I can't stand mentalists. They always have some kind of issue with their heads — and to heal a mentalist, you need a healthy mentalist. Which don’t exist!

  This morning, the mentalist from the city of Uden barged into my place and demanded a tincture of Pure Life. Do you know what that is? It's a brew that helps rid a person of unwanted desires — a drinker stops drinking, a smoker quits smoking. But mentalists are supposed to be able to rid themselves of addictions on their own! And this one? He’s no apprentice — pushing forty, by the looks of it.

  So I asked why he couldn't just fix himself, and he promptly shut his mind off. Said something like, “If I’m not conscious, you can’t read my thoughts.” Idiot. If you’re not conscious, you can’t do anything either. Now he’s lying on my bench, drooling, eyes glazed over.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I sent a bird to summon the head of the Mentalists’ Guild. Let them come fetch their lunatic.

  While I waited, I decided to finish calculating an alchemical weave with rune symbols for crafting denser skin. I was just applying the weave to a belt when the door exploded open — his escort had arrived. But since I had already poured energy into both the belt and the symbols, the resulting magical feedback blasted everyone into the walls.

  Fantastic. Accidentally KO’d an entire squad of mentalists.

  Looks like it’s time to move. The sooner, the better...