beyond what others see; a blue aura begins to leak from me, but it's a vision reserved only for Alva's eyes. "He hasn't changed a bit, his rating has already reached its maximum potential," she states, and I can almost hear the sound of frustration in her thoughts. A frustration that, I suspect, has roots in the whispered conversations of her sister, Nívea, who probably doesn't miss a chance to highlight my shortcomings.
"Tom, could you leave us alone?" Alva asks, interrupting the flow of my thoughts. Tom, ever the obedient one, responds with a "Yes ma'am!" so strong it even echoes through the wooden room before he departs with a march that would have made any military instructor proud.
So there we are, Alva and I, in a setting that seems like the prologue of one of those movies where the hero receives the impossible mission. The silence between us is so palpable that I can almost hear the voice of a dramatic narrator saying: "In a world…"
I can't resist the temptation to break the ice: "I don't know why, but this feels like one of those conversations where the boss has to fire their employee." I smile, hoping that my attempt at humor at least tickles the tense air that envelops us.
Alva, with the subtlety of a storm on the horizon, completely ignores my joke. "Dean," she begins, and I swear I hear an invisible dramatic piano accompaniment. "We've discovered that there will be an attack in the Caribbean, on the island you're going to. Villains, demons, all sorts of classifications will be there."
I raise an eyebrow, doing my best to look surprised — an Oscar, please. "Hmm, that's problematic," I say, as if commenting on the weather forecast, not a convention of villains and demons at my travel destination. "But I'll manage. After all, my goal isn't to interfere with the villains and demons, it's just to retrieve something that will be on the island and… ensure that a person doesn't die." I pause, hoping my casualness about the subject doesn't reveal how unprepared I feel inside.
Suddenly, very suddenly! Alva begins her business strip tease — jacket, shoes, socks —, I can't help but think that I might have fallen into a very strange version of "The Devil Wears Prada," only here, the devil is undressing. Seriously, if this is some kind of secret training, I must say it's extremely advanced for me. I kind of expected something more along the lines of obstacle courses or, I don't know, dodgeball with fireballs. But this? This is new.
"Hmm, Alva?" I call out, my voice a mix of confusion and curiosity. I'm half expecting her to tell me it's all a prank, that the cameras are hidden, and that we'll all laugh about it later. But no, Alva is anything but a stand-up comedian. She positions herself in front of me with the seriousness of a samurai entering battle.
"From now on, you can use your innate ability and all the cards up your sleeve," she announces, and I don't know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Her dramatic pause gives me enough time to ponder how many "cards" I actually have, and whether any of them include a "sneak out the back door" option.
"Because now, I will be your opponent." Ah, of course, because what could be more motivating than fighting against Alva herself, the woman who could probably disintegrate me with a look slightly more stern than usual? Wonderful.
Faced with the imminent battle with Alva, I am, honestly, questioning the sanity of this entire plan. "Facing Alva? That's madness… if she thinks that training with me will bring about any result, she's utterly mistaken. After all, what can I do against her?" The thought barely finishes forming in my mind, and I already see myself as one of those cartoon characters, about to be run over by a train called Destiny.
Alva, with that annoying ability to read thoughts — or perhaps just a frighteningly sharp perception of my visible panic —, brings up my time with Draco, the elf. "While under the care of Draco, the elf. You focused on enhancing your magical abilities, right?" Her voice sounds as if she's merely commenting on the weather, not the life-or-death potential of my training.
"Ah, yes?" My response is more of a question, a confirmation. Draco was an exceptional master, with a knowledge of magic that always left me both impressed and frustrated, considering my own limitations.
She continues, shedding new light on Draco's strategy. "Elves have always had a keener perception of mana. And even though they are talented in hand-to-hand combat, he focused on training your magical abilities, with the aim of strengthening your innate ability." That, of course, makes sense. After all, why limit yourself to just improving muscles when you can explore the unlimited potential of magic?
"That does make sense," I think, as Alva paints a picture of possibilities that I hadn't fully considered. "The physical abilities of an awakened one will be limited to the user's classification. But your innate ability, not always. After all, the innate ability can evolve, learn variations. And by the day you go to the Caribbean, you will learn a variation for your innate ability to Dismantle."
The analogy with Blake and his shadows serves as a bolt of inspiration. He manipulates shadows with such mastery that the impossible becomes child's play in his hands. This makes me think: if he can transform the essence of his innate ability into such a diverse arsenal, why can't I?
"I see where you're going with this, sensei," I say to Alva, delving into the depth of the idea. "But to know a variation of my ability, I would need to understand not only the essence of the ability but also my soul. And believe me, that's not easy." Ah, the soul, that enigma wrapped in a mystery inside a puzzle. If I had an instruction manual for mine, I surely would have lost it in the mess of my room.
Alva looks at me with an expression bordering on surprise, as if the idea of me having such a deep understanding were as likely as finding a needle in a cosmic haystack. "So he understands this too…" She thinks, with those eyes that could probably read the secrets of the universe if they looked long enough.
"Understanding the soul is not a difficult process. My sister and I learned through pain, maybe it will work for you too." Her words, though laden with a certain fatalism, also carry a promise of growth. Does she see me as a monster? Well, maybe not a monster, but certainly as someone capable of transcending human limits. Pain as a method of learning, huh? Sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect from training with a mystic on a distant mountain, not from a woman in a wooden room preparing to launch me on a journey of self-discovery.
"So, basically, you're suggesting a kind of movie training montage, where I go through a series of painful trials and, in the end, come out knowing kung fu… or, in my case, a new way to use Dismantle?" I try to keep it light, but the idea of learning through pain makes me wonder if I shouldn't have a plan B.
Alva, with that air of someone pondering the mysteries of the universe or deciding what to have for breakfast, lets out a long "Hmmm" that seems to last an eternity. Then, finally, she decides: "Basically, that, I guess."
"You guess?" I echo, the surprise tinged with a touch of sarcasm. As if the possibility of her just improvising at this very moment wasn't absolutely terrifying. I let out a theatrical sigh, worthy of a prime-time soap opera. "Okay, it was never meant to be easy," I admit to myself, my mind spinning on a carousel of potential disasters. "I just hope I don't die in the middle of this process."
Alva gives me one of those looks that say "died, but it's okay," a mix of reassurance and mild reprimand for doubting her abilities as the supreme mentor. "Dean, if I had a penny for every time someone thought they were going to die during training with me… I could buy a mansion."
"Oh, so I'm contributing to your next real estate acquisition. What an honor," I respond, unable to avoid the irony. "You know, on a scale from 'walk in the park' to 'horror movie', where exactly does this training fit in?"
She smiles, that kind of smile that says she has a few tricks up her sleeve that could very well redefine my understanding of "horror movie". "Let's just say you'll wish you had brought popcorn… And maybe a psychiatrist."
"Great," I say, with an enthusiasm that miserably fails to hide my apprehension. "Nothing like training that potentially leaves you afraid of shadows for the rest of your life."
But deep down, I know this is one of those turning points, an opportunity to grow and face my fears. And with Alva by my side, I'm curiously optimistic… or maybe just insanely brave. "Well, let the games begin. And Alva, just for the record, if I come out of this needing therapy, you're paying the bill."
Alva just laughs, a sound that somehow manages to be both comforting and alarming. "Get ready, Dean. We're starting now."
Me, already picturing myself as a fearless hero ready to face the unknown, can only think: "This is going to be epic."
But, of course, the universe has a peculiar sense of humor. Just at the moment when I expect a battle worthy of legend, my vision darkens and, instead of a glorious confrontation, I'm transported to a… Dream, flashback? And yes, because nothing says "preparation for combat" like blacking out in the middle of the room from a beating, right?
---
When the darkness dissipates, it's as if someone pressed the "reset" button on the console of my life. I blink my eyes open, forcibly, because apparently, my body decided it was a good time to test my resurrection skills. And what do I see? A setting that seems to come straight out of a low-budget video game: brick houses, dirt roads, and me, the displaced hero, planted right in the middle of it.
"A favela?" I murmur to myself, half confused, half impressed with the richness of details from my own subconscious. Then, to add a touch of surrealism to the scene, a furry dog emerges from an alley as if he's late for an important dog meeting and dashes into a house. I manage to catch a glimpse of his collar where "Buddy" is written. "Okay, if this is a dream, it's the most lucid dream I've ever had," I comment, half expecting a film director to jump out from behind one of the houses yelling "Cut!" and pull me out of this madness.
But, of course, instead of a director, what I get is an unexpected response. "This is not a dream," declares a child's voice, cold and with a hint of "you're in trouble, buddy." I turn so fast I almost do a 360° spin, coming face to face with the source of the voice: a boy in dirty clothes and barefoot, his black hair as messy as if he'd lost a fight with a fan, and those blue eyes that seem to illuminate the surroundings with an unusual intensity.
For a second, the world seems to pause, and I wonder if I've fallen into a lost episode of "The Twilight Zone." "Dean?" The word escapes my lips before I can contain it. The boy's resemblance to the picture I saw the first time I woke up in this world is so striking that for a moment, I wonder if I'm facing a mini clone or if someone decided to play "Back to the Future" with my life.
I find myself face to face with the original Dean, the rightful owner of this body who, for some reason, seems more relaxed about the situation than any sane person ought to be. "Hello, person who stole my body," he says, with a calmness that makes me wonder if we're talking about body possession or grabbing the last slice of pizza.
"Hmm, you can call me…" I start, casting a net into a sea void of names, hoping to catch something other than just an awkward silence. But before I can come up with a pseudonym worthy of an international spy, little Dean interrupts me, cutting off my "Hmmms" with surgical precision. "Do you want to understand your soul?" he asks, turning the moment into something that sounds like a spiritual consultation.
My confused expression must have been an open book, but still, I nod my head. "Yes, I need to understand who I am." It seems the universe has decided it's time for an existential therapy session, and who am I to refuse?
"Hmm," little Dean reflects, as if pondering the mysteries of the cosmos — or deciding whether he wants chocolate or vanilla ice cream. "You already know who you are," he finally says, as if that simple statement were the key to all my identity crises.
"If I already know who I am? When you say that, is it about me being the author of this world?" I inquire, hoping to unravel at least a part of the enigma that my existence has become. It's one of those moments when you wish life came with an instruction manual, or at least, a quick guide.
Little Dean lets out a sigh, the kind of sigh teachers give when they realize the subject will need to be explained for the fifth time. "You need to know who you are now, not who you once were." His words, simple and direct, carry a weight I did not expect.
"Okay…" I reply, pausing as I try to absorb the depth of that statement. "This is confusing. It's like one of those episodes of 'The Witcher' on Netflix. The timeline keeps changing." And it really does. I'm starting to feel as if I'm trapped in a temporal loop, where each attempt to understand my situation only adds more questions.
Little Dean watches me with a patience that seems beyond his years, or maybe he's just enjoying the show. "It's simple," he says, as if reading my mind were a casual hobby for him. "You're stuck trying to understand who you were, but it's who you are now that will guide you to where you need to go."
"So, what you're saying is that I should forget everything I know and start from scratch?" I ask, half incredulous. "That sounds like restarting a game after playing for hours because you lost the manual."
"It's not forgetting," he corrects, "it's recognizing. Recognizing who you've become, here and now. And using that to shape your path."
Thinking about this leaves me even more confused, but I begin to understand the point. "So, basically, it's a journey of self-discovery with a guide who looks like a miniature version of my past, right? That definitely wasn't on my 'things to do before 30' list."
Little Dean just smiles, an expression that says a lot without needing words.
"But clear up a doubt for me, why are you telling me all this? I mean, why are you helping me? I'm using your body," I inquire, tossing into the air the question that seems to revolve around the elephant in the room. It's the question of the millennium, considering all the strangeness of our situation.
Little Dean watches me with that look that says he expected this question from the start, as if it were part of the script of a movie where he knows all the dialogues. "You know," he begins, his voice carrying a tone of seriousness that seems strangely mature for someone of his stature. "You've reached where I could never have gotten if I were in possession of the body. Besides, I can't take control of the body. Your soul, no… Your existence, is far superior to mine."
This explanation leaves me somewhat adrift. It's as if he's giving me a compliment wrapped in an enigma. "Okay, I guess I can swallow that excuse for now," I respond, trying to appear more convinced than I really am. The idea that my "existence is far superior" sounds like something you'd say to someone with an ego crisis, not to someone who accidentally took control of another person's body.
"Recognize who I am now, huh? Use that to shape my path…" I murmur, more to myself than to him. It seems my path has just gained a new layer of fresh paint, and I'm the artist without the slightest clue about what to paint.
Little Dean just nods, as if my internal epiphany was exactly what he expected. "It's not as complicated as it seems. Sometimes, the greatest journey is the one we take within ourselves."
"Great, now you sound like one of those decorative plaques with motivational quotes," I joke, trying to lighten the density of the moment with a bit of my characteristic humor. "But seriously, thanks. I think. I'll try to unwrap this idea and see what I can do with it."
Dean gives me a nod, as if he's passing the baton to me in this crazy race called life. "You'll figure it out," he says confidently. "Just remember that sometimes, the hero of the story is the last to realize their own worth."
"Sensational," I respond, with a half-ironic smile. "So, I'm the reluctant hero of my own saga. Well, let the next chapter begin."