True memories always come with frayed edges and blurriness, not this kind of high-definition, all-encompassing emotional bombardment.
"It's an illusion..."
A cold voice struggled up from the deepest layer of his soul.
It's not a voice but a will, honed from countless battles, choices, lonely paths, a survival instinct and the pursuit of the wizard's path.
The wizard's path is one I've chosen.
The parents' concern is real guilt, but that guilt should not be chains that break wings; it should be one of the motivating forces to move forward more resolutely.
Only by reaching a high enough place might there be a possibility to change something.
And to sink into this, to dutifully serve false parental illusions, is not only self-deception but an utter betrayal of the real self, of the self already on the path.
Before him, the parents are still gazing at him eagerly, the mother with tearful eyes, the father hesitating, the scene still easily tearing through his defenses.
