Joel remained in the same spot for more than a full day.

  There was no urgency on his part, no hurry, not even a conscious decision to stay. He simply remained there, sitting on the ground, his back against the tree trunk, letting the hours slip by without paying them much attention. His gaze drifted to undefined points, while his mind wandered between disconnected thoughts and emotions too intense to truly process.

  From time to time, almost by pure reflex, he reached for a drink from a can of soda he had conjured, or put another piece of chocolate in his mouth. He ate more than usual, but without real hunger, using the sugar as a clumsy attempt to cushion the weight he felt in his chest.

  These were all signs of a deep depression. And Joel knew it.

  He didn't even react when Ashoka tried to speak to him. The monk persisted again and again, using different tones, trying to cheer him up, to distract him, to pull him out of that silent lethargy. But Joel barely registered his words, as if they arrived muffled, choked by a constant pressure inside his head.

  Only when the physical exhaustion from remaining motionless for so long became unbearable did he decide to get up.

  His muscles protested as he stood. He brushed the dirt off his clothes with slow movements, put his coat back on, and resumed the walk toward the city, as if the simple act of walking were the only thing he could still do automatically.

  "There's nothing I'd like more than to go back to the shelter and sleep for the rest of the week," he murmured, his voice low and subdued, clearly directed at Ashoka. "But I don't want them to see me like this. I need a distraction… at least until I can reactivate the barrier."

  "Do you feel that bad?" the monk's voice asked, with a concern he no longer tried to hide.

  Joel let out a short, humorless laugh. "My head hurts, my chest hurts… and I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. Besides, I'm constantly reliving memories of situations I thought I'd overcome." He paused briefly, swallowing hard. “It's a terrible anguish.”

  After saying that, he raised one of his hands. Matter began to slowly condense, taking shape until it materialized into a small white plastic bottle. He opened it with mechanical movements, extracted a pill of the same color, and put it in his mouth, swallowing it with the help of a sip of water from a bottle he had hidden in one of the inside pockets of his coat.

  “What’s that?” Ashoka asked.

  “Antidepressants,” Joel replied bluntly, his tone heavy with resignation. “A prescription that one of the men I dreamed about used to take.”

  The monk was silent for a few seconds. It wasn’t a casual silence, but a thoughtful and measured one, as if he were carefully choosing each word before speaking.

  “I don’t want to bring you down any further,” he finally said, “but I don’t think those pills will have any effect on you. Remember, your body is far from being human after nirvana. For example… Adam needed to consume absurd amounts of drugs for them to even have any effect.”

  Joel stopped dead in his tracks. Frustration was clearly etched on his face as he remembered that, deep down, he already knew that. He raised his head, staring at the sky, and exclaimed bitterly, “Just what I needed.”

  What followed was a slow, heavy walk. During the journey, Joel tried to gradually increase the dosage of his antidepressants, desperately seeking some relief. However, nothing seemed to change. The pills went from being carefully measured to being consumed almost automatically. He ended up taking them like candy.

  He opened bottle after bottle, of different kinds, combining them without much thought. Only after consuming more than ten full bottles did he begin to notice an effect. It wasn't a drastic change, nor a real improvement, but a slight feeling of relief seeped into his chest, allowing him, at least, to breathe a little more calmly.

  "I don't think that's the right way to deal with this kind of problem," Ashoka commented. "Although, at least, it's impossible for your body to develop an addiction."

  "It's the only thing I can do for now to stay functional," Joel replied, his voice weary. "Next time I'll do it inside the shelter... and I'm going to find a way to spend the whole time asleep."

  "That sounds pretty extreme..." the monk admitted, before shifting to a more optimistic tone. "But I can tell the pressure on your mind is easing. Very slowly, of course, but it's still a positive thing. At this rate, a week with the barrier open should be equivalent to about a month's worth of decompression."

  Joel didn't answer. He simply sighed as the silhouette of the city of Thurion began to rise on the horizon, blurry at first, but becoming increasingly defined as he drove on.

  Once inside the city, Joel knew immediately that he had made a mistake. The streets of Thurion, as always, were packed. People coming and going, merchants shouting their wares, carts creaking over the cobblestones, laughter and arguments. Everything was happening at once, without pause or order, creating a constant noise that seemed to pierce his head.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He had never felt entirely comfortable in crowds. Even on his best days, he preferred open spaces or the controlled silence of his shelter. But now the feeling was different, more intense, and almost unbearable. Every sound seemed amplified, every voice too close, every movement an invasion of his personal space.

  The general murmur of the city quickly transformed into a source of constant irritation for him. An unpleasant tingling sensation ran down the back of his neck and down his spine, accompanied by an almost visceral need to escape and get as far away as possible from that human swarm.

  Only partly fleeing from that impulse, Joel forced himself to move forward. He focused on a single objective: the tavern where he was to meet with Basil and the mercenary company. Although he was a day late, the agreement was clear. Basil would wait at least three full days in case of any problems. He was still within the window.

  When he finally crossed the threshold of the establishment, the atmosphere was anything but a relief. The tavern was alive, noisy, and thick with the smells of alcohol, sweat, and food. Overlapping voices filled the air, accompanied by laughter, the clinking of jugs against wooden boards, and the occasional heated argument. However, at least the noise was less intense and contained.

  It was still early. None of the mercenaries had arrived, so Joel chose an empty table in a corner and slumped into a chair with a weary sigh. Without thinking twice, he ordered the strongest wine they had. When the innkeeper served it, he began to drink it like water, barely tasting it.

  The hours dragged by, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to numb his mind with alcohol. He drank jug after jug, but the emotional turmoil remained, throbbing and untamed. The anguish didn't lessen; on the contrary, it seemed to bounce off something inside him, refusing to dissipate.

  It was then that he resorted to a method Adam had used before, and began adding spoonfuls of cocaine to the wine, as if it were sugar. The taste was unpleasant, but he didn't care.

  Only then, finally, did something seem to shift in his mind. It wasn't peace, nor clarity, but a kind of numbness, which caused the intensity of his emotions to lessen enough to allow him to breathe without feeling like his chest was about to burst. The noise of the tavern grew more distant, more blurred.

  However, the price came soon after. The excessive mix of pills, alcohol, and drugs ended up clouding his mind. His thoughts became erratic, his self-control eroded, and that thin barrier that normally kept his behavior in check began to crack.

  It all started with a voice that bothered him. A man was talking too loudly at a nearby table. He was clearly drunk, gesticulating wildly as he uttered disjointed phrases and cackled laughter. For Joel, each word was like a sharp blow to the head. He didn't understand what the man was saying, nor did he care, but something about that tone, that volume, irritated him immediately and disproportionately.

  Before he realized what he was doing, Joel stood up. He walked resolutely toward the man's table. There were four men there, all drinking and eating. From their bearing and clothing, it was clear they were mystic warriors.

  It wasn't unusual; this tavern was a regular meeting place for members of various mercenary companies.

  Joel planted himself in front of them.

  "Shut up!" he exclaimed, fixing his gaze on the loudest of the four, a large man with an imposing physique. "Your damn voice is annoying me."

  Silence fell abruptly in the tavern, as if someone had cut through the air. Several heads turned toward him, and the four men stared at him with obvious confusion.

  Joel didn't emit any trace of energy, and to everyone's eyes, he looked like any other civilian, perhaps just another drunken traveler. So no one took his words too seriously.

  “Calm down, little friend,” the man replied, smiling condescendingly as he leaned back in his chair. “This is a tavern. If you want peace and quiet, I suggest you go somewhere else.”

  For a brief moment, Joel seemed to snap back to reality. He lowered his gaze slowly, as if the words had managed to pierce the fog in his mind. Inside him, conflicting emotions clashed: shame, anger, weariness, sadness.

  However, that respite was short-lived for him. The pressure returned suddenly, more intense than before, and when he raised his head again, his eyes were filled with unbridled fury.

  "Shut up, you piece of shit," he spat. "I don't have to put up with an insignificant character like you. Either you shut up for good... or I'll personally make sure you can't speak for the rest of your life."

  This time, no one laughed. The large man's smile vanished. His expression hardened instantly. He pushed the chair back and stood up, his shadow falling over Joel as he approached with heavy steps and a clearly threatening intent.

  "Looks like you want to..." the man managed to say, before being interrupted by Joel's fist, which struck him directly in the face.

  There was no scream, no warning. Just the sharp, precise impact. Joel had instinctively restrained himself, but even so, the force of the blow completely exceeded what the man could withstand. The man's lower jaw dislocated with an unpleasant clicking sound, his body instantly lost all rigidity, and he fell backward without even groaning, knocking over the table in his wake and crashing unconscious to the floor.

  For a second, time seemed to stand still. Then, the tavern erupted into chaos.

  The man's three companions reacted purely on instinct. They leaped to their feet, lunging at Joel with shouts of rage. Clenched fists, bottles—anything that could serve as an improvised weapon was used. Chairs were jolted, jugs crashed to the floor, and the sound of splintering wood mingled with the cries of surprise.

  To Joel, none of these attacks posed a real threat. But his mind was completely clouded.

  Completely ignoring Ashoka's insistent voice, which echoed repeatedly in his head, trying to bring him to his senses, he responded as if he were facing real enemies.

  He moved with fluidity and dodged each attack with pinpoint accuracy, twisting his body, leaning, shifting a half-step before the blows even reached the air he occupied. His counterattacks were swift and merciless. Punches aimed at precise points, knee strikes that took your breath away, blows that left arms numb or legs without strength.

  One of the men fell first, writhing on the floor. But Joel didn't stop and struck him again before he could get up.

  The second barely had time to react before taking a direct hit to the ribs that sent him crashing into a nearby table, shattering it. The third lasted a little longer, but ended up on his knees, receiving a final blow that left him unconscious alongside his companions.

  The violence didn't stop there. Several warriors present tried to intervene, some out of a sense of justice, others to prevent the tavern from being destroyed. Even the owner of the establishment stepped in, desperately shouting for him to stop.

  It was useless. Joel attacked anyone who stood in his way.

  What had begun as a simple fight transformed into a chaotic battle, a confrontation of everyone against one. Chairs flew, tables were pushed, bottles shattered against the walls. The floor was soon covered in shards of glass, spilled wine, and fallen bodies.

  At first, they were just low-level warriors. But as the situation spiraled out of control, stronger fighters, like Adepts and Experts, began to intervene. Individuals who, in any other context, would have been enough to subdue a single man. Yet, nothing was enough.

  Every attempt to surround him was thwarted. Every coordinated attack ended in failure. Joel moved like an unstoppable force, emitting no energy, no visible techniques, only overwhelming martial skill and a violence that seemed endless.

  Fortunately, no one resorted to using weapons; otherwise, Joel might have started taking lives.

  It was then that the realization dawned on those present. This wasn't just some drunken civilian. Not even an ordinary mercenary. They were facing someone on a completely different level. Possibly a master… or something even stronger. Moreover, someone capable of perfectly concealing his true power.

  Fear began to spread. And just when the situation seemed about to become irreparable, someone finally decided to act and ask for help from the only ones who could stop him.

  The city guards were summoned.