Chapter 20 – The New Oven
Ethan sat at the small table, picking at one of the cupcakes Max had left that morning.
The buttercream frosting had melted slightly, but the sweetness was still perfect.
He ate slowly while replaying last night's bizarre episode in his mind.
What the hell happened? Even if I'd completely drained my mana, my brain shouldn't have gone haywire like that.
Before heading to the Williamsburg Diner he'd only felt exhausted—nothing more.
But later something had invaded his thoughts, scrambling his mind, making him ramble incoherently—like being blackout drunk, only worse; his entire consciousness had been hijacked.
He rubbed his temples; that soul-depleted sensation still lingered.
'Mana exhaustion backlash? Never heard of that being a thing.'
'If priests went psychotic every time they ran out of mana, who the hell would raid?'
When holy light runs dry you just get weak—why would it cause mental breakdown?
He finished the cupcake, still completely baffled.
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face; the shock of cold helped clear his head somewhat.
Watching the water spiral down the drain, he thought, 'Don't tell me my brain actually short-circuited.'
He froze mid-thought.
'Oh shit.'
Realization hit him hard: whatever had happened, it hadn't come from outside—it had already been lurking inside him.
Besides holy light, what other power did he possess?
Shadow magic.
A priest can wield both Light and Shadow. Light flows from faith, hope, devotion.
Shadow draws from the Void—negative, chaotic, corrupting, maddening cosmic force, the Light's polar opposite.
A priest channeling both walks a razor's edge, constantly balancing light against darkness.
That balance is precarious; madness waits just one misstep away.
Last night had felt like teetering on that precipice.
He opened his palm experimentally and attempted a minor healing spell.
A faint golden shimmer flickered weakly across his skin.
Next, he tried Shadow Word: Pain—dark purple-black mist coiled steadily around his fingertips.
Confirmed.
Perfect: once the holy light burns out completely, Shadow gets free rein.
Were the Void Lords actively monitoring everyone who still channeled shadow magic?
Understanding brought zero comfort. After years in this world, having used Shadow spells countless times, he now realized that madness—and eventual servitude to the Void Lords—was his inevitable fate.
Regret was pointless; from now on he'd have to ration holy light like a broke college kid rationing ramen.
It was almost noon; Ethan decided to blow off the clinic entirely today.
The perk of being your own boss: you can simply not show up—especially when you've got a couple of hardworking employees still bringing in cash.
With time to kill, he wandered through Max's small apartment.
The studio was cramped but surprisingly neat—cleaner than he'd expected from someone who worked food service and baked obsessively.
The air still carried faint traces of vanilla extract, last night's cupcake sweetness, and a hint of laundry detergent.
Against the wall the Murphy bed was pulled down, dressed in eye-searing hot pink sheets.
Two pillows sat neatly at the headboard, plus a long body pillow in the middle.
He examined the bed's edge, admiring the metal frame and spring-loaded hinges—brilliant space-saving New York apartment engineering.
A random thought occurred: 'When Caroline brings guys home, do they just use the couch?'
Fashion magazines, Con Edison bills, and a chewed-up Bic pen littered the coffee table.
Sticky notes covered parts of the wall: "Owe Caroline $50," "Don't forget oven payment," "Bill day = Bankruptcy day," and a large red one reading "DON'T DIE BROKE."
The red velvet sofa dominated the living space—rich as red velvet cake, covered with mismatched throw pillows and a fleece blanket.
He stepped into the kitchenette: all-purpose flour, granulated sugar, Hershey's cocoa powder, and a KitchenAid mixing bowl crowded the limited counter space.
In the corner sat the oven: yellowed with age, door cracked, held shut with duct tape and featuring a Post-it note: "Don't touch—it's doing its best."
'She cranks out hundreds of cupcakes daily with this disaster waiting to happen?' he marveled.
Two trays per batch meant at least four or five baking cycles every single day.
He stared at it, lost in thought.
Images from last night resurfaced—Max closing the diner early, leaving Caroline to handle the entire dinner rush solo, staying home to take care of him, even giving up her own bed.
All complaints and sarcasm, zero hesitation.
'In the state I was in, she still didn't throw me out—that's the real miracle,' he murmured.
Thinking about Caroline working the whole dinner shift alone made guilt twist in his stomach.
'They're already working themselves to death and I made it worse.'
He shook off the thought and left the apartment.
Sunlight flooded the Brooklyn street as he pictured a new commercial-grade oven:
'Maybe not industrial capacity, but dual racks, even heat distribution, digital temperature controls...'
Williamsburg Diner. Ethan stepped inside; the door chime announced his arrival.
Caroline looked up from the accounting ledger, breaking into a grin.
"Hey, Ethan! You look way better—at least you don't look like an extra from The Walking Dead anymore."
He smiled. "Saw the Murphy bed setup in your apartment—very Brooklyn-chic."
Max emerged from the kitchen: "Doc, here to actually eat or to pass out dramatically again?"
"Came to apologize—for last night's disaster."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Disaster? You practically died on my shoulder while Caroline ran this entire place solo until she nearly collapsed."
"I know. You nursed me all night and I completely took over your bed."
"Good that you realize it. So—any lingering symptoms? Dizziness? Brain fog? Random WoW references?"
"All gone. Just a bit weak—mana deple—uh, low blood sugar crash."
Max winced. "Don't say 'mana depletion' in front of Caroline or she'll call Bellevue psych ward."
"Right—low blood sugar. Anyway, I've got news."
"Let me guess—you need me to cover another shift?" she asked, instantly suspicious.
"Nope. I ordered you a new commercial oven—installation team arrives this afternoon."
"Are you completely insane? Those things cost thousands—what, you planning to propose or something?"
"Yours is literally held together with duct tape and prayers. A new one means you can actually sleep instead of baking in shifts all night."
"That oven's my battle buddy—slow, temperamental, occasionally sparks, but loyal."
"Fine. Name the new one 'Oven Mitts Are For Quitters' then."
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