"Does that mean," Jon began, his voice hesitant, the implications of his conversation with the Ancient One weighing heavily on him, "you've already decided whether or not to teach me?"
The Ancient One regarded him with her inscrutable gaze. Her eyes, ancient and calm, seemed to pierce through his very being, seeking the deepest currents of his intent. "Before I answer that," she said, her voice soft but firm, "let us be clear about your desires. You wish to learn the mystic arts for your ambitions. Tell me, Jon, which will you choose? The mystic arts, or your ambition?"
Jon's mind raced, a calm clarity washing over him despite the gravity of the question. She knows, he thought, a sense of resignation, almost relief, settling in. She must have seen my true desires, my plans to use this knowledge, this power, for my own advantage, for survival in a world I never asked for. She's laying it bare, forcing a choice. He wouldn't lie now, it would be pointless, perhaps even dangerous, given her abilities. He met her gaze directly, striving for a sincerity that mirrored his genuine, if selfish, drive.
"Mystic arts, or any other power," Jon replied, his voice steady, "are tools. For me, they will be tools for my safety, for creating a better life for myself, and for contributing where I can in this world. They are means to an end. So, if I have to choose, Ancient One, I will choose my ambition."
A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped the Ancient One, a sound like dry leaves rustling. It was gone as quickly as it came, her face resuming its serene mask. "Very well, Jon," she affirmed, her voice resonating with an unyielding wisdom. "Your honesty, at least in this, serves you well. I will teach you."
179 Days Later
The crack of bone against bone echoed through the training hall. Jon moved with a newfound fluidity, his broader frame now a canvas of taut muscle and practiced motion. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing paths down his temples as he blocked a sweeping kick, twisting his body to deliver a sharp, precise elbow strike to his sparring partner's side. His partner, a seasoned Master of the Arts, grunted, but recovered quickly, launching into a flurry of defensive and offensive moves. Jon met each one, his footwork light, his defenses solid, his counterattacks swift and impactful. He was no Bruce Lee, but the intense, relentless martial arts training had transformed his awkward, unfamiliar body into a surprisingly effective instrument. His movements were direct, efficient, lacking the flash of some, but making up for it in brutal effectiveness.
Later, as the sun began its descent, painting the Kamar-Taj courtyard in long, golden shadows, Jon and the other initiates transitioned to the arcane arts. They stood in quiet concentration, hands held before them, fingers tracing complex, intricate patterns in the air. Jon, initially clumsy, now moved with growing confidence. Golden sparks would sometimes flicker at his fingertips, followed by wisps of orange light that coalescing into shimmering, geometric shapes. Sometimes, a full spell formation would bloom, a circular mandala of interwoven light, humming with quiet energy before dissipating like smoke. Others conjured brief, shimmering shields of emerald or violet, or sent small, controlled bursts of pure, raw energy that crackled against practice targets. It was painstaking work, demanding focus and precision, but the potential, the sheer power, was intoxicating. Every success, no matter how small, was a tangible step towards the survival he so desperately craved.
Each evening, Jon often sought out Wong. Initially, his motivation had been purely pragmatic, to gain an ally, to subtly extract more information about this bewildering new world. Wong was the librarian, the keeper of secrets, a fountain of knowledge Jon desperately needed. But as days turned into weeks, Jon found himself genuinely enjoying Wong's dry wit and surprisingly deep insights. Despite the age gap, despite Wong's clear seniority and Jon's status as a novice, a quiet understanding began to grow between them. There was no need for grand gestures, just a shared space, a comfortable silence, and the occasional shared frustration over a particularly obtuse manuscript. Jon still maintained the proper respect, bowing slightly, addressing him as 'Master Wong' in formal settings, but in the quiet evenings, sharing stories, or simply working in companionable silence, an unspoken friendship, unlikely but profound, began to blossom. Wong, for his part, seemed to appreciate Jon's earnest curiosity and the quiet, unwavering determination that lay beneath his seemingly ordinary exterior.
This budding friendship, however, didn't stop Jon from his relentless pursuit of knowledge, especially concerning the more practical applications of magic. He knew the importance of portals, especially without a sling ring. It was a constant itch. "Master Wong," he'd begin, usually when Wong was deep in a scroll, "about those portals... the ones without a ring? How exactly does one bypass the need for an artifact?"
Wong would usually sigh, a long-suffering sound that belied a hint of amusement. "Patience, Jon. You will understand it as your progress continues. These things take time."
But Jon had no time to gamble. Time was a luxury he couldn't afford. The idea of being caught unprepared, unable to escape, was a constant shadow. "But Master," Jon would press, leaning forward, his voice a low, eager whisper, "understanding the theory now could inform my practice. Knowing why the sling ring is needed, even if I can't do it yet, seems crucial for true mastery, doesn't it?"
Wong would eventually relent, a slight quirk of his lips indicating his fondness for Jon's persistent, if slightly annoying, curiosity. "Very well, Jon," Wong began, laying down his scroll. "As you know by now, some magic is inherently more demanding. It requires immense focus, precise control, and sustained energy to cast. Performing these spells directly, without aid, would place an unbearable burden on the body and mind. This is why artifacts are created. They act as conduits, removing the burden from the caster and making the spell easier to perform. The sling ring works much the same way. Without it, creating a portal means focusing on countless steps simultaneously – visualizing the destination, manipulating dimensional energy, creating the precise signature for the tear in space, and sustaining it. One tiny mistake, and the portal collapses, or worse, leads somewhere unintended. In an urgent escape, such a failure is fatal. Our predecessors, understanding this critical need for swift and flawless transit for survival, created the sling ring."
Wong paused, looking directly at Jon. Then, without a word, and without a sling ring in sight, his hands began to move. Golden sparks erupted, swirling into a distinct, circular pattern. The air shimmered, the light coalesced, and a shimmering, unstable portal tore open in the library's wall, revealing a glimpse of what appeared to be Wong's own modest chambers. It hummed with contained power, a perfect, vivid tear in reality.
"Now, while it's not common," Wong continued, his voice calm, "with enough mastery and deep understanding of the sling ring's underlying principles, yes, it is possible to cast portals without one." He then simply rose, walked towards the shimmering opening, and stepped through, the portal snapping shut behind him, leaving Jon alone in the quiet library, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun and the lingering hum of nascent magic.
Jon stood there, transfixed. Wong's words, and his effortless demonstration, resonated deeply. He had given Jon the answer, and a glimpse of a far higher level of mastery. The ability to conjure a portal at will, without relying on a physical artifact, was not just a convenience, it was the ultimate tool for survival in a world where escape could mean the difference between life and death. For Jon, time was a resource not to be gambled with, especially when such a crucial ability hung in the balance. He knew now what his next relentless pursuit would be.
Months Later
Most nights, after the rigorous training, Jon found himself drawn to a secluded spot near a pristine, shimmering lake on the Kamar-Taj grounds. To his surprise, the Ancient One was often there, a solitary figure meditating by the water's edge. The tranquility of the place, surrounded by ancient, towering trees and the gentle lapping of waves, offered a stark contrast to the demanding disciplines of their lives. It was a place of profound peace, and Jon understood why a being as old and burdened as she would seek its solace.
These meetings were different from his formal teachings. Here, there was no talk of spells or fighting stances. Instead, their conversations meandered through the deeper currents of existence. They spoke of life, of purpose, of the interconnectedness of all things. Jon, still viewing this world through the lens of an outsider, offered perspectives that intrigued the Ancient One. He would share observations of human nature, of societal patterns, or simply ask questions about the fundamental nature of reality that others might never consider.
"You know," the Ancient One remarked one evening, a soft, almost conversational tone entering her voice as she gazed at the moon's reflection on the still water, "your way of looking at things... it's quite refreshing. You see the big picture, the way things connect, but from a different angle than most." She turned her head slightly, a subtle invitation in her gaze for him to elaborate. "It's enlightening, really."
Jon considered her words, a comfortable silence falling between them, broken only by the gentle sounds of the night. He looked at her, at the serene facade that hinted at unimaginable age and burdens. "Ancient One," he began, his voice softer, "how does one... carry such a vastness of understanding? To see so many realities, so many paths... does it not weigh heavily? Does it ever feel... lonely?"
The Ancient One's gaze remained on the water for a moment longer, a flicker of something ancient and weary in her eyes before she turned back to him. "It does," she admitted, her voice a low, resonant hum. "To truly grasp its scale, its endless permutations, is to truly understand the immense responsibility of even the smallest action. You learn to bear the weight. There are simply no others who can truly share it." A subtle sigh escaped her, a sound barely audible, like wind through distant chimes. "It is a long vigil. There are moments when the constant flow of possibilities threatens to overwhelm even the most disciplined mind. And yes, the loneliness... it is a constant companion."
Jon felt a profound sense of empathy, recognizing a solitude that transcended mere human experience. He leaned forward slightly. "And in that ceaseless flow," he asked, choosing his words carefully, "how do you decide what must be, and what might be? Or, more importantly, how do you find your own purpose when faced with such immense, often terrifying, forces?"
A small, genuine smile, more pronounced than any he had seen from her, touched the Ancient One's lips. "Ah, the core of it," she murmured. "It is in those very choices that our purpose is shaped. We do not choose the future, Jon. We choose our moments. And in each moment, we choose to protect this reality, this fragile spark of existence. Your way of seeing things, from a kind of detached view, seeing the whole forest rather than just the trees, offers a new lens. It reminds me that even the simplest lives, those concerned only with daily needs, are the very foundation worth protecting. Perhaps their unawareness is not bliss, but a necessary shield against a truth that would break their understanding."
She looked back at him, her eyes surprisingly warm, a depth of compassion in their ancient pools. "You speak with a rare honesty, especially when facing the overwhelming scale of existence. Yet, you do not give up hope. You seek meaning, you seek to act, even when things seem small. You wish to contribute. That, Jon, is a rare and powerful strength. A strength many sorcerers spend lifetimes trying to find, often after much struggle."
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