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Now, well over a century later, people didn't say those things anymore. Instead, they whispered behind the Magician's back. Jackson had heard them many times. Talking about what a disappointment their "best and brightest" was against the likes of the Mad Demon. Talking about how incompetent or arrogant he must be, despite almost certainly having never met him.

Jackson hated the idea that, in his own moment of weakness, he might have added fuel to the inferno of self-doubt that he knew brewed within Xander Ulsmith. He was supposed to be a source of inspiration and encouragement for Xander, not the opposite.

He pushed the pain back down. Or rather, his perception of it.

Mind over matter. The age-old trick.

He’d been through fifteen surgeries in the last few months. And the first ones, at least, had certainly helped. But now, they were starting to seem like a waste of time.

That was probably because the Surgeon Saint had conducted the first ones and then handed the project off to others once Jackson had begun to improve. Perhaps that man really was his best hope.

Jackson didn’t blame him for stepping away, though. Fen Frederick had been instrumental to the Vanguard’s success in Melmoore. Jackson couldn’t justify keeping the man here in Intar for no other reason than his own personal convenience.

Plus, there was Project Blacksong to consider. Fen had his own involvement in that. And it was imminent.

Or had it already occurred?

Ugh.

His head throbbed again, despite his efforts.

Dammit. The slightest slip in concentration was enough to bring it back.

If this kept on indefinitely, he didn’t know what he would do.

Well.

Then again...

That wasn’t entirely true, now was it?

No, of course, the actual truth of the matter was that he already knew exactly what he needed to do.

He just didn’t want to accept it.

“Stop,” said Jackson through closed eyes and clenched teeth.

Still, he resisted. Of course he did. That was his nature. A part of what made him such a worthy vessel.

“Shut up.”

No one was saying anything to him. No one but the silent voice in his head that he hated listening to, despite everything that it had given him.

“Given,” he echoed, his voice thick with resentment. “Everything you’ve ‘given’ me has come with a price. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Well, that was one way of seeing things. The wrong way, but a way, nonetheless.