Our days on the ship slowly came to an end as we neared our destination. Activities on the ship began to ramp up, with the ship's crew and soldiers buzzing with anticipation. Everybody wanted to get off the damn ship, which I thought was funny. I understood the soldiers; they weren't made for the seas, especially not for such a long time—we had, after all, been on the high seas for eleven months. However, it was quite ironic that the ship's crew, who chose to practically live on the seas, yearned for land.
Anyway, on one of those last days on the ship, something happened. My mother and I were in our room; she was teaching me a game we played in our homeland. I will remain vague on the contents of the game for now, as they will play an important role in the future.
But my mother told me it was a game that served many purposes: it helped to clear the mind, sharpen it, and even calm it. She did warn that it had made bright men go mad; after all, the game's main objective is to outmaneuver your opponent, to control and guide their actions like a shepherd does with sheep. And that is no easy feat, to take control of another man's mind, especially an intelligent one. She taught me the many ways to win this game, and the many ways to spot errors, but she also told me that to win the game is not enough, and hardly as satisfying as dominating your opponent.
"To defeat a man in this game is good, but seeing the light in the eyes of your opponent die because he has lost, not because he wanted to, but because you willed it so and he was powerless to stop it, is even better," she had said with a mischievous grin.
Our lessons were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Enter," my mother commanded. Then a soldier came in. He was a rather stout and rough-looking man who had difficulty fitting through the small door. After a short while, he decidedly gave up and just stood outside. This earned a chuckle from me and a smile from my mother. The soldier clicked his tongue in annoyance but said nothing.
"My um, lady? My lady, the commander has requested your presence in his sleeping quarters," he said, avoiding her eyes.
My mother stood and went to meet him. The soldier shifted uncomfortably but stood his ground.
"Any issue with why you can't look me in the eye, Salis?"
Still avoiding my mother's gaze, the soldier, named Salis apparently, his face lit up in surprise. "You know my name, my lady?"
"I do, Salis. I know everyone's name on this ship. Now answer my question. Why can't you look me in the eyes?"
Salis hesitated, then steeled himself. "My lady, with all accorded respect, you are a harbinger of lust. The men...they talk, and I've heard the things they say about you, your face, and features. You're no ordinary woman. And I've got myself a missus at home. I'd rather not indulge in shameful and unfaithful acts, especially with someone I cannot have for myself."
My mother raised an eyebrow at this. "Someone you cannot? Salis, do not sell yourself short."
Salis, still dodging her gaze, frowned. "I am not a handsome man, my lady. I am stout, rough-looking, and highly undesirable. I am not an intelligent man, and I am poor. I don't delude myself into thinking I can lay with you. So, I would rather not put myself in a lose-lose situation."
My mother closed the distance between them until there was no space left. She placed her hand behind him. Salis grunted; he was clearly uncomfortable but made no attempt to free himself.
My mother smiled. "You say one thing, Salis. But your body says another." There was an edge to her voice now, her tone sharper and her volume lower, but it had a strange effect on Salis. He was trembling, his breath louder and shallower, his eyes losing focus.
"Aye," he forced out through gritted teeth. "I am but a man, my lady. I am not immune to biological urges."
"I see," my mother said. She lingered at his side but said nothing. By now, Salis was sweating, his body twitching as he could feel her breath on his neck.
My mother seemed to enjoy torturing him, but eventually, she pulled away.
Salis staggered and fell back to his knees. He wheezed and coughed as air rushed back into his lungs. He must have held his breath the entire time, I thought.
"You're a good man, Salis," my mother said, watching him. "Tell the commander I will be there soon. That'll be all." She closed the door on him and turned to me.
She said nothing for a stretch as we heard Salis's heavy breathing behind the door. Eventually, we heard the sound of his unsteady feet receding on the floorboards. Then nothing; he was gone.
Finally, she spoke, "Did you get all that?"
I nodded.
"Did you understand why I did that?"
I shook my head.
"No, I suppose you don't. Listen up," she said, her face serious, the air around her changed.
I straightened up. Whenever my mother was like this, she demanded complete focus from me. She rarely ever scolded or hit me, but all the times I had drawn her ire, she was in this state.
I banished irrelevant thoughts from my mind and locked eyes with her. When she was sure she had my undivided attention, she nodded and continued.
"That was a lesson in the psyche of men. There are four types of men in this world. First is the weak; these types of men are the most common. They react to things always. They have little to no willpower. They have no self-control. They make up the dregs of all society, no matter if it's in our kingdom or here; there are some in high societies, of course. But they didn't make it there themselves. They were born into it. And all it takes is a man with more willpower to take all they have from them. This ship is full of them. If I willed it so, I could have taken control here. Do not be like these men. You cannot afford to be.
"The second type of men are men like Salis. They have a little more willpower compared to the likes of the first, but they need an anchor for that. For Salis, it is his wife and his insecurities as a man. That's why I did that to him, so you could see for yourself. These types of men are no good, too. All it takes is someone with strong intent to remove their anchor. If I truly wanted Salis, he would have been helpless to stop me."
She paused and searched my eyes to be certain she still had my mind; she did. And so she continued.
"The third type of men are men like the commander. They have significantly more willpower and control than the other two. It takes a whole lot more to overwhelm them. These kinds of men are very rare; they can rise high in the world. They are among the leaders of the world. But they are not infallible. A master manipulator can still control them, like I have with the commander. He thinks he is in control. I let him think so; it's in my interest that he does so.
"Finally, the last type of men are so rare to find that you might only meet more than three on average in your lifetime. Some of them are kings and rulers, not all, but they control everything. They force their will on all other men, and they all bend to them. If you must be a man, this is the type you must be. But ideally, you must be something else, something higher. There is no man like this on this ship. But I will find one, and I will show you. Any questions?"
I hesitated but eventually asked, "M.. mother, you said there are more than four types of men?"
"Yes."
"But I must be something higher than this?"
"Yes. And this confuses you?"
"Yes," I replied.
She smiled. "Well, technically, there are five types of men. But this fifth category, it is a disservice to call them men, you see. They impose their will on the world itself, and it takes their desired form. The world is the way it is because they will it so. Everything is as they want it to be. This is the type of 'man' you must be."
"There are six of ... No, five," she caught herself, her face darkened momentarily, but she carried on. "There are five of them in this world. And when they learn of your existence, they will come for you. To stand a chance, you must be on their level. To defeat them, you must evolve into something even higher than them. You must become more god than man. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"Good," she said. "Now, take off your mask [...]."
As I pulled the veil from my mind, the world outside erupted. A storm materialized, a direct reflection of my burgeoning power. Lightning didn't just flash; it danced across the sky in a frenetic ballet, each strike illuminating the ship in stark, blinding light. The rain came down in sheets, a relentless barrage that sounded like a thousand drums beating against the deck. I could feel the ship beneath me, the wood trembling, the sails flapping wildly as if in panic.
The crew's curses and the prisoners' prayers reached my ears, carried by the wind that seemed to bend to my will. I heard the desperate shouts of men trying to secure the ship, their voices a discordant choir against the storm's symphony. Beyond the immediate chaos, I sensed the land, a faint but growing presence on the horizon, as if the storm itself was clearing a path for our arrival.
In that moment, everything seemed like toys to me, the ship, the storm, the men; all were within my grasp. The wind, once a wild beast, now felt like a pet, its roars turning into whimpers under my burgeoning control.
Suddenly, my mother's command sliced through the tumult, "Enough."
In an instant, everything stilled: the storms, the thunder, the lightning. It was as if it had never happened.
I was me, but not really; I was a fragment of myself. I felt like clay waiting to be molded.
In my mind's eye, there were two masks, and beside them was my true face. It glowed with an intensity that was almost painful to behold, like staring directly into the sun.
"Now," my mother spoke. "Let's build you another mask."