My frustration gave way to a sharp, frantic curiosity.

  She called him 'my son'. She was a god. Which means Ronan is... what? A demigod? A god-in-training? And he never mentioned it. Not once in ten years. He'd talked about his 'Lady of Light' like a faith, not a family reunion.

  And why did she call me the disease? The cancer?

  The worst part? I couldn't even ask him. His memory of the encounter had been wiped. While my brain was processing a death warrant from a goddess, the noble paladin was blissfully humming Country Roads in the back of my skull.

  He was the son of a divine being, replaying a folk song about a place he'd never been, and I was left with a handful of impossible questions. But he was all I had. I filed it under 'Cosmic Bullshit to Sort Out Later'.

  Still, she'd left a parting gift. Time to see what the crazy god-bitch had left behind.

  I stood in the room, closed my eyes, and reached for my old Art.

  It was gone.

  The simple circuit had been replaced by a new, intricate lattice of power. I took a breath and pushed energy down the path.

  It wasn't a trickle. It was a flood. The air shimmered, and a perfect, solid copy of myself knitted into existence.

  It blinked, looking down at its hands with confusion that mirrored my own.

  "What the hell?" the clone said, its voice a perfect replica. "How did I get over here?" It took a defensive step back. "Is this an illusion?"

  Oh, great. My first clone is having an existential crisis. "Easy," I said. "You're the copy."

  The clone's eyes widened. It reached inward, searching for Ronan, and found only silence. Panic washed over its face. "Where is he? Ronan... I can't hear him."

  ‘By the Light...’ Ronan gasped. ‘It has your memories... but not our soul. It's empty. Murphy, what did you do?’

  ‘I don't know,’ I lied. ‘It must have... catalysed. It's not a water puppet anymore.’

  ‘Spontaneous evolution?’ Ronan pressed, suspicious. ‘Arts don't just evolve. You zoned out in the tavern. What aren't you telling me?’

  Backed into a corner, I did the only logical thing: I gaslit him.

  ‘Fine, you got me,’ I projected with sarcastic grandeur. ‘I'm secretly a primordial deity, and I upgraded our powers because I was bored. Happy?’

  I expected anger. Instead, silence. It wasn't angry; it was the silence of a man who just realised he didn't want to know the answer.

  ‘Right,’ Ronan finally projected, neutral. ‘Primordial deity. Of course. Let's... test the limits.’

  He dropped it. I didn't push.

  "Let’s test the limits," I said, and created a new one.

  This clone shimmered into existence without panic. It walked to the mirror, tracing the scar on its cheek with detached fascination.

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  It came to stand in front of me, scrutinising my face. Its expression shifted from curiosity to a slow, evil grin.

  Before I could process it, its hand shot out and slapped me across the cheek. Hard.

  The clone's grin widened. And then, it dispelled itself.

  I stood there, hand on my stinging cheek, stunned.

  "THAT SON OF A BITCH!"

  A rush of its short life slammed into my brain.

  ‘What was that?’ Ronan asked, baffled. ‘It just... slapped you and vanished.’

  I was too busy reliving the moment from the clone's perspective. The fascination. The analysis. The decision to slap me just because it could.

  I grinned, rubbing my cheek. ‘Yeah, but you've got to respect the clever bastard.’

  ‘Respect him? For assaulting you?’

  ‘The experience returns,’ I explained. ‘A perfect, disposable scout. An extra set of eyes that can die without consequence.’

  ‘Better yet,’ I added, ‘a decoy. An alibi.’

  I pulled out a cloak and created a new clone wearing it. Anonymous. Perfect.

  But I felt the drain. The tax on my Core was terrifying. I could sustain one bodyguard for maybe an hour.

  ‘This isn't going to work,’ I projected. ‘We need a bigger battery.’

  ‘You're forgetting,’ Ronan projected smugly, ‘the second part of my plan. The Path of Patience. I will teach you the proper technique.’

  Oh, great. Interpretive dance.

  ‘It's like breathing,’ he coached. ‘Just open your spirit and let the Aether flow.’

  I sat on the floor and tried. For an hour. All I got was a headache and the feeling of sucking a river through a straw.

  ‘Well?’ I grumbled. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘I... felt a trickle,’ Ronan admitted, baffled. ‘My technique is perfect. It should have been a torrent.’

  ‘The only thing I feel is the floorboards digging into my arse.’

  ‘It's like dipping a cup into the river,’ he tried again.

  ‘The cup is empty, Ronan!’

  ‘You're forcing it! Relax!’

  ‘I don't do 'Relax'!’ I seethed. ‘Every time I 'relaxed' for a thousand years, I died!’

  After another half-hour, Ronan snapped. ‘Your technique is awful. You're trying to push the river uphill. My theory can't overcome your ineptitudes.’

  ‘MY INEPTITUDES?!’ I roared. ‘You're just a backseat driver! You want to try it? Oh, wait, you can't!’

  I paced the room. ‘I can't do this zen bullshit. My brain isn't wired for it.’

  ‘We don't have a choice,’ he said grimly.

  I stopped. ‘Wait. I can't do this... but 'I' don't have to.’

  Silence. Then, calculation.

  ‘Fine,’ Ronan projected, cold and challenging. ‘You want me to drive? Sit down. Shut up. And follow my lead.’

  I slumped back to the floor. ‘Alright, maestro.’

  ‘Breathe,’ he commanded. ‘Match my rhythm. Now, feel the Aether.’

  He guided my senses. The trickle became a steady flow. The headache vanished.

  This is... easy, I thought. Too easy.

  I decided to test it.

  I completely disengaged. I stopped trying. I pictured a rubber chicken. A Ford Pinto. Sea shanties.

  The flow continued, smooth and powerful.

  I wasn't doing anything at all.

  I opened my eyes and grinned.

  ‘You magnificent bastard,’ I chuckled. ‘You're not "guiding" me. You're doing all the work.’

  The flow ceased.

  ‘By the Light!’ Ronan projected with feigned shock. ‘You're right! I can channel my technique directly through you!’

  He was a terrible actor, but I didn't care.

  ‘Incredible,’ I played along. ‘So, how long can you keep it up?’

  ‘Indefinitely,’ he replied, walking into the trap. ‘My spirit doesn't tire.’

  ‘Great,’ I thought, lying back. ‘You take the night shift.’

  Waking up felt like having a server farm installed in my chest.

  The night's "forging" worked. Ronan's method was brutal: spiritual weightlifting. Drain to zero, stretch the Core, refill.

  But simply dispelling a clone refunded the energy. So we had to get violent.

  We summoned three clones. And then... we killed them. A stab to the gut shattered the shell and dissipated the mana.

  The kicker? The memory feedback. Every time a clone popped, I got the first-person experience of being stabbed to death.

  For anyone else, that’s a ticket to the asylum. For me? Just a Tuesday.

  Then, we’d lie there, hollowed out, letting the ambient magic trickle-charge the Core. Rinse and repeat.

  It felt less like magic and more like tearing a muscle. Which was the point. Scar tissue is stronger than skin.

  It hurt like hell. The universe, as always, demanded its pound of flesh.