‘For the 528th Cantrip, Magister Mulligan has crafted this question for you: Which quality is quintessential for a [Mage]?’

My eyes are bloodshot. I’ve been buried in my room for the past 60 hours. Stan has brought me some food and told me Lakaris wanted to speak with me. But I’m done messing with this book. I want to rid myself of all these Cantrips, and I’m so close. Just so close. I barely slept and spent most of my time elaborating theories and crafting answers to appease the book. The questions got weirder and weirder and more general. Right now, I feel like I would like to smash my head through a wall rather than answer one more question. But this is the second to last. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The tiredness brings some anger out of me. It’s something I cannot stop; this fire that rages through my veins wants me to smash things, hurt people, and consume my enemies.

Come on, do I even have enemies?

I think about the Nine Towers Academy and Lucinda. Whoever she’s consorting with right now, I’d love to kill them.

What? Where did that thought come from?

I rub my eyes—I’m so tired, man. I’m so, so tired. I just want some rest, but at the same time, the same adrenaline is coursing through me as that of a kid finishing a video game campaign on a Sunday night. My bakery can run mostly on its own, and I told Stanimal to stall Lakaris a bit. I would need my full focus on these Cantrips to finally get rid of them with about a month to spare.

Focus—see, that’s the most important thing. To be able to focus on something without worrying about other stuff. All my friends and family always have something else to think about while they are really supposed to be only doing the one thing in front of them. What’s the point of worrying? No point, I’m telling you.

I met this Italian woman once who had gone through a lot of stuff, and her most interesting virtue was that she literally didn’t care. It was her superpower. The later years of her life improved considerably after the recession of the early 2000s, but she still didn’t recover the lavish Roman lifestyle she had conducted before. And she didn’t care. She spent her money when she had it, and she spent it when she was poor. That was her life. No planning, simply enjoying the moment. Her family didn’t exactly love her, but most people were simply jealous of her.

Thinking about my trips through Italy, I can feel a placid calm wash the anger and the grudges away from my body. I’m slowly getting back to normal. The darkness in me recedes and goes to sleep. My thoughts are not entirely coherent, sadly, but that’s because I’ve been barely sleeping.

Two more questions.

That’s my only concern.

I’ve karate-kidded my way up to the 528th Cantrip; I can’t stop now.

Magic.

I smile to myself.

Yes, Magic. With capital ‘M.’

‘Which quality is quintessential for a [Mage]?’

I look at the question and get a flashback from my past life.

…

“Joe! You haven’t done the dishes!” my mom screams from my kitchen.

“Ma’! It’s my house! Can’t I revel in my filth without you nagging at me?”

“You can’t live like this! Not even a pig would live here!” she keeps screaming even though we are talking from two adjacent rooms in a normal flat with the doors open.

Italian moms.

“Why not? Look, I like pigs; can’t I be one?!”

“Mio Dio! Joe! Come on; you can’t do that! You know better! A good man has to take care of himself, especially if you want to find a nice wife! Nowadays, women don’t take care of the house like they used to, so you are supposed to do your part!”

“Can’t I find myself a nice man, instead? One good at cleaning?” I say, knowing full-well that my mom is really not that progressive.

“Don’t say that stuff! What if the neighbors hear that?!” she screams even louder, totally defeating the purpose of her words.

“My neighbor Sarah has many gay friends, mom. I think she even goes to those rallies for their rights,” I tell her, laughing.

“Oddio!” my mom looks ill.

Yeah, she’s a bit like that; what can you do? We still make cakes for gay people, at least. Actually, I think my mom loves to help with some of the very extra cake requests that we get, choke-full of colors and rainbows. Does she even know that the rainbow has been acquired by the gay consortium? Huh, that’s a good question.

“Joey, you should go to church more often,” my mom looks at me severely.

“That’s what you say after I threaten to have a gay husband? Like, why should going to church make me less gay? I bet there are more secretly gay husbands in our church than in a gay bar,” I tell her while laughing. “Look at Mr. Smith. Going to church really didn’t help him, did it?”

My mom is incinerating me with her gaze after coming to my room. I’m trying to find an old phone charger since mine just died.

“You will die single if you keep up that attitude,” my mom uses one of her favorite one-liners.

When she understands that I’m not going to reply, she changes the topic.

“How was the trip to the Academy?” she asks with a softer tone.

“It was cool. I learned a lot about chocolate. I think I made a few Chefs angry because I skipped a couple of lessons, but I still got the degree—certificate, whatever they call it. I actually got a few proposals to work with some of the guest Chefs who came to teach us some special techniques.”

“Did you take them?” my mom asks with her eyes full of hope, but I can see that her light wrinkles already know the answer.

“No, ma’, I’m not interested in slaving away under some Chef for years and years. I’d rather enjoy my life.”

“But you are so good, amore mio, why don’t you have more faith in yourself? You could become a top Chef! You could be the next Gordon Ramsey! Or the next Iginio Massari! Oh, did you meet Cannavacciuolo? Did he slap your shoulder?!”

Jesus, I must cancel those Italian cooking channels from her TV.

“No, ma’, Cannavacciuolo wasn’t there. I went there to learn, not to meet celebrities.”

Said chef is a famous MasterChef Italy judge who slaps the shoulders of the contestants. This guy is like 6.3 feet per 290 pounds, a veritable tank. That’s why his signature move makes my mom laugh so much.

“Joe, if you had a bit more faith, you could become anything. You know, your grandfather used to say that what makes a great football player is that they know they are good, and they believe every move they make. If they get doubts, they become much weaker. You should have more faith in yourself!” my mom says with passion. Then, as if she’s forgetting something important, she quickly adds: “And in God! Remember, faith in yourself and in God! But more in God! But remember…”

…

“…faith is everything. Without faith, you can’t do what you do. The only reason I could become as good as I am, book, is because I had faith that my methods were the right ones. I would have probably never made it if I had doubted myself, as I do in other fields. Instead, be it for my own ignorance or faith in myself, I casted magic above my paygrade. And now, I’m here because I keep believing that I’m made for magic and that magic is made for me.”