And so, laden like two pack mules with a dubious taste for adventure fashion, we left 'The Tired Rucksacker' shop and headed, with steps already beginning to weigh under the burden of our newly acquired, probably excessive possessions, towards the exit of the noisy, chaotic city of Magnolia.
The day, though already considerably advanced, the sun beginning to lazily tilt towards the horizon like a drunken old man about to pass out, was still, for both of us and to my growing dismay, only just beginning. And I knew, with an almost palpable certainty, a cynical resignation bordering on fatalism, a small but persistent, terribly irritating pang of amused apprehension, perhaps a little morbid curiosity, that our small, improvised, potentially disastrous 'intensive training retreat for teenage demonesses with power control issues and an excess of enthusiasm' in the vast, merciless wilderness would, inevitably, much to Eos's delight, be marked by many, many moments of intense, probably painful learning (mostly for her, of course), surprising, perhaps slightly traumatising discovery (probably for me, upon realising the extent of her… destructive creativity), inevitable, perhaps hilariously awkward growth (hopefully for both, though I'd already grown enough for several lifetimes), almost certainly, to my secret, sadistic amusement, by some unexpected, hilariously disastrous, potentially dangerous situations that, hopefully, would make for grand, embarrassing stories to tell back at the guild. If, and this was a big 'if', we managed to survive the experience, return in a minimally acceptable number of pieces.
But, hey, as the old, hackneyed saying goes, what would my long, tedious, occasionally ridiculous existence be without a little controlled chaos, some teenage drama to spice things up, the constant, invigorating, almost addictive possibility of being unexpectedly eaten alive by a giant, two-headed, hungry bear with a terrible sense of humour, a particular fondness for white-haired mages? It would be, frankly, to my eternal disgust, an absolutely unbearable bore.
After patiently, with a level of detail bordering on the obsessive-compulsive, asking my dear, efficient, occasionally rather meddlesome Eos – my personal AI, state-of-the-art interdimensional GPS navigator, resident commentator on my life – to mark with pinpoint, idiot-proof accuracy the exact location of that isolated, energetically promising, hopefully venomous-creature-and-noisy-tourist-free clearing I had laboriously selected in the vast, impenetrable forest for our little, intensive training retreat, I followed with a confidence that was part genuine ancestral intuition, part pure, simple stubbornness the discreet but clear holographic directions now magically floating in my peripheral vision, visible only to me, presumably, to anyone with the ability to see alternative interdimensional frequencies, which, thankfully, was rare on this planet.
Mirajane, much to my growing, slight credit as her self-proclaimed, reluctant master, walked just behind me with surprising energy, an enthusiasm not yet crushed by the reality of the situation, a growing curiosity that made her stumble over every root, startle at every strange squirrel.
She carried, with an apparent, enviable ease, some of the lighter bags containing our precious provisions, our few changes of clean clothes, whilst I, with my usual altruism bordering on masochism, my slightly superior (entirely underutilised) physical strength, bravely carried the two heavy tents, the bulky sleeping bags, most of the heavier, more uncomfortable equipment. It was a noble sacrifice, I told myself, entirely necessary for her character development. Or perhaps I was just too strong for my own good, too lazy to argue about dividing tasks.
The path, which had begun deceptively easily, civilised as a well-defined track with occasional signposts near the city limits, now delved deeper, alarmingly so, into the dense, dark forest, smelling suspiciously of dead things, regret. And the constant, comforting, for me, occasionally rather irritating sound of the wilderness enveloped us completely, like a damp, insect-filled blanket. It created, however, a complex, magical, surprisingly noisy symphony of shrill calls from unknown, likely poisonous birds, the insistent, omnipresent buzzing of insects of all sizes, clearly hostile intentions, the constant, mysterious rustling of dry leaves underfoot always sounding as if something large, hungry were following us, the melancholic, rather ominous whisper of the wind through the tall, dark trees with branches like skeletal fingers.
All this, I reluctantly admit, made the long, arduous, sweaty, endless walk a little less monotonous, considerably more… shall we say, atmospheric. And with a high probability of acquiring some rare disease or being eaten by a giant capybara.
We walked for a good, long time, probably for several excruciating hours, climbing steep hills that tested the elasticity of my tendons, crossing crystal-clear, treacherously icy streams that nearly cost me a toe to hypothermia, dodging with surprising agility gnarled, hungry roots seeming to sprout from the ground with the sole, sadistic intention of tripping us, making us fall face-first into the mud.
And the sun, that merciless star, indifferent to our suffering, which before shone high, strong in the sky like a golden tyrant, was already beginning its slow, majestic, very welcome descent on the distant horizon, tingeing the vast, cloudless sky with spectacular, melancholic, almost painfully beautiful hues of blood orange, shocking pink, a deep, ominous purple.
"Wow, Azra'il! My legs are killing me, and I think I saw a three-eyed squirrel, but… we really are completely, utterly far from everything, everyone now, aren't we?"
Mirajane commented with a sigh that was a mixture of exhaustion, genuine admiration, stopping for a moment to lean against a tree, take a deep breath of the pure, cool air, laden with the intense scent of pine, damp earth, to my relief, no obviously dangerous creatures.
The expression on her face, normally so full of calculated malice, unshakeable confidence, tense seriousness, now reflected a peace, tranquillity, vulnerability I had rarely, if ever, seen in her before. Her shoulders were relaxed, there was an almost childlike glint in her blue eyes as she observed the vastness of the forest around us. And I, to my utter, absolute surprise, perhaps a little embarrassment, could feel the same, welcome sensation of calm, isolation, a strange, unexpected freedom pulsing gently within me, like the echo of a long-forgotten song.
Far from the noisy, vibrant city, far from the chaotic, destructive guild, far from irritating expectations, endless dramas… there was, indeed, something profoundly, wonderfully liberating in it all. Even if my feet were killing me, I was almost certain a giant tick was making a nest in my hair.
Finally, as twilight, with its soft, melancholic light, began to paint the sky with its last, most beautiful, ephemeral colours, the air starting to turn dangerously cold, we found the spot I, with Eos's discreet, precise help, had been arduously searching for: a small, charming, perfectly circular, incredibly beautiful clearing, nestled like a well-kept secret in the pulsating heart of the ancient, probably haunted forest.
The clearing was sheltered by tall, imposing trees, strategically located near a small, winding stream of crystal-clear, inviting water, flowing gently over smooth, moss-covered dark stones, reflecting like a magic mirror the flickering, almost supernatural light of twilight.
The place, I must admit, looked like a true, unexpected oasis of peace, tranquillity, wild beauty, a natural sanctuary almost untouched by man's destructive, clumsy hand. And I knew, with an instinctive certainty born of ages of experience finding safe places to nap, that this was the ideal spot, both strategically, energetically speaking, to set up our modest, temporary camp, finally begin our intensive, challenging, probably very noisy training.
Whilst the sky rapidly darkened above our heads, the first, timid stars beginning to twinkle, shine shyly in the vast, cloudless firmament, like small diamonds scattered on black velvet, we two, in a comfortable, efficient, surprisingly coordinated silence, worked together to pitch our new, sturdy, hopefully rain-proof, goblin-proof tents. And the almost forgotten feeling of genuine camaraderie, silent partnership, a noble, shared objective grew, strengthened between us with every stubbornly driven stake into the hard ground, every firmly tied rope, every small victory against nature, our own considerable inexperience in camping.
With the camp finally, satisfactorily completed, the dark, starry, surprisingly silent night beginning to settle over the slumbering forest like a heavy, mysterious cloak, I crouched with the practical skill of an old, experienced mountain hermit to light a small but cheerful, crackling campfire in the centre of the clearing.
I used only a few dry twigs collected along the way, a bit of flammable tree bark, a single, precise, entirely unnecessary spark of blue magic snapping from my fingertips, more for showmanship than actual need. The flames danced merrily, with crackles, sparks, like playful little demons, casting a warm, orange, welcoming, hypnotic glow on our tired, dirty, perhaps slightly hungry faces, the growing darkness now surrounding us on all sides.
"Sit here by the fire, Mirajane, my little, exhausted camping apprentice," I asked with a surprisingly soft voice, devoid of my usual sarcasm, as I gestured with a nod for her to settle comfortably on a large, surprisingly smooth fallen log I, with a small, discreet use of telekinesis, had 'conveniently' dragged near the campfire. "Now that we are duly, comfortably, I dare say, almost luxuriously established in our new, humble, probably insect-infested temporary home, before inevitable, very welcome sleep completely overcomes us, drags us into the realm of strange dreams, morning muscle aches, I want to explain a little more about the type of… peculiar, intense, perhaps slightly frightening training we shall have the pleasure of commencing from tomorrow at sunrise. It's something… shall we say, a little different, a little more… esoteric than you're probably used to in your guild training." An enigmatic smile played on my lips. She had no idea what awaited her. And that was part of the fun.
She sat with surprising grace on the uneven log, her blue eyes, now reflecting the fire's dancing flames, fixed on me with total attention, a curiosity almost palpable. I felt that slight pang in my chest again – not nostalgia for other apprentices, but perhaps from the simple, irritating realisation I was about to get myself into another session of 'Azra'il, the Reluctant Sage'. What a bore. But, as always, it was my own fault for having harebrained ideas.
"What we will practise here, Mirajane," I began, trying to sound like an old hermit master, not a teenager preferring to be asleep, "is a form of inner strengthening some sages out there call 'cultivation'. In its essence, not to bore you with technical terms I probably invented during some drunken stupor, cultivation generally involves the careful manipulation, purification, refinement of the energy surrounding us. That magical stuff we know as Ethernano. Instead of just using it to hurl fireballs or turn people into frogs – which, I admit, has its charm – cultivators learn, with much patience, probably many naps, to consciously absorb this energy from nature around them, feel it buzzing in their innards, control it within their own, fragile mortal bodies, cleanse it of everyday impurities – like the smell of rotten fish from certain docks I know – efficiently store it to gradually increase their physical, mental, spiritual capacities, in your specific case, with a bit of luck, your already considerable abilities to transform into things with horns, wings."
Mirajane listened to every word with almost reverent attention, which was a little disconcerting. Her blue eyes shone with intense curiosity, a thirst for knowledge I rarely saw in someone so young, with such an… interesting wardrobe. I continued my little, improvised lecture, trying to simplify concepts that, in other ages, took entire lifetimes (literally) to be fully understood, usually resulting in many headaches, the occasional dimensional collapse.
"The long, arduous, frequently very painful journey of cultivation, my dear, now probably slightly frightened apprentice," I proceeded, in a tone I hoped was wise, not just sleepy, "is traditionally, very boringly, divided into different, progressive levels or 'realms' of power. Each of them, if you manage to reach them without exploding or going mad, represents a significant advancement, a sort of glorified 'level up', in the power, understanding, control the cultivator has over themselves, the energy surrounding them. Progression through these numerous, challenging, occasionally fatal levels not only, solely exponentially increases your physical strength – meaning you might be able to carry more shopping bags without complaining – your resistance to blows, who knows, your speed for fleeing awkward situations. But also, with much time, dedication, a worrying amount of meditation, offers the development of new, incredible abilities, a surprising longevity that might make you question your fashion choices over the centuries, for the most talented, incredibly dedicated, irritatingly lucky, perhaps slightly mad, the much-coveted, frequently misunderstood, usually very lonely immortality." I winked at her. The immortality part, I omitted that I already had on my CV. Details.
She looked genuinely impressed, almost wonderstruck, visibly intrigued by the possibilities I was so casually presenting. And I, to be perfectly honest, was rather enjoying the role of mysterious, wise old master. It was better than having to explain how I actually knew these things. I continued, with a small, perhaps slightly smug smile:
"Cultivators, my dear, throughout their long, frequently monotonous journey, develop a myriad of techniques, skills, secret arts, many with ridiculously pompous names, interesting side effects, to manipulate Ethernano in specific, complex, frequently spectacular, sometimes utterly useless ways. This may include, but is certainly not limited to, combat skills that would make a god of war envious, precise, powerful control over nature's elements – yes, you might finally learn to do more than just accidentally turn your bathwater into ice – the enviable ability to fly through the skies like a free bird with less chance of being shot down by a bored hunter, of course, countless other forms of strange magic, psychic powers that defy imagination, logic, frequently, common sense."
"The Dantian, which you can think of as your magic core, only with a more exotic name, probably harder to pronounce after a few ales, is, for the cultivator, the centre of this whole carry-on. It's a reservoir of primordial vital energy, located deep within the body, usually in the lower abdomen region, a place best not pointed at in public. It is in this Dantian that Ethernano, or any other vital energy you manage to pilfer from the environment, is carefully collected, patiently purified of all impurities – like morning breath or thoughts about how irritating Natsu can be – meticulously refined until it reaches an almost divine level of purity, efficiently stored for future use. And it is, therefore, my dear, now probably very confused apprentice, absolute, total, fundamentally essential for the entire cultivation process, frequently the main focal point, the internal battery, for the development, expansion, control of a cultivator worth their salt. And to prevent you from exploding when trying to use a very powerful spell. Which is always a bonus."
Mirajane seemed to be absorbing my every word with the intensity of a dry, hungry sponge, her young, agile mind working feverishly, almost audibly, to try and understand the complexity, depth, apparent insanity of everything I was explaining with such calm, naturalness, a healthy dose of veiled sarcasm. A thoughtful, slightly confused, perhaps a little frightened expression crossed her pretty, flame-lit face, I realised, with a slight, internal sadistic amusement, she was about to ask the inevitable question, the one all my apprentices, in all worlds, all lives, invariably asked.
"But… Azra'il… this is all… fascinating. And a little frightening," she began, choosing her words carefully. "But… where, or how, did you learn all this? All these things about cultivation, Dantian, power realms… this isn't something taught in basic guild classes here in Fiore, or in any book I've ever seen, is it?" at last, she asked, the genuine curiosity, reluctant admiration, direct frankness so characteristic of her shining brightly in her voice, her gaze.
I felt that slight, familiar, almost imperceptible tightening in my chest upon hearing her direct, entirely pertinent question. A fleeting shadow of an incredibly distant past, of secrets I preferred to keep deeply buried under layers of indifference, threatened to surface. But quickly, with aeons of practice, I recomposed my facade of enigmatic tranquillity, organised my evasive thoughts before replying.
"Ah, Mira, my dear, perceptive, occasionally rather meddlesome apprentice of ancient mysteries," I replied in a slightly evasive tone, an enigmatic smile revealing absolutely nothing, averting my gaze to the flames now crackling merrily in the campfire, as if searching for answers to the universe's great mysteries there, amongst the incandescent embers. "You know how things are in this vast, confusing world, don't you? Some people collect stamps, others collect broken hearts, and I… well, let's just say I have a certain, inexplicable talent for collecting strange knowledge, obscure skills, entirely useless information in unexpected, usually dangerous places. We all have our little, well-kept secrets, our complicated pasts full of questionable choices, a few good stories we prefer, for sanity's sake, or to avoid lawsuits, not to tell anyone, don't we?" I winked at her. "What truly matters, at the end of the day, my dear, is that now we are here, together, under this starry sky, a warm campfire, you are about to embark on a journey of self-discovery, strengthening, hopefully, greater control of your Satan Soul. The rest," I concluded with a dismissive wave of my hand, "is just… irrelevant details, cosmic dust, footnotes in the great, tedious encyclopaedia of existence."
Mirajane stared at me in silence for a long, thoughtful moment after my deliberately vague, rather mysterious, entirely unsatisfactory answer, as if trying very hard to decipher the countless enigmas in my eyes, read my deepest, most well-guarded thoughts through some sort of newfound telepathy.
The expression on her face subtly changed, I noticed, with a small, almost imperceptible pang of something dangerously resembling… remorse, or perhaps just a growing boredom, that she was rather sad, perhaps even a little disappointed, frustrated I hadn't shared more about myself, my mysterious origins, my darkest secrets. I wanted, with an intensity that surprised me with its strength, to quickly change the subject, avoid any unnecessary discomfort, potential embarrassment, or, worse still, any even more direct, difficult-to-answer question that might arise from that potentially dangerous, revealing, entirely out-of-my-control conversation.
"So, my dear, now probably very confused apprentice," I began, with forced enthusiasm, a tone of voice I hoped was convincingly cheerful, desperately trying to bring the conversation back to what truly, pragmatically mattered at the moment, which was planning her future, painful strengthening, not the tedious, endless excavation of my millennial, questionable-choice-filled biography. "About our exciting, invigorating, certainly very tiring training tomorrow morning…" But before I could continue, detail our rigorous, likely sadistic schedule of physical, mental torture, also known as 'training plan', Mirajane, with a courage, persistence I should have foreseen, interrupted me in a surprisingly soft voice, but with a direct, unwavering gaze.
"Azra'il," she said, her voice low, yet firm as steel, her large, expressive blue eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that, once again, caught me completely off guard, rather disconcerted. "Erza… your best friend Erza… does she know about this great, mysterious secret of yours? About this dark past of yours that you absolutely refuse to tell anyone about?"
Her question, so direct, so simple in its formulation, yet so laden with unexpected vulnerability, almost childlike curiosity, a palpable need for understanding, caught me completely by surprise, like a well-aimed punch to the gut. It was true, painfully, inconveniently true, that I had never really, openly spoken about my true origins, my countless, varied past lives, Eos's constant, irritating presence in my mind, or the true, frightening extent of my powers to absolutely anyone in this current, temporary incarnation.
Not even to stubborn, loyal, occasionally rather dim Erza Scarlet, who, despite all our glaring personality differences, our constant, amusing frictions, my continuous, usually successful efforts to maintain a safe, professional emotional distance, had somehow inexplicably, utterly irrationally, perhaps a little dangerously, become one of the few, rarest, precious people I could, with much reluctance, a healthy dose of denial, consider close, important to me in this strange, chaotic world.
"No, Mira. Not even Erza knows absolutely anything about it," I replied with a sincerity that perhaps, just perhaps, surprised her with its frankness, as I averted my gaze to the hypnotic, dancing flames of the campfire, trying to convey to her, through my tone of voice, my posture, the seriousness, importance, perhaps even the weight of my answer, without needing, however, to delve too deeply into the numerous, dangerous, complicated, frequently depressing details of my long, tedious existence. The whole truth, my dear, was too heavy a burden, too complex, frankly, too interesting to be shared lightly with just anyone. And I was in no mood to write my memoirs just yet.
The expression on Mirajane's pretty, fire-lit face changed again, this time to something resembling, to my surprise, relief, …a silent understanding? Or perhaps just genuine relief at not being the only one kept in the dark. I could clearly see, in her blue eyes, now a little less curious, considerably calmer, that upon hearing my confession I kept my deepest, most well-guarded secret not just from her, but also, with equal discretion, from someone as close, important, apparently trustworthy to me as Erza herself, she seemed to feel a little better, a little less excluded from my mysterious, probably very strange life, a little more… special, perhaps? The complex, frequently illogical idea that I, the enigmatic, distant, occasionally frightening Azra'il, kept my true, likely far more interesting self secret from everyone, not just, solely from her, seemed, somehow strangely, curiously, utterly unexpectedly, to alleviate some of the weight of unsatisfied curiosity, the possible feeling of rejection she, understandably, might have been feeling. Humans, their complicated needs for validation, belonging. So predictable. And, occasionally, so captivating.
"That… that makes sense, I suppose," she murmured at last, after a long, thoughtful silence, looking genuinely contemplative, considerably less disappointed, perhaps even a little… flattered by my reluctant confidence. "Sometimes, I suppose, based on my own, limited experience with secrets, inner demons, keeping certain, particular secrets is really, absolutely necessary, isn't it? Whether to protect ourselves from a cruel, judgmental world… or, who knows, to protect those we love from truths they might not be ready to hear, or that could hurt them in ways we cannot predict." There was an unexpected wisdom, a surprising maturity, a melancholic depth in her words that touched me in a way I hadn't expected. She really was growing up.
"Exactly, Mirajane. You, with your sharp intelligence, demonic intuition, have understood perfectly, with admirable speed the crux of the matter," I agreed with a small, perhaps even slightly proud smile, genuinely, deeply relieved she had understood, accepted my reticence, my need for secrecy without further drama, insistent questioning, emotional blackmail, or, worse still, more likely, tears of frustration. She was, indeed, far more perceptive than I had initially given her credit for.
"Sometimes, my dear, now considerably wiser cultivator apprentice with a bright, likely very noisy future ahead, what we most need, most desire on this long, confusing, frequently painful, occasionally surprisingly beautiful journey we dare call life, is a clean chance, a precious opportunity for a new, true beginning. A sort of blank magic slate, where we can, with our own trembling hands, hearts full of hope, finally try to rewrite our own, unique story, without the constant, oppressive, frequently paralysing weight of past mistakes, unhealed pains, unresolved guilts, innumerable, irritating ghosts of who we once were haunting every new, hesitant step we take towards the uncertain future. And that, my dear, understanding friend," I concluded with a soft sigh, a gaze perhaps a little more vulnerable than I intended, "can be, frequently is, incredibly, painfully difficult, if not utterly, completely impossible, to share in its entirety, its rawness with others, however close, beloved, trustworthy they may be to us."
The campfire, which I had skilfully, discreetly fed with a few more dry twigs whilst philosophising about the nature of secrets, new beginnings, now crackled softly, cheerfully, very comfortingly between us, its orange, yellow flames dancing, playing with the shadows cast on the rough, uneven cave walls, our now slightly more thoughtful, calmer, perhaps a little more connected faces. And the atmosphere in the small clearing, previously a little tense, a little strange, laden with unsaid questions, unmet expectations, suddenly became, to my surprise, relief, a little lighter, a little more intimate, a little more relaxed, I dare say, considerably, unexpectedly more comfortable.
Perhaps, just perhaps, sharing a tiny, carefully edited morsel of my burden of secrets hadn't been such a terribly bad idea after all.
"So, since we, with much wisdom, emotional maturity, have finally, satisfactorily resolved the great, fascinating mystery of my supposed, non-existent, entirely fabricated secret life as a possible, highly improbable double agent for some ancient, forgotten kingdom, or perhaps as the reincarnation of some vengeful goddess with a terrible sense of humour," I continued, with a deliberately mischievous smile, a considerably lighter, more playful tone, actively, somewhat successfully breaking the ice of previous seriousness, introspection, "let us, please, with your permission, before I fall asleep right here, start snoring embarrassingly, focus on what truly, genuinely matters at this exact, precise moment: our exciting, challenging, certainly very tiring, probably extremely painful cultivation training commencing tomorrow at sunrise. And, of course, on the ultimate, much more amusing goal of all this, which is: how can we two, working together in perfect harmony, with minimal accidental explosions, transform you, Mirajane Strauss, into the most powerful, most feared, most respected, who knows, with a bit of effort, good taste, the best-dressed, most stylish demoness in all of vast, competitive Fiore. The future, my dear, promising Mirajane," I concluded with a wink, a smile full of possibilities, "can be incredibly, wonderfully, perhaps even a little frighteningly promising, if we have the indomitable courage, unshakeable determination, saintly patience, of course, an absolutely obscene amount of raw magical power to shape it according to our will…".
----------------(*)----------------
The following day, as the first, timid, still sleepy rays of morning sun began to lazily filter through the dense, verdant leaves of the ancient forest, painting the dewy ground of the clearing with trembling, golden patches of light, shadow, the cool morning air still damp, cold, laden with the sweet, invigorating scent of dew, wet earth, resinous pines, we two, with a punctuality belying our exhaustion from the previous night, officially commenced Mirajane Strauss's true, arduous, challenging, likely very painful (for her, of course) cultivation training.
The environment around us, at that sacred, silent hour between night, day, was incredibly tranquil, profoundly serene, almost palpably sacred, broken only, solely by the distant, melodious song of the first birds timidly awakening in their nests, the constant, soft, comforting murmur of the crystal-clear stream flowing nearby, with its limpid, icy waters. It was, indeed, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, the perfect, energetically auspicious time, place to begin our journey into the mysterious, powerful world of cultivation.
With the grace, flexibility of an ancient cat, I sat in an impeccable, entirely natural, for me, surprisingly comfortable lotus position on the soft, cool, still pleasantly dew-damp grass, immediately feeling the subtle, powerful, vibrant energy of nature awaken, pulse around me like a living, immense, welcoming heart. And then, with a calm, serene, perhaps slightly theatrically inviting gesture, I beckoned Mirajane, who had been standing for some time, arms firmly crossed over her chest, a curious, rather apprehensive expression on her pretty face, to join me on the cool, promising grass.
"Right then, my dear, diligent, now officially, irrevocably initiated demoness cultivator apprentice with a potential that would make many ancient masters envious," I began, with a smile I hoped was simultaneously encouraging, a little mysterious to maintain the mood, perhaps just a tiny bit sadistic to keep things interesting, her alert. "Today, as you must have brilliantly guessed from my impeccable zen posture, my expression of profound ancestral wisdom, my total absence of morning complaints, we shall, with much calm, patience (mostly on my part), dive headfirst, perhaps even drown a little to learn to swim, into the wonderful, fascinating, complex, I must be honest, occasionally terribly, incredibly frustrating world of deep, transcendental meditation. And, as a bonus, we shall also dedicate ourselves to the all-important, fundamental, frequently much-neglected art of cleansing the energetic, physical, emotional impurities that, inevitably, much to our great disgust, accumulate in your delicate body, tempestuous soul over time, using for this none other than the raw, abundant, entirely free, generously offered power of nature's pure, crystalline Ethernano surrounding us on all sides, permeating all living things on this planet. Think of it, my dear, perhaps slightly sceptical Mirajane," I continued, an amused glint in my eyes, "as a complete, deep, utterly invigorating spring clean for your tired soul, your exhausted body. Only, unlike an ordinary spring clean, this one will come with considerably more chances of you seeing colourful, dancing stars, having strange, psychedelic visions about the meaning of life, or, who knows, with much luck, a little natural talent, a healthy dose of blind faith, accidentally, entirely uncontrollably levitating a few precious inches off the ground."
I observed her countenance intently, the way her large, expressive, incredibly blue eyes, normally so full of calculated malice, constant defiance, dangerous seduction, now shone with almost palpable concentration, a stubborn determination I already knew, appreciated, a thirst for knowledge, power, self-discovery that was almost tangible, I must admit, quite inspiring. She was ready. Or at least, as ready as anyone could realistically be to face the deep mysteries, arduous challenges, incredible rewards of the true path of cultivation.
"Meditation, my dear, impatient, now probably slightly frightened Mirajane," I continued, my voice now a little softer, calmer, perhaps even a little more… professorial, "is the master key, the secret portal, the treasure map to all the universe's mysteries, more importantly for our current purposes, to the vast, still unexplored ocean of power residing dormant, like a hibernating dragon, right there inside you. It is, I cannot stress this enough, absolute, total, fundamentally essential for you to, with time, diligent practice, truly, deeply, intimately connect with your own, unique, non-transferable inner energy, your pulsating, vibrant magic core, for you to learn, with much patience, much dedication, a few occasional, inevitable fits of frustration, to feel, direct, control, circulate the precious, vital, frequently stubborn Ethernano through your numerous, intricate, complex energy meridians, with the force, grace of a mighty, powerful, crystalline, obedient river entirely under your command, your will. Or, in your specific, particular case, my dear, considering your notable, rather explosive demonic affinity," I added with a mischievous wink, an amused smile, a glint of pure mischief in my eyes, "perhaps it's a little more appropriate, considerably more realistic, to say like a particularly well-behaved, surprisingly disciplined, incredibly helpful, perhaps even slightly bored demon on a particularly good, spelled day, without many evil temptations, opportunities to cause chaos nearby."
Initially, as was totally, completely, absolutely to be expected from someone so intrinsically accustomed to constant physical action, direct, brutal combat, the explosive, overwhelming, frequently utterly chaotic power of her Satan Soul magic, it was terribly, painfully, frustratingly, to my secret, sadistic amusement, hilariously difficult for poor, diligent, now visibly confused Mirajane to even begin to comprehend the most basic, most fundamental, seemingly simplest of instructions on how the bloody, irritating, apparently impossible art of meditation truly, genuinely worked. And much less still, of course, how the subtle, invisible, frequently stubborn, entirely abstract flow of Ethernano should, theoretically, pragmatically, according to ancient, dusty, frequently incomprehensible cultivation manuals, move gracefully, harmoniously, efficiently through her young body, her likely very blocked, repressed-demonic-energy-filled meridians. I watched her with a patience that, honestly, bordered on the superhuman, divine, or perhaps just the purest, most crystalline ancestral boredom accumulated over countless, repetitive lives, try, try, fail repeatedly, spectacularly, almost comically.
Her frustration visibly grew with each new, clumsy, fruitless attempt to find her 'centre', 'feel the flow of energy'. With every long, deep, exasperated sigh escaping her pink lips, now curved into a grimace of sheer irritation. With every look of desperate supplication, absolute confusion, almost comical defeat she shot me, as if I, with my mysterious powers, ancestral wisdom, could, with a simple snap of my fingers, some particularly effective magic word, solve all her energy problems, unblock all her chakras, instantly transform her into an enlightened master of cultivation. Ah, the sweet, bitter naivety of youth.
Patience, I realised once more, with a long, deep, resigned internal sigh that probably made the leaves on the surrounding trees tremble slightly, was definitively, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, a precious, rare, absolutely essential virtue I, as her self-proclaimed, reluctant, perhaps slightly sadistic master, would need to diligently, patiently, with a Herculean dose of stoicism cultivate in myself, whilst I, with all my limited supply of goodwill, guided her along this long, arduous path, full of frustrating, silent 'omms', terribly numb, tingling legs, an apparent, total, absolute absence of any practical, minimally satisfying results.
After several, many, increasingly clumsy, pathetic attempts on her part, which resulted mainly in a few low, irritated grumbles about imaginary ants insistently biting her, a few grimaces of deep, painful concentration that would make a stone gargoyle feel a pang of envy, a few hilarious, entirely unexpected moments when she, to my secret, undisguised, sadistic amusement, almost fell fast asleep, began to snore lightly like a small, adorable demonic tractor, I finally decided, with a weary sigh of one about to perform delicate brain surgery with a pair of wooden chopsticks, much blind faith, that it was, finally, for the sake of my own sanity, the right time for a slightly more… shall we say, tactile, direct intervention. Perhaps, just perhaps, against all my personal preferences for more… detached, observational teaching, she needed a small, gentle, entirely professional, perhaps slightly invasive energetic nudge to finally find the right path, stop looking like a fish out of water trying to meditate.
"With your leave, my dear, diligent, determined, now visibly, understandably, utterly frustrated apprentice zen monk with clear, evident demonic tendencies, a patience clearly wearing thin," I asked, in my best, calmest, most neutral, most professional, entirely-devoid-of-any-trace-of-mockery-or-condescension voice (at least, that's what I hoped, tried very hard to convey, despite the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh), noticing, with a mixture of pity, amusement, how she looked a little – or rather, a lot – embarrassed, deeply irritated, utterly confused, dangerously on the verge of a complete, total nervous breakdown at her apparent, glaring, total lack of progress in the noble, ancient, seemingly impossible art of meditation. "If you, by some chance of fate, momentary lapse of good sense, permit me, solemnly promise, hand on your demonic heart, not to bite me, scratch me, try to turn me into a slimy frog, some other equally unpleasant creature, I could, who knows, perhaps, with much caution, respect for your personal space, gently touch your back for a brief, entirely professional instant? It would be only, solely to try, help you locate with a little more precision, feel with a little more clarity, who knows, finally connect with your precious, powerful, currently very, very well hidden, stubborn magic core. Sometimes, my dear, sceptical Mirajane," I added with a smile I hoped was reassuring, not frightening, "a small, subtle, well-intentioned, entirely platonic external energy guide makes all the saintly, blessed difference between transcendental enlightenment, the uncontrollable urge to chuck it all in, give up on this cultivation nonsense altogether, run off to the city to eat a giant strawberry cake with extra icing."
Mirajane, her cheeks now adorably, utterly, unequivocally flushed with a complex mixture of shame at her apparent incompetence, a palpable frustration almost making the air around her vibrate, perhaps, just perhaps, a small, hesitant glimmer of relief, hope, with a look in her large, expressive blue eyes that was a peculiar, hilarious mixture of desperate hope, understandable suspicion regarding my intentions, perhaps a slight touch of morbid curiosity, nodded slightly in a silent, almost imperceptible sign of agreement.
And I, of course, as the sadistic, observant master I am, smiled internally with almost palpable satisfaction, noticing with a certain, perhaps slightly worrying, sadistic pleasure that she, the great, fearsome, confident, seductive, usually so self-possessed Mirajane Strauss, the infamous, powerful She-Devil of the Fairy Tail Guild, became rather adorably shy, surprisingly clumsy, utterly caught off guard, completely, wonderfully disarmed when I, unexpectedly or deliberately calculatedly, physically touched her, even minimally invaded her normally so well-protected, impenetrable personal space. Interesting. Very, very interesting. And, I must admit, potentially very useful for future teasing, maintaining control of the situation. Ah, the small joys of life as an ancient entity disguised as a teenager.
Whilst we were still seated on the clearing floor in an impeccable, for me entirely comfortable, natural lotus position, one facing the other like two nuns on a particularly intense spiritual retreat with a high probability of demonic explosions, I approached her with a calculated care, slowness, deliberation, like an experienced predator approaching particularly skittish, volatile prey with sharp claws.
With a smooth, almost imperceptible movement, I sat behind her, my own legs elegantly crossed, spine perfectly erect, like a true model of serenity, ancestral wisdom. Which, of course, was a complete, total facade, but presentation was important.
Then, with a smooth, precise, entirely professional, hopefully not too invasive movement, I placed my right hand, small, delicate, yet laden with a power she could barely imagine, in the exact middle of her slender, surprisingly tense back. Precisely over the spot where I, with my keen perception, knowledge of countless energy systems, intuited her powerful, somewhat rebellious, currently very well-hidden magic core ought to reside.
I immediately felt, through the thin layer of fabric of her training blouse, the warmth of her skin, the almost imperceptible lightness of her breath against my palm, a rhythm slightly faster than normal, betraying her nervousness. I also felt the quiet but equally slightly faster beat of her anxious, expectant heart. Poor thing. She had no idea what awaited her. Or perhaps she did, hence the tension.
With a small, almost imperceptible effort of concentration on my part, a skill honed over ages of practice, boredom, I began to channel, with a care, precision bordering on surgical perfection, a small, controlled, for me almost insignificant, but for her probably overwhelming, incredibly purified amount of my own, vast Ethernano into her receptive body.
I moved this energy with an almost supernatural gentleness, subtlety, expertise through her numerous, complex energy meridians, which were, to my surprise, less blocked than I expected, also through her frequently turbulent, chaotic, conflicting emotions. I sought, like a subtle, delicate, incredibly precise, perhaps slightly intrusive sonar, to locate, awaken, gently but firmly guide her stubborn, elusive, currently very well-hidden dormant magic core.
The intrinsic, complex, fascinating, somewhat volatile nature of her magic, her powerful, versatile, occasionally frightening Satan Soul, was something truly intriguing, unique, with a growth potential that, I must admit, was almost limitless. It awakened in me an almost scientific curiosity, a slight fear she might, one day, become more powerful than me. Which would be terribly inconvenient for my ego.
As I carefully, patiently channelled the purified Ethernano through her intricate energy system, I felt, with a clarity that surprised me, the vibrant, raw, untamed, slightly chaotic, distinctly demonic energy of her soul harmoniously intertwine, like two long-lost lovers finally reunited, with Mirajane's primordial, pure, surprisingly gentle, stubbornly human essence.
And this fusion, this perfect, beautiful, slightly frightening symbiosis between light, shadow, human, demon, awakened in my ancient mind numerous, varied, incredibly exciting, potentially very dangerous possibilities of how she could, with proper, careful training, wise guidance (mine, obviously), a good, considerable dose of her own, unwavering determination, further hone, in ways she herself didn't even dream of in her most creative nightmares, her vast, impressive, not yet fully explored or understood potential.
She was, indeed, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, a rare, precious, invaluable rough diamond, just patiently waiting, perhaps with a little impatience, to be carefully, skilfully, perhaps a little painfully cut, polished. And I, to my growing surprise, perhaps a little masochistic reluctance, seemed to have become, by some ironic whim of fate, pure, simple lack of better, more amusing option at the moment, the reluctant, cynical, yet strangely dedicated jeweller tasked with this delicate, important, potentially explosive task. May the gods, or whoever was in charge of that cosmic, poorly managed circus, have mercy on us both. And the surroundings.
Mirajane, for her part, eyes still firmly closed, an expression of intense but now visibly more relaxed, less pained concentration on her pretty, sun-lit face, experienced, according to what she would later describe to me with an adorable, utterly unexpected, hilarious blush on her pale cheeks, a voice full of almost childlike, entirely genuine astonishment, a strange, new, deeply relaxing, to her utter, absolute surprise, not at all unpleasant sensation. It was, she tried to explain in clumsy, stumbling words full of almost reverent admiration, as if an incredibly, divinely, almost sinfully relaxing massage, warm as an angel's (or a particularly gentle demon's) embrace, surprisingly energising, were gently, yet with undeniable power, coursing through every tense muscle, every tired fibre, every stressed nerve, every mundane worry of her being.
The sensation, she said, instantly relieved all the accumulated muscular tension after a long, exhausting day of brutal physical training, complex emotional worries, almost miraculously calmed her normally so agitated, noisy mind, so full of harebrained schemes, existential doubts, conflicting, frequently self-destructive thoughts.
She began, under my subtle touch, precise energetic guidance, to visibly, deeply, I dare say, almost completely relax. Her previously so tense, hunched shoulders yielded, softened like butter in the sun. Her previously shallow, rapid, anxious breathing deepened, became calmer, slower, more rhythmic, serene. And this finally allowed my subtle, purified, carefully directed energy, her own powerful, previously so chaotic, repressed inner energy, to flow more freely, more harmoniously, with more strength, more purpose through her receptive body, like two great, majestic rivers which, after a long, arduous, solitary journey separated by mountains, valleys, finally, gloriously meet the vast, tranquil, welcoming sea of unity. Or something equally poetic, a little cheesy like that.
Finally, after a few more long, precious, silent minutes of intense but surprisingly serene mutual concentration, a delicate, almost intimate energetic attunement established between us, like a silent dance of souls, as soon as she, with my subtle, precise, almost imperceptible, entirely professional help, managed, much to her own growing astonishment, my secret, undisguised delight, to clearly, distinctly, for the first time in her entire young, confused life, feel the vibrant, powerful, unmistakable pulse of her own, countless energy meridians through my carefully guiding, gently instructive touch, I could perceive, with silent satisfaction, a professional pride I rarely felt, perhaps a small, almost imperceptible, entirely inappropriate smug smile, that her countenance had changed completely, radically, for the better. The palpable frustration, obvious confusion, growing irritation tormenting her before had completely vanished from her face, as if by magic, a miracle from some forgotten god.
And had now been replaced by an expression of pure, crystalline, almost childlike, entirely genuine understanding. The small but stubborn, persistent, incredibly bright spark of true, deep understanding had finally, gloriously illuminated her inner gaze. And, from that exact, precise, incredibly significant moment of energetic epiphany, mental clarity, Mirajane Strauss, the She-Devil, my current, promising apprentice, with a small, soft, almost inaudible, utterly wonderstruck sigh of pure surprise, deep relief, almost palpable delight radiating from her, managed, finally, totally, completely on her own, without any further help from me, to locate, connect with, begin to consciously, directly interact with her own, unique, incredibly powerful, surprisingly responsive magic core.
The transformation in her face, her relaxed posture, her calm, deep breathing, her entire now vibrant, balanced energy aura, was visible, palpable, undeniable, absolutely impressive. The previously so feared, hated, seemingly impossible art of meditation, which until a few precious moments ago was for her an arduous, thankless, incredibly frustrating, apparently utterly unattainable task, began to flow to her, through her, with a surprising naturalness, a disconcerting ease, an entirely unexpected, genuinely beautiful grace. She had, finally, against all my cynical expectations, found the path. And, to be perfectly honest, I was a little proud of her. Just a tiny bit.
"I… I feel it! Azra'il! By the flaming horns of a grumbling demon! I can really feel it now! It's… it's incredible!" she exclaimed suddenly, eyes still firmly closed, but with genuine excitement, palpable triumph, wonderstruck disbelief, an almost childlike, utterly contagious joy evident in every trembling, vibrant syllable of her voice. "My magic… my inner power… it's flowing more easily, more freely, with more strength, more… purpose than ever before, throughout my entire body! It's like… it's as if something huge, something heavy, something that was stuck, blocked, suffocated inside me for so long, for so many years, has finally, completely, gloriously been unlocked, freed, allowed to breathe!" Her face was lit by a radiant smile not even the darkness of night could extinguish.
"That's absolutely grand, Mirajane. Simply, utterly splendid, magnificent, incredibly promising for your future as a She-Devil of repute," I replied with a genuine, tranquil, perhaps even slightly proud smile, of course, a dash of my usual sarcasm not to lose the habit. I felt surprisingly, perhaps a little dangerously for my own, carefully constructed indifference, fulfilled, satisfied to see her progress so quickly, so significantly, so full of a potential almost frightening. She was, indeed, without the slightest shadow of a doubt or hesitation, an incredibly talented, surprisingly intuitive student, with a willpower bordering on sheer stubbornness, very, very dedicated when she truly wanted something. And, apparently, she really, really wanted to master this new, strange form of power.
"If you, my dear, diligent, now officially, irrevocably initiated demoness cultivator apprentice with a brilliant, powerful, likely very noisy future ahead," I continued, in a tone of voice that was a mixture of wise master, teasing friend, "continue to practise this noble, ancient path of cultivation with this same, impressive diligence you've shown today, with this same absolute, unwavering focus, this same contagious, almost childlike enthusiasm, I assure you, my dear, promising Mirajane, with a certainty bordering on the prophetic, that your already considerable control over your powerful, versatile, occasionally rather unstable Satan Soul magic will become infinitely more efficient, considerably more precise, surprisingly more subtle, I dare say with a hint of envy, much more… refined, intrinsically yours. You will discover, with time, constant practice, that you'll expend considerably less raw magical energy, much less exhausting mental effort to maintain your impressive, terrifying, visually spectacular demonic transformations. And, consequently, as an additional, very welcome, likely very useful bonus for your future, inevitable battles against ever stronger enemies, you will, with due time, due practice, perhaps a bit of luck, be able to manifest your diverse, varied, frequently very destructive demonic abilities with even greater power, even more overwhelming, even more concentrated, even more destructive, who knows, my dear, charming demoness," I added with a conspiratorial wink, a roguish smile she already knew, feared, "with considerably fewer unwanted, unpleasant, socially awkward, potentially dangerous side effects for your mental health, the general public's safety. Like, for example, that old, worrying, rather unhygienic tendency of yours to want to eat the pure, innocent souls of your defeated enemies for breakfast, or your more recent, rather bizarre, inexplicable obsession with collecting purple glitter, applying it to your demonic wings. Just suggestions, of course."
I winked at her with an air of complicity, superiority, she, finally opening her large, expressive blue eyes, now shining with a new, confident, powerful, perhaps a little dangerously determined light, shot me a look that was a hilarious mixture of sincere, deep gratitude, palpable, almost audible relief, a slight but undeniable, entirely justified irritation at my last, entirely unnecessary, pointed joke about her eating habits, fashion choices.
She smiled, a broad, genuine, confident smile, full of a new, almost palpable determination, her newfound confidence in her own abilities, the newly awakened power within her beginning to shine brightly in her large, expressive blue eyes like two small but incredibly bright, dangerous, absolutely fascinating demonic stars.
"Thank you for all this, Azra'il! Truly, from the bottom of my black, demonic heart! You have no idea how much all this, your help, your patience, your strange wisdom, means to me right now!" Her voice was choked with emotion. "I can hardly wait to see how far I, with your invaluable help, this… peculiar, challenging, surprisingly effective training of yours, can really go!"
Her gratitude was sincere, almost moving. And her ambition, now, after tasting a bit of true power, seemed to have no limits. This, I knew with a certainty that gave me shivers, a certain sadistic pleasure, promised to be very, very interesting. Or very, very dangerous. Or, more likely, much to my eternal amusement, both at the same time.
And so, with a new, unexpected dynamic of master, apprentice (though I would never admit the title of 'master' aloud, it was far too embarrassing) firmly established between us, the essential foundations, initial mysteries of the ancient, powerful path of cultivation finally, successfully planted in Mirajane Strauss's fertile mind, powerful body, surprisingly receptive soul, we two continued, with renewed dedication, growing enthusiasm (at least on her part), our intense, exhausting, challenging, occasionally hilariously disastrous daily training routine in the isolated, now sacred forest.
Besides patiently, with a calmness bordering on the supernatural, or perhaps just purest, most crystalline deep, existential boredom, guiding her in long, deep, silent, for her, still a little frustrating, full-of-imaginary-ants, alarmingly-lacking-in-explosions sessions of energy cultivation, transcendental meditation, we had also, with the cautious passing of days, a good, considerable dose of strategic planning, ground preparation (literally, to avoid more accidental, unnecessary destruction of innocent trees, local fauna), gradually, carefully, with increasing intensity, introduced more refined hand-to-hand combat training, tactical enhancement of her already considerable, impressive magical abilities.
All this, I knew from vast, painful personal experience, would be absolutely, fundamentally crucial for her not only to test in practice, in real-time her remarkable progress in cultivation, but also to hone her instinctive control, versatility over her numerous, varied, visually spectacular Satan Soul transformations, most importantly, to develop new, more efficient, more lethal, perhaps a little less flashy, destructive fighting tactics. Less brute force, more subtle intelligence. That was my motto. At least for her.
In our frequent, intense, sweaty, increasingly challenging (for her, of course, I, for the most part, was still basically amusing myself, enjoying the show) sparring moments, where I usually, with sadistic pleasure, assumed the role of the indestructible, impenetrable, irritatingly fast opponent, with flawless defence, an apparently endless supply of sarcastic comments, cruel observations, calculated provocations to test her patience, emotional control, I always, always, observed her every movement, every tactical decision she made, every small, almost imperceptible hesitation in her gaze, with critical, analytical, almost microscopic, utterly relentless attention.
I quickly, with surgical precision, identified her still numerous weak points in technique, her occasional, dangerous openings in defence, her bad, predictable, frequently suicidal fighting habits, with a patience that, honestly, surprised even me, I offered her, between one blow, another, precise, direct tips, practical, experience-based advice, occasionally, some rather brutal, uncomfortable, but absolutely necessary truths about her deficiencies, how she could effectively improve her overall tactical approach, her hand-to-hand combat efficiency, her synergy with each of her different, powerful, visually impressive, occasionally rather exaggerated Satan Soul forms.
"Always remember this clearly, Mirajane, my dear, diligent, now considerably less clumsy aspiring elite demoness," I used to say, with an enigmatic smile, irritating superiority, perhaps a touch of pedagogical cruelty, as she, panting, sweaty, frustrated, probably hating me a little at that moment, prepared to deliver another of her powerful but still slightly predictable, telegraphed demonic attacks. "The true, most lethal, most elegant, most feared force in any kind of combat, be it physical, magical, a particularly heated argument about the best ice cream flavour, does not come merely, or mainly, as many fools, amateurs believe, from simple, raw, frequently inefficient uncontrolled magical power, pure, blind, utterly irrational demonic fury. It also comes, fundamentally, my dear, promising apprentice, from the coldest, most calculating intelligent strategy, the most perfect, instinctive timing to attack, defend, the most cunning, unpredictable battle tactics, the cold, calm, precise, utterly calculating ability to use your considerable magic, unique skills, even your opponent's most obvious, subtlest weaknesses in an entirely creative, completely unexpected, deliciously unpredictable, ultimately, utterly, completely overwhelming way for your poor, confused, now probably very regretful enemy."
Teaching was, indeed, an art form. A sadistic art form, but an art form nonetheless.
During our long, intense, frequently exhausting (especially for her, I was still in active holiday mode) daily sessions of physical, mental, spiritual, occasionally, jungle survival training (one never knows when one might need to build a shelter with twigs, spit), I also took advantage of the rare, precious moments of rest – usually when she was on the verge of physical collapse, a nervous breakdown – or whilst we prepared our simple, rustic, yet surprisingly nutritious, tasty meals around the crackling campfire under the vast, starry sky, to subtly, gradually, adapted to her strong, proud, occasionally rather stubborn personality, usually disguised as sarcastic comments, seemingly random stories, impart some of the most important, deepest, most significant, most timeless philosophical, practical teachings I myself, with much effort, dedication, a few tears of frustration, frankly, a considerable, worrying amount of accumulated existential boredom, had arduously taught, or at least tried to teach, my numerous, varied, frequently incompetent, but occasionally, surprisingly promising disciples throughout my many, many, countless, mostly entirely forgotten past lives as a renowned, respected, feared, perhaps slightly eccentric master of something very important, very ancient, probably very, very dangerous.
Teachings that were, in their purest, deepest, most fundamental essence, about much more, infinitely more, than just, solely the simple, raw acquisition of overwhelming physical strength, mountain-destroying magical power, invincible, visually spectacular combat skills.
They were, above all, before anything else, about the long, arduous, winding, frequently solitary, ultimately, immensely rewarding inner journey of the true warrior. They were about the need to cultivate unshakeable discipline, a mind untamed as the finest steel, a serene, strong, enlightened spirit like the morning sun.
They were, my dear Mirajane, much to your growing interest, occasional despair, about the crucial, fundamental, non-negotiable, frequently very, very underestimated importance of purest, most crystalline, most unbreakable iron Discipline, an apparently infinite, almost divine, utterly superhuman Patience of a canonised saint, an old, wise hermit who lived for countless millennia meditating in a dark, cold, probably very smelly cave. I explained to her, with practical examples drawn from her own, recent struggles, a few confusing, elaborate, utterly irritating, purposely ambiguous metaphors I simply adored using to test her intelligence, her interpretive ability, mainly, her already battered patience, the vital, non-negotiable, frequently painful importance of constant, daily, tireless, repetitive, frequently monotonous, occasionally terribly painful practice.
And, which was perhaps even more important, considerably more difficult to internalise for a young, impatient soul like hers, I taught her about the pressing, urgent, absolute need to cultivate an almost divine patience, a supernatural calm, a serenity of an ancient, enlightened monk, in the face of inevitable, frustrating, seemingly insurmountable difficulties, frequent, humiliating, utterly disheartening failures, occasional, despairing setbacks that, with absolute certainty, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, would arise on her long, arduous, challenging path of cultivation, self-discovery.
I taught her, with the cold, pragmatic wisdom of countless ages of experience, a dash of my infamous humour to sweeten the bitter pill of truth, that true, deepest, most significant, most lasting, most coveted mastery of complex martial arts, mysterious ancient magic, indeed, of any skill, knowledge, virtue truly, genuinely worth being arduously learned, patiently cultivated, finally mastered, is not, in any way, achieved overnight, as if by some cheap, deceptive magic trick, through some dubious, dangerous shortcut, or by means of a convenient but certainly problematic, terrifyingly-small-print-filled demonic pact with some entity of flexible morality. It demands, my dear, diligent Mirajane, above all, before all, without any exception, considerable time, unshakeable, almost obsessive dedication, continuous, honest, frequently exhausting, entirely selfless effort, a stubbornness that, in many moments, will dangerously border on purest, most crystalline, socially unacceptable madness. Innate talent, I told her with a mysterious, perhaps slightly condescending smile, that mythical, overestimated thing so many fools pursue, if such an entity truly exists in any significant, palpable form, isn't just an excuse for others' laziness, is only, solely, at best, the first, smallest, most insignificant, perhaps even least important of the numerous, countless, frequently very painful steps on this long, arduous, winding, unpredictable, ultimately, immensely rewarding journey of self-discovery, overcoming, who knows, perhaps even a little spiritual enlightenment. Or, at the very least, the ability not to accidentally blow up important things. Which, for her, would already be a great advancement.