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„His Beloved Obsession”

Chapter 1. A Fight Over Magic in the Red Lantern Market.

Heat pressed against Noel's skin as he navigated the labyrinthine aisles of the Red Lantern Market, the air thick with spices, incense, and the unmistakable scent of dust-covered treasures. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in slanted beams, catching particles of dust that danced like suspended glitter above tables cluttered with magical trinkets and tattered scrolls. Léon moved ahead of him, weaving confidently between the narrow passages as if he'd been born to this chaotic space—as if he belonged here in a way Noel, with his traditional sensibilities, never quite could.

"This place is a goldmine for resourceful magicians," Léon said, his fingers trailing over a collection of small silver mirrors arranged in a fan pattern. "Nobody understands that magic isn't about the price of your props, but what you do with them."

Noel nodded, though something in Léon's casual confidence still stung, even after all these years. They had once been inseparable, sharing every secret and trick. Now, their paths had forked so dramatically that these rare shopping excursions felt like temporary truces in an unspoken war.

The elderly Chinese woman behind the counter watched them with knowing eyes, her face a map of deep wrinkles that deepened when she smiled. Her hands, spotted with age but still graceful, folded an origami bird as she observed the two magicians browsing her wares.

"What about these?" Noel lifted a set of intricately carved wooden boxes with hidden compartments. The craftsmanship was exquisite—dovetail joints so precise they nearly disappeared, surfaces polished to a soft glow. These were items made for traditional sleight of hand, for the magic that lived in dexterous fingers and misdirection.

Léon glanced over, his expression neutral. "Nice. For stage performances, I assume?"

"Of course for stage performances," Noel replied, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "That's what real magic is about—being there, in the moment, with your audience."

The first spark ignited. Noel felt it—that familiar tension that always seemed to find them, no matter how casual their meeting began.

Léon's fingers paused over a deck of cards. "Real magic," he repeated, the words hanging between them like a challenge. "Tell me, how many stage performances have you booked this summer?"

Noel's jaw tightened. The question hit precisely where Léon had aimed it—at the empty calendar that had been haunting Noel for weeks. "That's beside the point."

"Is it, though?" Léon turned fully toward him now, abandoning his pretense of casual browsing. "Because while you're holding onto traditions that are fading away, I'm adapting. I'm surviving."

They moved deeper into the market, past stalls selling porcelain figurines alongside turquoise jewelry, bundles of dried medicinal herbs next to jars of local prickly pear jam. The scent of chili oil from a nearby food stall mingled with the metallic tang of old copper trinkets. A swamp cooler dripped rusty water into a bucket in the corner, its labored whirring providing a soundtrack to their increasingly heated exchange.

"Digital isn't the future of magic," Noel said, his voice low but intense. "It's the death of it. When everything is edited and filtered, what's left? Where's the risk? The immediacy?"

Léon laughed, but the sound held no warmth. "Immediacy? Risk? No one cares about that anymore, Noel. They care about spectacle, about seeing something impossible. My YouTube channel has three hundred thousand subscribers. How many people saw your last show?"

The words stung, not because they were cruel but because they contained a truth Noel had been desperately trying to ignore. He turned away, focusing instead on a collection of antique pocket watches displayed in a glass case. Their faces were yellowed with age, hour hands frozen at different moments in time. He felt a kinship with them suddenly—both artifacts of a different era, struggling for relevance in a world that had moved on.

"Magic isn't about numbers," Noel finally said, his voice softer now. "It's not about views or subscribers. It's about creating a moment of wonder—real wonder, not the manufactured kind."

"And what exactly is 'real wonder'?" Léon pressed, his voice taking on the sharp edge that always emerged when he felt challenged. "The audience doesn't care if you spent ten years perfecting a sleight of hand or ten hours editing a video. They just want to be amazed."

They found themselves at the back of the market, where the serious props were kept. Hidden beneath worn velvet cloths were precision-cut mirrors displayed beside old surveying equipment, lacquered boxes with false bottoms, and mechanical contraptions whose purposes were known only to those who understood the secret language of illusion.

An old vendor with gnarled hands and sharp eyes watched them approach. He spoke in a fluid blend of Cantonese and English, the words flowing together like water over stones. "You boys looking for something special, yes? Something to make the impossible possible?"

"Yes," Noel said, while simultaneously Léon answered, "No."

They looked at each other, and Léon sighed. "We're just browsing today."

"No, we're not," Noel contradicted, turning to the vendor. "I need material for a new escape illusion. Something traditional, but with a twist."

The vendor's eyes lit up, and he began pulling out items from beneath the counter—silk ropes dyed in vibrant colors, specialized locks with mechanisms that could be secretly triggered, collapsible metal components disguised as solid pieces.

As Noel examined each item with reverent attention, Léon stood back, arms crossed, his expression growing increasingly frustrated.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," Léon finally said, his voice rising above the ambient noise of the market. "You're spending money you don't have on props for shows that don't exist."

Noel's hands stilled over a set of lock picks disguised as ordinary hairpins. "And what would you have me do instead? Give up? Abandon everything I've worked for?"

"I'd have you adapt!" Léon's voice cracked slightly with intensity. "Look around you, Noel. The world has changed. After what happened in Vegas, after the Studio Town Magic scandal, nobody wants to book traditional magicians anymore. The #CleanMagic hashtag basically destroyed competitive magic."

The mention of Vegas sent a jolt of discomfort through Noel's chest. The competition had been his chance—their chance, really—to prove that traditional magic could still captivate audiences. Instead, it had devolved into accusations of cheating, digital manipulation, and a social media storm that had left the entire magic community reeling.

"That wasn't our fault," Noel said quietly. "We played by the rules."

"It doesn't matter whose fault it was," Léon replied, his voice softening slightly. "It happened. And now we have to deal with the fallout."

They stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by the tools of a craft that seemed increasingly like a relic. The weight of their shared history—both the camaraderie and the competition—hung between them, neither quite willing to acknowledge it directly.

Finally, Léon placed a hand on Noel's shoulder. "You're the most talented magician I know," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made Noel look up in surprise. "But talent isn't enough anymore. You have to be practical."

"Practical," Noel repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "You mean abandon what I love for what sells."

"I mean survive," Léon said simply. "Because what good is your magic if no one ever sees it?"

Noel turned away, unable to meet his former friend's gaze. The truth of Léon's words settled into him like stones dropping into a still pond, creating ripples he couldn't control. He had spent years chasing mastery, perfecting techniques that fewer and fewer people seemed to care about. He had dedicated himself to the purity of traditional magic, but was purity enough in a world that demanded innovation?

"Look," Léon continued, his voice gentler now, "I'm not saying give up magic. I'm saying find a new way to share it. The world isn't going to change back, Noel. We have to change with it."

"But what if I can't?" The question escaped before Noel could stop it, vulnerable and raw. "What if I don't know how to be anything other than what I am?"

Léon's expression softened, a glimpse of their old friendship breaking through the tension. "Then you'll have to figure it out. We all do. That's what growing up is about."

Growing up. Adulting. The words echoed in Noel's mind, carrying with them a weight he had been trying to avoid. He had always seen magic as a way to preserve wonder in a world determined to explain everything away. But perhaps Léon was right—perhaps he had been clinging to traditions out of fear, not devotion.

The vendor, sensing the shift in atmosphere, quietly retreated, leaving the two magicians alone with their unresolved conflict.

Noel's phone vibrated in his pocket, a welcome distraction from the thoughts swirling in his mind. He pulled it out, expecting to see a message from Tancred or Spoiler.

Instead, an unknown number filled the screen, along with a message that made his breath catch:

"Your skills belong somewhere greater."

He stared at the text, reading it twice to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. There was no name, no context, just those six words that seemed to pulse with potential.

"Who is it?" Léon asked, noticing Noel's sudden stillness.

"I... I don't know," Noel replied, his thumb hovering over the screen. After a moment's hesitation, he typed back: "Who are you?"

The three dots appeared, indicating a response was being composed. Noel held his breath, waiting. But then the dots disappeared, leaving only silence.

He looked up to find Léon watching him with curious eyes. "What did it say?"

Noel hesitated, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Nothing important," he lied, unsure why he felt the need to keep the message secret. Perhaps because it had arrived at precisely the moment when he needed it most—a mysterious affirmation when his confidence had been shaken.

Or perhaps because, despite everything, it had made him feel that there might still be a place for his kind of magic after all.

Chapter 2. The Poster, The Rabbit, and Sven’s Silent Phone.

The apartment welcomed Noel with its familiar disarray—books on advanced sleight-of-hand techniques stacked precariously on the coffee table, half-finished magical apparatus scattered across the dining surface, and the faint scent of incense still lingering from his morning meditation. He dropped his bag of newly purchased props by the door and stood motionless for a moment, Léon's words still echoing in his mind. Survive. Adapt. The pragmatic demands of adulthood pressing against the edges of his carefully constructed world of wonder and illusion. The weight of reality seemed to fill the room, making the space feel smaller than it was, as if the walls themselves were conspiring to limit his dreams.

Sighing, Noel moved to the window and pushed it open. Hot, dry air rushed in, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and the metallic scent of approaching rain that never quite seemed to fall. Phoenix in summer was a symphony of contradictions—scorching heat broken by air-conditioned interiors, parched landscapes interrupted by carefully maintained oases, a city that shouldn't exist in such a hostile environment yet somehow thrived.

Much like magic in the digital age, perhaps.

He shook the thought away and knelt beside the bag, carefully removing his purchases. The wooden boxes with their intricate sliding panels felt solid in his hands, a reassuring weight of craftsmanship. He ran his fingers over the joinery, appreciating the precision of the cuts, the way the wood had been shaped by hands that understood patience. Next came a set of handcrafted metal rings, each one perfectly weighted for linking and unlinking in the classic Chinese Linking Rings illusion. Finally, a bundle of silk ropes, dyed in deep crimson and midnight blue, unfurled across the floor like spilled wine.

Léon was right—Noel had spent money he could ill afford on props for shows that didn't exist. And still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. These objects were more than tools; they were connections to a lineage of wonder-workers stretching back through centuries. Holding them felt like grasping the hands of those who had come before, an unbroken chain of shared secrets and the pursuit of astonishment.