Mal shut the door to his room behind himself. A soft click echoed out as the doorknob snapped into place.

  A steel pan full of coals. On top of the coals, a single large jar rested. Inside, a blood red liquid bubbled away, steam arising out of it and into the air.

  Luckily, Mal had thought to crack the window, so his room wasn't a toxic mess.

  At least he had that going for him.

  He leaned down to the jar. The blood red liquid was mostly uniform in color, save for a few dark spots scattered around where the ingredients hadn't fully melted together. Resting on top of the liquid were a few leaves of the plant that Mal had gotten with Lusia outside the town. He set the set of tongs off to the side and gently removed each of the leaves one by one.

  He sat there for the next five hours, watching and occasionally mixing together the infusion. The steam rolled off the surface and into the room. The scent was thick and acrid, it vaguely reminded Mal of orange rind, except concentrated and far stronger.

  He could smell the magic in the steam.

  This was such an inefficient way of doing things—he was losing a massive amount of magical essence through the steam. But he had no other choice. He didn't have enough experience to figure out how to extract the oils from the plants, or make a tincture, or any of the other things that his herbalism textbook had described. Indeed, his textbook had only mentioned that the methods existed, not how to do them.

  So instead, he was doing this ridiculous jerry-rigged process.

  As time went on, the amount of liquid in the jar got lower, and lower, and lower. The liquid became thicker, bubbles moving through it like flies through molasses. The smell became stronger, to the point where Mal had to crack open the window even higher just in order to avoid coughing.

  He was down to one-fourth of where he'd started when things went wrong.

  The glass cracked.

  Mal's heart leapt from his chest and he quickly looked around for another container. The only thing he had with him were glass vials. There was no way he'd be able to salvage everything.

  The glass cracked again, spreading halfway around the body of the jar. This time, the crack was audible.

  Mal grabbed the jar and ignored the way his skin seared at the heat. He poured it as gently as he could into the vial in his other hand. He missed several times and the liquid hit his hand and the coals. When it touched his hand, it burned through the top layer of skin, leaving a raw, pink layer that itched painfully.

  Mal noted to himself that he needed to invest in a proper pair of gloves for later experiments.

  Ignoring the pain with the ease of somebody who'd been stabbed in the heart in the past, he finished pouring out the vial. The glass made another cracking noise, then shattered in his hands and onto the coals.

  Mal's hands were burned bright red. They throbbed with each heartbeat and turned redder and redder.

  He rolled the liquid around inside of the vial and it barely seemed to budge. The consistency was more like a thick, viscous oil than water.

  Well, there was no chance that Mal was going to go through all that trouble again. He was just going to have to pray that this would be enough of the material.

  He looked at it closer.

  Small bubbles continued to float from the bottom to the top. If he remembered correctly, that meant it wasn't stable yet. He'd have to let it sit for one more day.

  Enough time to make a decision.

  He kept on putting it off, saying that he would figure it out when this time came.

  The time had now come. He had to decide if shattering his core would be the right decision.

  I need to talk to someone. No, a few different people.

  He set aside the infusion.

  "Let's say, for the sake of theory, that I had the opportunity to obtain vast power, except there was no guarantee that I would actually get vast power, and there was a good chance I could end up killing myself. What would you say to that?"

  Mal and Philo had just finished a lap around the school. Of course, Philo looked completely unwinded while Mal was dripping enough sweat to fill up a bucket.

  Philo's eyes sharpened at the question. He stared at Mal for several long moments.

  "And this is all hypothetical, yes?"

  "Of course."

  Philo sighed and adjusted his glasses. He looked off toward the rising sun.

  "Traditional beastpeople beliefs place an immense amount of value on the pursuit of power," he said. "There's no higher good. It's not just the tool, it's an end in and of itself. Any sacrifice, any risk is worth doing if it obtains you power."

  "That seems rather shortsighted."

  At that, Philo snorted.

  "It's not as if we're particularly special in that belief, Mal. The vast majority of people, deep down, pursue power for power's sake. They disguise it with preaching about protecting others, about it being the tool. Or they say that it's evil. But their actions fail to match their words."

  Philo's speaking voice had slowed down to a steady pace. There was a harsh look in his eyes, a contempt toward everything he was staring at. He looked at Mal, and Mal could tell that part of that contempt was meant for him.

  He blinked, and the moment was gone.

  "Ah, my apologies. Philo gets wrapped up in his head," he shrugged. "Personally, Philo doesn’t buy into those values. But at the same time, he doesn't think that power is necessarily bad. It's a corrupting influence, certainly. But Philo would be an immense hypocrite to criticize someone for seeking power, given my choice of school."

  "And what do you think about those risks I mentioned? How far is too far?"

  "Personally?" Philo shrugged. "It would really just depend on the specifics. Philo would probably avoid the path that you're describing if he had any other options. Philo would explore every other alternative, read every book, study with every teacher before I took something so extreme."

  "And if there were no other options?"

  "Then Philo would consider changing my goal and becoming a priest."

  Despite himself, Mal felt a short chuckle work its way out of his throat. "I see. Thank you, Philo."

  The next one that Mal targeted was Rolam. Before they went to lunch, he tapped him on the shoulder and asked to have a private conversation. The rest of the group moved on ahead—even Lusia, as Mal shot her a quick glance. Whether it was because she picked up on the seriousness of what he needed to discuss, or simply because she wanted to avoid him like the plague, she moved on ahead to the servants' cafeteria.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "What exactly did you want to talk to me about? I hope that you seek an honorable answer. Otherwise, I won't be much help."

  Mal got the feeling he wasn't going to enjoy this conversation. He could kind of already predict what Rolam's answer would be—something about honor, that having power and using it wisely is an honorable thing, etc.

  "If you were in a position where you would have to take an immense risk in order to obtain power, when before you were powerless, would you?"

  "No."

  Mal frowned. "What do you mean, no?"

  Rolam pursed his lips.

  "Power is a deadly thing. I've seen more honor demonstrated by the weakest in a single day than I've seen demonstrated by the strong. If the question is that simple, if there are no extenuating circumstances, then I would say that it's something to be avoided."

  Mal found it amusing that so often, people weren't focused on the risk to personal injury. Instead, they kept on talking to him about the nature of power and what it does to people.

  Then again, he wasn't opposed to it. It was worthy of conversation, he supposed.

  "Then let's say that you need the power," Mal said. "You're trying to protect people."

  "Then I would ask why the question was framed that way. The way you ask a question reveals much about your true intentions. I would advise the questioner to look deep within themselves and ask if their motivations are truly as pure as they claim."

  "Let's say that they're telling the truth."

  "Then I would still advise caution."

  Mal raised a single eyebrow. "Isn't that hypocritical? I mean, you're here at a school that's supposed to turn you into a master mage. That's about as much power as most people are going to get their hands on in their lifetime."

  At that, Rolam didn't respond. Instead, he turned on his feet and walked off in the direction of the central hall.

  "I'll see you later, Mal."

  The next person Mal managed to catch was Nima.

  Mal was beginning to wonder why exactly, of all people, he picked his circle mates to speak to. Perhaps it was some twisted form of sentimentalism.

  Now, in the case of Philo and Rolam, he knew that they would have something interesting to say. They were Heralds—even if they didn't know it yet. He didn't know if they were right or wrong, but he knew that they'd say something interesting

  Nima, on the other hand… was probably not worthy of that same thought.

  Still, Rolam had surprised him. Who knew? Maybe Nima would do the same thing.

  It was on the way back to the dorm when Nima had fallen behind and Mal made the same maneuver. Philo and Rolam were locked in some kind of ridiculous debate, while Lusia trailed behind Mal, hands full of textbooks.

  "Nima," Mal said. "I wanted to ask you something—"

  "The answer is that you should do it."

  Mal looked over at Nima in surprise. "You heard?"

  Nima laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Yeah, I did. Sorry." He looked back in the direction of Philo and Rolam. "I was curious what exactly it was that you two were talking about and accidentally performed a bit of eavesdropping."

  Mal waved him off. "It's fine. But can you explain your answer?"

  "I mean, obviously, the question was pretty vague. I think I would need a lot more information to give a better answer. But with that said—" Nima frowned. The expression was small, almost unnoticeable. "Weakness isn't a virtue. That's always how I thought of it. And if weakness isn't a virtue, if it's something to be ashamed of, that means power is something to be sought."

  What an unexpected answer.

  "To me, power is freedom," Nima said. "Power means you get to make your own decisions. You aren't subject to the whims of random chance or of others. If you're not powerful, that turns you into a target."

  "A target?"

  "Look at the history of this country. Look at how over and over again, we've sacrificed so much in order to keep the monsters of the East at bay. But every time we so much as make the slightest slip, our neighbors try to take us over on the spot. There's no such thing as honor or idealism, as much as Rolam might wish to pretend otherwise."

  Mal tilted his head and opened his mouth to respond when Nima grimaced.

  "Sorry about that, it was a bit too cynical. I'm not sure where that came from. Normally I'm not like this."

  "No problem."

  Mal guessed that Nima was projecting his own experiences onto the conversation. He was probably thinking back to when he'd thrown himself as a sacrifice for the rest of the team to get away.

  Because he wasn't powerful, he didn't have a choice. His only option was to let himself risk death. That was the only thing he was good for at that moment.

  "Thank you, this was really helpful."

  "No problem." Nima's breath hitched, then he let out a sigh. "By the way, I know that the others have been on edge around you because of what happened. I want you to know that I don't blame you. You made the right call. It wasn't your fault that I was so stupid—"

  He stopped, then shook his head.

  "You get the point."

  With that, he increased his speed and caught up with the other two.

  When Mal entered into his dorm room, he was certain as to what he'd find: a vial of red liquid, suspended in place with four textbooks.

  But what he didn't expect was Lusia, holding the vial in her hand with a narrowed gaze.

  He waited in silence. She didn't move. Her eyes were locked onto the vial, like she was trying to understand what it was through sheer force of will.

  "Based off of your conversations," she said. "Am I correct to assume that this is the mysterious infusion that you've been working on for the past several days? Clarify."

  Mal stepped forward and reached out his hand toward the vial. "It is."

  She looked between his hand and the vial with a frown, some kind of internal conversation taking place in her mind. She sighed, then handed it over to him.

  "If they were aware of what you were planning, they would have all told you not to go through with it."

  Mal didn't know if that was true or not. He shrugged. "Maybe. It doesn't really matter, does it?"

  "Why would you seek out advice if you weren't going to provide the advice-giver with all the necessary information to make a correct conclusion?"

  "I gave them everything they needed. Any other details would've been peripheral."

  "Not if the details would've changed their answer."

  Mal looked at the vial. The bubbles had stopped. It was finally stable.

  "I don't understand why you're so concerned with this," he said. "At best, you're ambivalent toward me. At worst, you detest me. If I died, would it really be that much of a loss?"

  "I'm responsible for your life. I don't want to be the one who has to explain to your father that I allowed you to ingest a potentially lethal substance."

  "We both know that he wouldn't care."

  "I'm aware."

  Here she was, attempting to protect his life when she knew that neither the person who assigned her this task, nor she herself, would end up missing him. What could be her motivation? Why did she care?

  "I'll consider your words," he said.

  She stared at him, and Mal realized that she wasn't going to leave unless he explicitly told her.

  "You're free to go," he said.

  She bowed, then exited the room. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound more like an executioner's axe against a wooden stand.

  Mal's odds of survival were better than most if he took the infusion. As the medical text had said, those with weak cores were significantly more likely to survive core injuries.

  But it was still an enormous risk. And unlike the people in the medical text, Mal wasn't aiming to injure his core. He was aiming to destroy it as throughly as he could.

  Even if it worked, there was no guarantee that there wasn't a glass ceiling that would prevent his growth. Witchcraft had died out for a reason. Not to mention, all of their theories about how powerful a witch with a shattered core might be was just conjecture. It hadn't actually been proven.

  What else was he supposed to do, though?

  He considered his other options. He could attempt to make items, master potions. But that was expensive. It would take years to build up the kind of wealth he would need to become truly dangerous. Years he didn't have.

  He could return to dark magic. What, and then end up condemned as an Endbringer? Again?

  He could try to focus all his efforts on one branch of magic. No, one spell. Even with an F-grade core, if he spent all of his time and effort on one single rune, he might be able to surpass his peers.

  But he wasn't trying to surpass his peers.

  He was trying to surpass the Bird Eaters. He was trying to surpass people like Princess Savaly, with their S-grade cores and their unnatural talent. He was trying to surpass the Heralds, those with divine blessings and the touch of fate.

  Those without strength were less than worthless. They were a burden.

  Mal was a burden.

  How many people had he hurt? How many lives had he destroyed?

  An uncountable number. Far, far too many. And now that he had a chance to fix things, he was shying away from it out of some misplaced sense of self-preservation.

  Pathetic.

  Even if he did die, that would only be what he deserved. And if he never got to perform wizardry again? If he never was able to enjoy the practice that had sustained him, that he loved more than any other activity?

  Then it would be a small sacrifice in comparison to everything that he'd done to others.

  So what if he'd never enjoy the wonders of magic again? So what if he ended up being wrong, and he shattered his core for nothing? So what if he ended up hospitalized or dead?

  It wasn't as if his life had any value. Not anymore.

  He took the drink and pressed the vial to his lips.

  Lusia had told him not to do it. But it was the image of her dead body that compelled him to tip the vial back and allow the liquid to flow down into his throat.

  It tasted like ash.

  He took a few deep breaths. A sharp burning pain started at the pit of his stomach. He quickly reached for a rag and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before ran up and down his spine. He bit into the cloth so hard that part of him wondered if he was going to sprain his jaw.

  He collapsed to the floor, his knees hitting the wood with a crack. He fell to the side. His body spasmed as the pain continued to increase.

  He reached for his hair and pulled. The pain helped to distract him from the way his skin seemed to burn and burn without end.

  Distantly, Mal wondered if this was what hell was like.

  The edges of his vision blacked out. A part of him wondered if that was fair—shouldn't he experience the whole thing, rather than getting away with unconsciousness?

  He ignored the stupid voice saying that. The blackness crawled ever more toward the center of his vision.

  Right before he fell unconscious, there was a quiet crack.

  Something deep inside of him shattered into hundreds of pieces.

  And then he knew no more.

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