The Vacation [3]

This reflection, my dear friends, is what I call a "moment of clarity," although it seems more like a moment of "what kind of mess have I gotten myself into." I've learned that perhaps it's time to stop viewing life through the lens of an author obsessed with tidying up the epic mess I've created and start living as Dean Carleone. Yes, that name does have a certain air of a prime-time soap opera protagonist, doesn't it?

Dean Carleone, a guy who, in the grand scheme of things, only needs to worry about which crazy mission the high court will throw into his lap. Sounds simple, right? Until you add to the mix two beauties: one who wishes to see your end in a not-so-poetic way and another who seems to want to bless you with a less tragic fate. Add a generous dose of servitude and a pinch of bad luck, and voilà: you have the recipe for my current life.

Seems easy to understand, huh? Well, that is until you remember that, deep down, I'm an author reincarnated in the very world I created. That, my friends, is when things get really interesting. Suddenly, you're navigating an ocean of conspiracy theories trying to understand how on earth you ended up here, and encountering a paradox so vast it could induce instant brain death.

This epiphany, this understanding of who I am and what I wish to become, seems to be the missing piece in the puzzle of my existence. And yes, maybe I have a penchant for throwing obscure references around like confetti at a parade, but if there's one thing you should take away from this chaotic torrent of thoughts, it's the idea that we are all protagonists of our own story.

This world, no matter how small, is a stage, and we all have the potential to be what we wish. We just need a bit of willpower, luck, and hope. Interestingly, these are the same qualities that a presidential candidate needs to emerge victorious—not a poorly written script prepared behind the scenes of politics.

So, I think I've finally understood my soul, as much as it seems like a labyrinth of mirrors on a cloudy day. I know who I am now, not just as Dean Carleone, the character in this crazy plot that is my life, but as the author of this entire story. And more importantly, I have an idea of what I want to become.

It's not about power or conquering the world. It's about recognizing the value of my voice and the stories I can tell, about understanding the impact I can have on the world around me, even in ways I could never have imagined. It's about learning to dance in the rain while looking for rainbows, even when everyone around expects me to drown in the puddles.

So, as I walk this path of self-discovery, I remind myself that I don't need an instruction manual. I just need to keep writing my story, one page at a time, with the hope that, in the end, it will be worth reading. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I'll inspire someone else to do the same.

Back on the mental stage of the favela, with its streets that seem to hold more stories than any book I've ever written, little Dean looks at me as if he were a master about to reveal the secret of the universe. "You've finally understood," he says, with a tone that suggests that maybe, just maybe, I'm starting to get the hang of it.

"I've grasped just the concept. But it's enough," I reply, staring back at this mini-oracle in the form of a child. "Now I just need to understand the essence of my innate ability."

Then, little Dean, ready to throw another knowledge bomb my way, says: "You're a mystical swordsman, do you happen to know what that means?"

Mystical swordsman, not a magician. That sounds like an upgrade from a video game character who decided that being just a magician was too mainstream. "Hmm, in practice, yes," I answer, although the truth is that my understanding of being a mystical swordsman is as deep as my experience in knitting – that is, practically nonexistent.

My attempt to appear informed only results in a frustrated sigh from little Dean. Seriously, this kid must think I'm competing for the title of "The Most Uninformed" in this world I've created. The irony doesn't escape me, and honestly, I'm starting to think he's holding onto a twist worthy of a prime-time soap opera.

"A mystical swordsman is someone who carries the concept of the sword with them. Unlike a swordsman, who relies on a sword, a mystical swordsman transcends that," little Dean clarifies, as if he's giving me a lesson on "Zen and the Art of Mystical Sword Maintenance."

"Seriously, you being more informed than me is scary. Something tells me you're one hell of a plot twist just waiting for the right moment to take your body back," I comment, half-joking, half-serious. Did I just accidentally give away a spoiler?

He continues, ignoring my attempt to divert the subject with humor. "Listen, you can only use the dismantle because of your profession. This profession allows your body and mind to act unconsciously and replicate feats that could be attributed to a sword god. The dismantle is one case. An invisible cut." Little Dean explains, and for a moment, I feel like I'm sitting in a classroom where the day's theme is "How to Be Incredibly Epic 101."

"Now I'm starting to think that my life is an anime that hasn't been discovered yet," I say, trying to process the information. "So, you're telling me that I'm basically a cool version of a swordsman who doesn't need a sword because my profession basically makes me a walking cheat in the game of life?"

Little Dean nods, a proud smile forming on his lips. "Exactly. You're beginning to understand."

"Well, that explains a lot. And at the same time, it explains nothing," I respond, scratching my head. "So, what else can I do with this 'profession' of mine besides making invisible cuts? Because if that's all, I'm going to start thinking I was fired from some divine guild for lack of skills."

Little Dean lets out a laugh, apparently amused by my confusion. "Think of dismantling as just the beginning. The possibilities are endless."

"Infinite, huh? Well, that certainly puts pressure on the next episode of the saga 'Dean and the Mystery of the Mystical Swordsman'," I say, a reluctant smile forming. "Alright, sensei, I'm ready for the next lesson. Just promise me it won't include any mountain training under a freezing waterfall. I'm more the type who prefers a hot cup of tea and a good read."

Little Dean just shakes his head, clearly thinking I'm a lost cause. "Let's begin. Up to this point, you're not able to cut everything. Because of your mana capacity, but you already know that." His voice is like that of a patient teacher, who has repeated the same lesson several times but still hopes the student will eventually understand.

I just nod, a gesture I hope conveys both my understanding and my frustration with these limits. But little Dean wastes no time and continues: "If your physical attacks are limited because of your classification, you must seek something that is not limited to your classification."

"A strike that is not limited to my classification?" I repeat, feeling the complexity of the task. "That's problematic. Magical attacks cause physical damage. Physical attacks cause physical damage. If I had to guess, it would have to be a strike that hits the soul, or the mind." My thoughts fly, trying to find a way out of the labyrinth that is this new understanding of my ability.

Little Dean gives me a victorious smile and, with a snap of his fingers worthy of a magic show, says: "Bingo," pausing briefly to applaud himself as if he had just revealed the final trick. "You caught on quickly. But know that attacks that wound the soul are a bit out of your league. However, mental attacks are possible."

I pause for a moment, digesting this information. "Mental attacks, huh? That sounds like something out of a science fiction book. Or a very elaborate excuse to get out of gym class," I comment, trying to keep light a conversation that, honestly, is starting to make me feel as if I've stumbled into an alternate reality.

"But how would that work? Do I stare at someone intensely until they give up?" I ask, half-serious, half-expecting the answer to be something less… cinematic.

"Your attacks, all of them, without exception, will be linked to the concept of the sword. That is…" little Dean begins, preparing to reveal yet another secret of this mystical swordsman path that I apparently chose.

Seizing the cue, and with a touch of theatricality that would make any illusionist proud, I snap my fingers: "An imaginary cut." The idea sounds so absurdly cool that for a second I forget to question its practicality.

"Yes, a cut that aims to confuse the opponent's mind, causing panic. Creating the sensation in their mind that their body has been cut. But in reality, it hasn't," little Dean explains. And, honestly, I don't know whether to give him a medal for creativity or a look of "you're kidding me, right?"

I, impressed and somewhat incredulous, begin to clap. "That is… brilliant. Literally, the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a magic trick, not in a fight."

"I just need to figure out how I'll do that," I say, more to myself, trying to visualize the execution of such an… unconventional attack.

But little Dean, of course, lets out a few laughs, as if I had just made the joke of the century. "It's easy now, after all, you already know the concept. You just have to put it into practice."

"You make it sound so easy," I respond, somewhat sarcastically. "So, are you going to help me put it into practice, or am I on my own? Because, honestly, it seems like it's going to be harder than putting together a thousand-piece puzzle blindfolded."

"Unfortunately, I can't help with practical lessons. That, only Alva can help you with," reveals little Dean, throwing a bucket of cold water on my newly discovered excitement. I let out a sigh, half expecting him to pull out a toy sword and say "just kidding, let's start training."

"By the way," he continues, as if he were about to hand me a letter from Hogwarts. "Alva is waiting for you."

Suddenly, a voice begins to echo, as if someone had decided to use the divine loudspeaker: "Dean, wake up." Alva's voice, clear and imperative, makes me think that maybe I've hit the snooze button on my own spiritual journey without realizing it.

"Ah, so I've reached my limit…" I ponder, half frustrated, half resigned. The truth is, I kind of expected my inner spiritual training to come with a bit more… well, training. "Okay, I'm sure we'll see each other again. And… Thank you, I'm not big on thanks, but you've helped me a lot."

And with that farewell, I feel reality—or whatever this version of reality is where Alva can call me as if God were using an intercom—beginning to pull me back. It's like waking up from a dream within a dream, only to find out I still have to deal with reality.

When I finally open my eyes, the first thing I notice is a sharp pain that seems to have set up camp in my stomach. The wooden ceiling above me becomes the focus of my blurry eyes, and I briefly wonder if ceilings have the habit of coming down to attack people or if the pain is courtesy of something (or someone) more earthly.

"What happened?" The question escapes my lips, sounding more like the lament of a B-movie hero after a lost duel.

"You fell from a punch of mine." Alva's voice, laden with a mix of authority and concern, floats to me. Soon, she is leaning over me, her white hair forming a ghostly curtain between us, our eyes meeting in a moment that could almost be considered… intense, if not for the context.

"If you shaved your head and put on a cape, you could win a Saitama cosplay contest," I joke, half hoping that my pop culture references might ease the pain — both the physical and that of my ego.

Ignoring my attempt at humor, Alva brings her face even closer, a look of surprise and curiosity shining in her eyes. "You, what did you do?" She asks, all excited, making me wonder if, at some point during my brief encounter with unconsciousness, I did something noteworthy beyond, well, being unconscious.

"What did I do?" I wonder, reflecting on the surreal experience I just had. "I think I had one of those dreams that, for sure, an LSD user would have. Only… more real," I joke, trying to relieve the tension of the moment with a bit of my characteristic humor. As I do this, I notice Alva stepping back slightly, as if my words made her reconsider the safe distance from a mind as chaotically creative as mine.

"You've changed, and… too quickly. Your soul, it's different," Alva observes, and in her voice, there's a mix of admiration and confusion. "Before, I saw your soul as a complete mess, a bunch of wires together and tangled. But now, it's as if all the wires have been organized."

She stands there, staring at me with a look that borders on surprise, lost in her own thoughts. "He understood his soul very quickly. My sister and I, it took us months to make any kind of progress, but Dean…" She thinks, clearly surprised by the speed of my supposed spiritual awakening.

"Alva," I say, trying to bring her attention back to the present moment and, honestly, wanting her to stop staring at me as if I were a complicated equation that she doesn't know if she has all the variables to solve. "May I have permission to get up?"

With a slight blink, as if returning from a long journey to the far reaches of surprise, Alva realizes the request and steps back, offering space and extending a hand to help.

"Of course," she replies, finally allowing the tension-filled atmosphere to dissipate a bit.

As I rise, with Alva's help, I feel the strange sensation of crossing an invisible bridge between what I was and what I am beginning to become. Perhaps, just perhaps, this inner journey has unlocked more than just answers to questions I didn't even know I had. And as the discomfort of physical pain begins to fade, a burning curiosity for what comes next begins to take shape.

"So, what happens now?" I ask, both to Alva and to myself, ready to explore this new chapter of my existence with a supposedly organized soul and an insatiable thirst to discover what it really means.

"Well, you just need to understand the essence of your innate ability," Alva explains, as our hands part.

"I already know the essence of my innate ability, and… I think I need a guinea pig to test my new variation of dismantling," I tell her, casting that look I hope conveys a mix of confidence and a slight preemptive apology. "Be my guinea pig."

Alva's expression of surprise, which was already a constant presence, seems to reach new heights. I can see on her face that the idea of me suddenly becoming a prodigy in her eyes is, at the very least, unexpected.

"I can help you with that. But… Dean, did something happen while you were unconscious?" she asks, clearly curious about the origin of my sudden self-confidence and potential.

And I, having turned my back to her in a dramatic gesture to stretch, can't contain my laughter. "Nothing happened," I reply, trying to maintain the mystery. The truth is that the encounter with little Dean was more revealing than any therapy session could be, but deciding to share that experience with Alva now seems premature. I prefer to leave her intrigued, perhaps even a little impressed.

"So, how is this new 'variation of dismantling' going to work?" Alva questions, crossing her arms, the challenge clear in her stance. "I'm curious to see what you've learned during your… nap."

"Oh, you'll see," I respond, a mischievous smile forming on my lips. "Just give me a moment to concentrate. And, Alva, don't take it personally, okay?"