Sunday tried to blink away the stars in his eyes and the mixed emotions he was feeling. As the words passed through his ears and his blurry mind comprehended their meaning, he moved and sat on the grass at once. Every fiber of his being followed through, as if compelled.

  There was no essence to be felt in the surroundings, nor inside his dead silent soul space. None whatsoever. There was no divinity either. This was a different type of place, and ever so often he saw the world crack. Streaks of starlight would flash like lightning, and then the wounds would melt together as if they never were.

  “Are you real? A god?” Sunday asked in a weak voice.

  The young man before him laughed as he poured a cup of tea and set it gently on the small table before Sunday. It was dark golden, and its aroma was as real as Sunday’s own thoughts. However, it all felt strange in some sort of indescribable way.

  “Me? A god? As if I’d lower myself so. No, my dear one. I am but a memory that lives in the stones of the City of… Legends. Truth be told, I never liked that name. Who else but me deserves to be called a legend after all? Ha!”

  “A memory…?”

  How did that make sense? The young man’s arrogant look melted away, replaced by one of humor and melancholy.

  “All that lives must eventually die, Sunday. I lived a good life and peeked into eternity. I started from nothing, just like you, and rose through hardship and suffering. I had no teachers, no benefactors, and no luck. Well, the last part is probably my pride speaking. How could I stand before you without a little bit of luck?”

  Sunday listened transfixed. Each word was a poem in its own right and each syllable seemed to hold elusive secrets. He tried again and again to focus himself, to shake off that strange feeling of ethereal lightness, but it remained. Was this all truly a memory? What was he then?

  “I won’t gift you with details of my journey, as we don’t have the time. Let us speak of the important bits, and let’s hope you learn something,” the man continued. His voice became wistful, and his eyes changed. Gone was the kindness that had invited Sunday for tea, replaced by confidence so powerful, so present, that it seemed to warp the surroundings. Sunday trembled in body and soul but didn’t move an inch. Not that he could if he wanted to.

  “I became the strongest of a generation. That did not stop me of course, as there were old monsters who thought a young lad such as myself should know their place. Age is a funny thing. It comes for all, and yet so many think it's some grant achievement deserving of respect. Let this be the first lesson, Sunday. Too many lose sight of themselves in the face of position, power, or the wisdom of the ages—much like you’re doing now. Value yourself higher, but remain grounded and accepting. Embrace change. Even dirt can offer gems.”

  The man smiled and his aura retracted, leaving Sunday dizzy. The young master took his cup of tea, blew on it, and drank. A gesture so human and natural that it chased away everything else, and Sunday followed suit. The warm liquid tasted of herbs and oranges. Good tea that warmed the soul much like alcohol did. It stung a bit too…

  Is this… wine? No, it can’t be. He brewed tea.

  “You should be wary of others, as you rightfully are of me. Too many have pulled you in all directions, making you lose sight of what’s important and you wander around, wasting your gifts and time. Not that you’re to be blamed, but petty squabbles of wealth or regional power are beneath one such as you. You should be mindful, but you should find your fire too. Find your pride.” The young man stretched his hand out, palm up, and looked at it. Sunday half expected the sky to fall into it.

  “Respect is a funny thing. While I know for certain few who have lived throughout the myriad worlds deserve respect more than me, I won’t demand it like I did most of my life, which brings me back to my story. I wanted more than possible, and I took more. As fools and tyrants opposed me, battle and growth became the source of my fire. Killing was my sole purpose. And I never stopped. Not for love. Not for familial bonds. Not out of pity. I slayed dragons. I destroyed kingdoms. Gods squirmed in the palms of my hand as I broke their necks like they were mere mortals. Worlds have knelt whispering my name in hopes of mercy, only for me to deny it.”

  The man looked toward the horizon and Sunday used the opportunity to take a much-needed breath. Not for the oxygen, of course. It was the sensation and the act of it. It was grounding and real. The words were no longer as enchanting now. Each was a cut of a blade that made him wince.

  “I did most of that with a closed mind and a myriad of weapons. It was much later that I realized that tools, while allowing us to expand our abilities, are also limiting. We grow reliant on them. We grow devoted to them. While the pursuit of the sword is a grand thing, so is learning to use what you already have and transcending perceived limitations. Such is my final and grandest art.”

  “The slap?” Sunday asked.

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  The young master was jumping from topic to topic, seemingly in a hurry to deliver bountiful advice. Sunday tried to absorb it all to the best of his ability, and it was made easier by how each word echoed in his mind.

  The young master laughed. “Slapping was part of it, yes. It’s symbolic in a way. A humiliating gesture that is meant to harm the spirit more so than the body. I thought it fun to begin the journey of the technique I offer in such a way. It was useful, wasn’t it?”

  Sunday hesitated, but it only lasted a second. Those clear eyes before him expected no lies, and he wasn’t sure he could spin any sort of tale in his current state. Even if the one before him didn’t exist, even if this was just some sort of a twisted memory, it was too real to him. He didn’t know what to believe, but the words of the one on the opposite side of the small table didn’t allow themselves to be doubted.

  “The slap had its moments. I don’t quite understand it. One moment I strike down a madman, and give them back their sanity, the next I can’t land it or it does something else. I danced between crowds lost in a trance, slapping away. I even pushed a god toward their doom. The words of the narrator helped, but—”

  “Is that what you think of it? A narrator? I must say it’s quite fitting,” the young master interrupted with a laugh.

  “Aren’t they a narrator?”

  “Let’s just say they are. This is a story, after all, and you’re the character we must pay attention to. Whether you’re of the main cast remains to be seen. I’ve certainly placed my bet on you.”

  He won’t give me more, will he?

  “No.”

  Sunday’s eyes widened and the young master laughed again.

  “I’m not reading your mind. Your thoughts were just that obvious.”

  Sunday took another deep breath to center himself, trying to remain as composed as he could. The more time he spent conversing, the more he felt his usual personality trying to worm itself to the surface. This was not a place for it, however. He still didn’t understand what part of the meeting was a reward, but if he played his cards right… there would be answers.

  Better yet, there could be power. He vividly remembered that palm slamming into the Divine’s incarnation. How wondrous it had felt. Better than any spell, as it was not limited by essence or elements.

  “I wanted the universe, Sunday,” the young master said wistfully. “I wanted to take it with my very two hands, and I stopped in front of nothing. The way of the open palm as I saw it was going back to the very basics, and turning them into something terrifying. I’ve plucked the eye of a ghost king. I’ve taken the heart of a prime god out of his chest and crushed it. And I’ve slapped so many, bringing them to their knees, that counting is impossible even if one had an eternity.”

  The young master spread the fingers of his right hand and looked through them.

  “Now that you’re one with the world you’ve been set loose on, you’ll be able to touch closer upon the gifts you carry. Mine is both simple and boundless. It will become what you make of it. Focusing only on slapping your foes like life is some sort of comedic play that will work for a time, but it is limited considering your foes. My advice is for you to think of what you desire, stretch your hand, and take it. Is it the moon and the stars, or perhaps the life of another? All can come in time. My art is but a blueprint, and what becomes of the talent is yours to mold.”

  It sounded so simple in a way. Just want it, and it will come true? Sunday was jealous of the overwhelming confidence of the young man. Perhaps it was so. Perhaps all it took was undying and unshakable belief. This was a world of magic and gods after all. Or was it worlds?

  “Will I always need to take the energy of the Divine to use it?”

  The young master shrugged. “It will become what you make of it and yourself, as I said. If you want you’ll be able to strike down a god or lift up a demon from the depths of hell. As our meeting ends, you will have learned a lot. You might not realize it now, but that’s the thing about the talents we give. They’re never simple.”

  “Who’s ‘we’? Who are you? What’s your name?” Sunday shot out. He was desperate for more. He barely felt like he’d learned anything.

  “I’m but a prideful memory from a place which no longer exists, Sunday. My name is of no consequence, for I persist neither in life nor undeath. If you grow and we meet again, then perhaps you will hear of it. I’ll certainly not let go of a chance to allow my name to spread through a new world once again, even if by the deeds of a student. Now, go. Another wishes to meet you, and they will be taxing. You did well.”

  “Wait! This is too soon. I have—”

  In a blink of an eye, the young master was gone along with the fields of grass, the cool wind, and the steaming cup of warm tea. Sunday could still taste its flavor and smell its fragrance. A part of him was lost to thought, but another was disappointed. He had just gotten used to the presence and the strange feeling of the memory and had so many questions. Plus, he had expected to be shown things, to be guided in the talent he had been given. While seemingly profound, words were… less.

  No. I shouldn’t disregard anything he said. I’ve truly wasted a lot of time in pursuits of wealth and meaningless relationships. He was back in the square with the strange fountain. Another was waiting for him, weren’t they?

  It was barely half a step later when the city itself buzzed. Each stone vibrated and static filled the air, making it all seem like a bad dream. However, Sunday wore a savage grin on his face. All the irritation and anger he had buried were springing forth, aided by a new presence. It was not the words of the young master that echoed in his mind. Rather it was his very presence and the way he carried himself. Sunday remembered the slivers of arrogance the young master had let slip, and almost naturally adopted some of it.

  Perhaps there was more to the lesson after all.

  The world shook as he fell on a field of blackness among the screams of the universe. Infinity surrounded him, and a grinning face of stars and darkness watched him from far above.

  Sunday looked around and felt his hand itch. Was this a memory as well? Were all of his talents given by beings long gone, looking to continue their legacies? It didn’t seem so this time around.

  Maniacal buzzing laughter filled the world before a grand being made of darkness and starlight appeared on the far end of the desert. It was but a silhouette. Words echoed among a shower of falling stars as a wind of red and black washed the world, but they were unintelligible. Strange like music and screams and the sound of murmuring rivers.

  “Show yourself, bastard!” Sunday screamed.

  Chaos responded in kind, and the accursed talent activated once again.