Giovanno was now standing atop his home, gazing into the vast abyss of the night sky. The stars blurred into an endless dark, but his mind wasn't lost in their expanse.
While his classmates were likely tossing in their beds, replaying exam nightmares or Benjamin's sudden collapse, Giovanno remained utterly detached from their petty anxieties. His exam was done. Passed. Beyond reproach. The concerns of lesser talents were not his to bear.
His thoughts drifted, not to the recent chaos he'd caused, but to the perplexing mystery of dungeons. The academy's 'exam' had been a trivial display of power, but the true enigma lay in these anomalous pockets of reality.
"There must be other kinds of dungeons," he murmured aloud, his voice a low rumble against the cool night breeze.
"Sorcerers couldn't possibly be dying from mere 'riddle dungeons,' if that's even a real threat."
The academy's sanitized explanations felt hollow, their classifications of 'simulated threats' superficial. He'd sensed something far deeper—a whisper of a power that predated their polite magical theories. Why were these 'dungeons' appearing? What purpose did they truly serve?
If they were the unpredictable, deadly forces hushed rumors claimed, then the academy's current curriculum seemed woefully inadequate.
He finally sank onto the cool, rough surface of the rooftop, perhaps from sheer exhaustion, though he'd never admit it.
The week had been a relentless series of ups and downs, even for him. Battles, and the casual dismantling of Benjamin's jaw – it all piled up. A fleeting thought, rare and unbidden, flickered through his mind: If only his parents were around to guide him. The thought vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind only the familiar hollowness he was accustomed to.
Still seated there, his torso bare, he cast a disdainful look at his dirtied robes lying in a heap through the crack in the roof. He had to do laundry. A chore. A mundane, irritating chore.
In this city, the task of cleaning clothes was usually carried out in specialized establishments known as fullonicae, which functioned as public laundries. These were managed by skilled workers called fullones, who handled everything from basic washing to whitening and finishing garments. The process was both labor-intensive and surprisingly advanced for its time.
The first step involved soaking the clothes in a mixture of water and, yes, human urine. While this may sound unpleasant, it served an important purpose: urine contains ammonia, a natural cleaning agent that effectively broke down grease, oil, and stains embedded in the fabric. To supply this essential ingredient, they placed public urine collection jars throughout the city, and people were encouraged to contribute.
Once the clothes had soaked, they were moved to large vats where fullones would tread on them with their feet, similar to grape-stomping. This physical agitation helped work the cleaning solution into the fabric and loosen dirt.
Afterward, the garments were thoroughly rinsed in clean water to remove all remaining waste and soap residue. To ensure cleanliness and restore brightness, particularly for white garments like togas, fullones might treat the clothes with clay (fuller's earth) or expose them to sulfur fumes for bleaching.
The garments were then dried in the sun, occasionally perfumed with scented oils or herbs, and pressed smooth using stones or heated metal tools to improve their appearance.
For those who couldn't afford professional laundry services, they usually washed their clothes themselves using public fountains, rivers, or wells. Instead of soap, they relied on urine, ash, sand, or clay as basic cleaning agents.
They would scrub garments on stones, beat them, or tread on them to remove dirt. Since many owned only a few pieces of clothing, they often wore them for long periods before washing. In some households, slaves or family members took care of the laundry.
When money was scarce, they might also barter goods or services for help.
Giovanno, of course, had no intention of sullying his hands with such common labor. He'd simply bully his classmates into bartering goods or services in his place to get his laundry done by a fullonica. It was an unspoken rule among those who knew him: Giovanno didn't do chores. Others did them for him.
"Ouch…" Giovanno winced, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face as he stretched his right arm. The dull ache in his hand was a persistent reminder of his impulsive blow, the aftermath of punching Benjamin. He stared at his knuckles for a moment, a subtle grimace twisting his lips, yet deep down, he remained unrepentant. He had done nothing wrong.
No one was supposed to stand in his way to glory, especially not a meddlesome peer.
At that moment, perched on his silent rooftop, beneath the indifferent gaze of the stars, he felt like the ultimate apex – invincible. An unshakeable certainty settled within him: no one, absolutely no one, would stop him from reaching the pinnacle of magical power. Not his useless comrades, certainly not the teachers who, in his mind, had done everything they could to see him fail.
But even that last thought didn't quite make sense, not fully. He paused, the thread of his logic unraveling slightly. After all, every single school across the country shared the same overarching, undeniable goal: to have one of their own represent them at the Great Magicae Apixem Arcana. It was the ultimate validation, the highest honor. So why would they try to stop him? He, who was clearly their best, their fastest path to that glory?
The contradiction lingered, a faint dissonance in his otherwise perfect, unassailable triumph. The thought flickered through his mind, a fleeting question mark against his conviction.
Then, without hesitation, he stood up. With fluid, almost effortless movements, Giovanno descended the building he had been standing on.
As Giovanno's feet found the familiar ground of the alleyway, a different kind of sensation washed over him—not the physical ache in his hand, nor the cold logic of his recent victory, but the sudden, sharp clarity of memory.
It was a retrospective thought, one he rarely indulged, yet it settled over him with an undeniable weight. He hadn't always been... this.
He hadn't always been the bully, the lone wolf, the student who viewed his peers with disdain and his teachers as obstacles. Once, long ago, in a life that felt both distant and intimately real, he had been a good child. A quiet, earnest boy whose entire existence revolved around a singular, simple purpose: pleasing his parents.
Their home, unlike the sprawling, shadowed city that now stretched before him, had been a haven of unwavering faith and gentle discipline. Every evening, as dusk bled into night, the three of them would gather, hands clasped, their voices weaving together in prayer.
His parents, their faces soft with devotion, would guide him through ancient verses, teaching him the sanctity of their beliefs, the comforting presence of their God. He remembered the warmth of his mother's hand in his, the steady cadence of his father's voice, imbuing him with lessons of kindness, humility, and the profound importance of living a virtuous life.
"Be a good boy, Giovanno," his mother would whisper, smoothing his hair. "Our God watches over you. Always remember His grace."
His father, a man of quiet strength and deep conviction, often spoke of the path laid out for him. "When you grow up, son," he would say, his eyes filled with a hopeful light, "you are to become a priest at the church. It is a calling, a sacred duty. You will serve God, and through Him, serve our people. It is the highest honor."
Giovanno had absorbed these words like parched earth drinks water. The idea of becoming a priest, of dedicating his life to God, had filled him with a profound sense of purpose.
There was no arrogance then, no disdain for others, only a sincere desire to fulfill his parents' hopes, to walk the path of righteousness they illuminated for him.
He imagined himself in the simple robes, his hands raised in blessing, his voice echoing through the hallowed halls, bringing solace and guidance to a congregation.
His world had been small, perhaps, but it was brimming with an uncomplicated devotion and the promise of a noble future.
He remembered the Sunday mornings, the scent of incense, the communal hymns that lifted spirits and bound hearts.
He remembered listening intently to the sermons, trying to grasp the deeper meanings of sacrifice and compassion. He had been so earnest, so eager to embody the goodness his parents saw in him, to live up to the divine calling they had presented.
The thought of inflicting harm, of defying authority, of seeking personal glory above all else, would have been utterly alien to that boy. That Giovanno would have recoiled in horror from the actions of the man he had become.
The memory, though brief, was potent, a stark contrast to the ruthless reality he now inhabited. It was a ghost of a past self, a quiet whisper of who he once was before... before everything changed. The ache in his hand, the result of his present self's actions, felt jarringly real against the backdrop of this forgotten innocence.