Blood poured from self-inflicted knife wounds. The notoriously finicky ichoric magic required large sacrifices of attuned blood, something that Maxwell was more than apprehensive to give. But the appeal of grand and overwhelming power turns even the most squeamish of men to stone. Ichor was the blood of the Gods, and almost imperceptible in the blood of mortals. But it was there, and even the faintest traces of divine blood were sought after with reverence. The uses of ichor were truly uncountable, but Maxwell wanted it solely as a power-boost. He was not so foolish as to attempt to extract the holy essence, or, Gods forbid, attempt to cast the Divine magics, but it was not beyond him to try to assimilate the blood of the Gods.

A single lapse in concentration meant death. The Gods bent to nobody, and even the blood of the Gods was imbued with their very will. It was impossible to curb the thrashing and writhing of the ichor as he attempted to slowly, very slowly, guide it into his magical pathways. It burnt like brimstone in his blood as the foreign magic resisted and struggled against his guiding. This was the hardest part of absorbing ichor. The Gods had cursed this world and left, deeming it an utter failure. Their final notes of bitter animosity had bled into every crevice of the planet. It was no surprise then, that their ichor held the same hatred for all life. Even now, Maxwell could practically feel the hostility dripping off the golden blood. But now was not the time to reflect on the Gods. No, he had to focus. 

With great effort, he managed to channel the very last of the ichor into his magical pathways. His preparation had almost certainly saved him multiple times, especially that awakening alchemical paste he had baked the day before. His senses had never felt so sensitive, and this extended to his magical senses. Through his arcane sight, he could see it clearly now. The ichor was being assimilated slowly. It was out of his control now, left entirely up to chance. If he was lucky, the ichor would be completely assimilated and his magical reserves and control would skyrocket to inhuman levels. If he was unlucky, however… the ichor would overwhelm his immune system and destroy him from within. It'd be an excruciatingly painful death, the holy blood flaying his soul while immolating his body in golden fire. Maxwell wasn't entirely sure what would happen if his soul was flayed, but even the most optimistic theological guesses were frankly nightmarish.

Shutting his eyes and entering as deep a meditation as one in this situation could, Maxwell idly thought back to why he was doing this. It had only been shortly after his acceptance into Caelum Academy; a mandatory theology class radicalising him into disdaining the vindictive Gods that had made this world. Even now, some groups continued to pray to the Gods, a rhetoric that Maxwell couldn't share. Those Gods were juvenile. They created intelligent life from nothing, and then threw a fit when the free will of conscious life disobeyed them.

The same could be said for their childish infighting too. Some seven of the nine Great Cataclysms had been caused by the Gods bickering amongst one another. And when the Gods finally abandoned this world, they cursed it out of spite. You'd think literal deities would be a little more mature.

With a final sigh, Maxwell steeled himself, feeling his thoughts slowly melt away as he entered total meditative trance.

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Eight hours. His soul had burned for eight hours, but the ichor was finally absorbed. He had survived the first gauntlet of his crucible, and the power was already coursing through his veins. The gauntlet that few mages dared face. As far as he knew, not a single mage at Caelum had the ego to attempt assimilating ichor. For good reason, too. Aside from the danger to death or permanent crippling damage, absorbing latent ichor was a felony in pretty much all of the Archive Kingdom.

Maxwell flexed his wrists, the crackle of the his magic coming forth freely, along with the quiet, almost unnoticeable echo of divine energies obeying him. It was staggeringly little, but the sheer potential was obvious to him. This was the power that the Gods had once had literally coursing through their blood. And now it was Maxwell's.

But it wouldn't do him any good to get arrogant now. He was still a mere student at Caelum Academy, and he knew for a fact that the Elder mages at the Academy were still far stronger than him. And that wasn't even including the Archmages, Professors, or the Headmaster herself. He was far more powerful than any mage should be at his age, but still a mere ant compared to the millennia old monsters that lurked throughout Archive.

With a wave of his hand, Maxwell healed his hand, the fourth-spiral spell blooming forth with ease. It was a spell that even the most prodigious first years couldn't do with such proficiency, which led Maxwell to his first revelation. The texts on ichor assimilation had only mentioned an increase in pure power output, not in control. But it was unmistakable. His control had never been this fine before.

Maxwell formed a square out of magic through nothing but manifestation, a mana shaping task that had been treacherously difficult to him just a week prior. It was utterly trivial. He grabbed his shaping exercise textbook, flipping to the very end of drills and attemping the final task.

…Which he found impossible, of course. Were there any junior mages that could cast and maintain a rotating tesseract apparition? Maxwell suspected the answer to be a resounding "no". Flipping back another three-hundred pages, he found a cube formation task. This was still an entire year of classwork ahead of the square manifestation, and Maxwell found it bearable. In fact, after a mere ten minutes, Maxwell had gotten the cube to rotate. It was undeniable now. Not only had his mana quality increased, but so had his overall control. 

A knock at the door woke Maxwell from his enthusiastic stupor, and it was only then that he realised that he had missed all of his classes. Quickly dismissing his magical manifestations and washing the blood off his hands, he sprinted over to the door, opening it with a friendly smile. A young-looking but clearly authoritative mage was standing there, the slightest frown on her face.

"Second-spiral junior mage Maxwell? You missed Essential Invocations, Classical Casting, Applied Imbuement, and Warding today. I hope you didn't come to Caelum just to dawdle," the unimpressed mage said. Her long robe was branded with the official Caelum badge and Headmaster seal, indicating that she was a hall-monitor of some sort, likely paid to reprimand students for skipping classes. "There are no remedial classes, if you remember. Catch up with the textbook, or drop out."

Maxwell bowed. He was no idiot. A mage entrusted with the authority to patrol the Caelum hallways and reprimand students was likely near or at the Elder mage level, even if she looked young. Elders often casted spells or drank alchemical potions to delay or hide their aging but, as the name suggested, they were often many decades old. The even older mages, like the Archmages or the Professors, cared far less about their appearance. Perhaps it was because they grew up in a different time, or that they saw it as a badge to be proud of, but most of the truly ancient mages advertised their age freely.

"My apologies, Elder!" Maxwell said, prostrating himself to the surprised mage. She blinked down at him for a second, opening her mouth to say something before closing it. She squinted at him for a long moment, as if examining something beyond his perception. Her eyes flicked from the stained blood on his robes to the discarded knife in the background of his room. Her frown deepened almost imperceptibly and she took a step back, shaking her head.

"…Hmph," The mage huffed, turning and walking off without another word. He wasn't entirely sure what that was about, but it was only then that Maxwell noticed the cat familiar on her shoulder. Definitely an Elder, then.

Standing up and brushing his mage robes once more, Maxwell went back into his room and looked outside. The sun had yet to set, though had begun to slowly fall. Maxwell nodded, appeased by the amount of time he had left. He wandered over to his journal, and it was with a great happiness that Maxwell ticked off the first checkbox of his long checklist. Assimilate latent ichor. Not even the fact that he still had another class this afternoon could ruin this moment for him. The hunger within him grew as he read his next task. Progress was earned, after all.

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To add to his fortune, Maxwell's last class of the day was Alchemical Concoctions, a class that Maxwell actually rather enjoyed. His alchemical knowledge played a critical role in allowing him to survive the ichor trial and though he had always placed high importance on alchemy, his opinion of the subject had only skyrocketed to greater heights as a result. Few powerful mages, even the great Archmages, specialised in alchemy. There were almost certainly still low-hanging fruit on the frontier of that subject, mostly because interest in alchemy had dwindled after a universal immortalty concoction was discovered. 

That was to say, Alchemical Concoctions was not at all an unenjoyable class. Professor Hexalt was a supremely talented mage, and despite not being the most enthusiastic, could effectively communicate an entire course worth of material in just a few lessons. He was a hands-on teacher, allowing the students to experiment with whatever alchemical materials that Caelum had in stock while simultaneously supervising and assisting when necessary. It made the class engaging and far less boring than a highly theoretical class like Classical Invocations, not that Maxwell disliked theory.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

But when Maxwell arrived at the classroom, there was already a young-looking mage standing watch. A young-looking mage with an oddly familiar black cat. It was the same Elder that had chastised him for skipping class.

"Ah, hello Miss…?" Maxwell smiled disarmingly, attempting to slide past her and into the alchemy classroom. She let him, but rolled her eyes.

"As of today, I am Professor Sorcell, the Alchemical Concoctions substitute for today and next lesson," she told him, squinting at him before pausing and frowning. "Are you ill? Your magical aura is flickering… like a candle."

Maxwell faltered in his next step, freezing in place. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he slowly turned, giving the best fake smile he could to the substitute Professor who was examining him with a hint of suspicion in her eyes. It reminded him strongly of their earlier meeting, although the cat familiar was nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, I'm alright Mis–, Professor Sorcell," he stumbled with a polite bow before hastily walking into the classroom, ignoring her curious gaze on his back. He mentally berated himself for not considering what impacts or strain that absorbing ichor would put on his body and soul. None of the old manuscripts had stated such a thing, but it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that his soul or his magical pathways were damaged purely from the fatigue of assimilating ichor. And if an Elder could detect traces of his little experiment, could it be possible for an actual Professor or Archmage to identify exactly what he had done? He had been far too careless. No, he needed to take more precautions next time. 

Maxwell filed that little bit of information away into his brain and shook his head to clear his mind, a slight frown creeping onto his face regardless. The classroom was a small lecture hall type room with only around twenty-five seats in a tiered fan-design. Cabinets lined the back wall, filled with innumerable and likely derelict alchemical tools while a door in the front of the classroom connected to the alchemy supply closet, which was probably similarly stocked with all manner of old materials and chemicals. 

Looking around the classroom, Maxwell noticed that only four other students had arrived, none of whom were sitting together. Maxwell quickly calculated before choosing the seat furthest from the four other students, maximising distance and minimising the need for social interaction. Perfect for Maxwell as he actually rather disliked both talking and sitting next to his peers. 

Or that was his plan until another girl, the sixth student, came in and sat down right next to him.

"Do you know where Professor Hexalt is today?" The pretty girl asked him immediately after sitting down, leaning onto the tiered lecture bench and smiling at him. Maxwell had seen her in a good number of his classes and recognised her face, but couldn't even begin to guess her name. She was almost certainly a noble, however, evident from the badges and the unique multi-coloured stripes on her mage robe. Either that, or a Tournament winner, and Maxwell didn't think there were any Tournament winners in his age group. "I heard the Throne called him out again."

"Again?" Maxwell sighed, closing his eyes and silently pondering why on Tempave this girl, this noble, would sit next to him. Beyond that, he noted that the Throne had been recalling Professors more frequently than in the past. His Warding, Applied Imbuement, and now Alchemical Invocations Professors had all been summoned back to the Throne in the recent weeks, although they had all returned within a couple of days. It was at the very least an oddity, if not concerning.

And this infuriating noble girl wouldn't stop swinging her legs under the table, either.

He was interrupted from his monologue by subsitute Professor Sorcell entering the room and clearing her throat as the last couple of students scampered to their seats.

"Professor Hexalt is on a business trip by order of the Throne. He will be back in three days time. My name is Magus Sorcell, an Elder of the seventh-spiral. As of this lesson and next lesson, I am Professor Sorcell, the alchemy substitute" The substitute Professor conjured a note scroll, a relatively simple and convenient spell for taking and reading notes. Of course, as any mage worth their title, Sorcell had modified the spell structure to fit her needs. "Professor Hexalt tells me that you are all recently elevated second-spiral alchemists? In that case, we will do a practical today."

She waved an arm and her magical intent pushed forth, not only dissipating her conjured notes into a sharp burst of light, but also levitating and arranging a variety of alchemical substances onto the desk in front of her.

"I assume you have all heard of sparkglitter?" Sorcell asked, tossing a seemingly arbitrary amount of each alchemical substance into a cauldron. The cauldron hummed, the sheer magical tension causing Maxwell's hair to prickle. With an eruption of iridescent flame, the gathered magical energy burst upwards and slammed against the Elder Mage's erected barrier like a crude firework, glitter-like motes of magic shimmering and dissipating into the environment. The entire class gasped and whispered amongst one another, the noble girl no different.

"Wow! Did you see that?" The girl excitedly nudged Maxwell in the side, her inane question falling on deaf ears. "Do you think she'll let us make some? That was so pretty!"

Maxwell barely registered her words, staying silent and focusing on the evaporating patterns of magic that the sparkglitter had made. From what he knew, sparkglitter didn't detonate like that under heat. It was highly friction sensitive, but quite heat resilient. That implied that this either wasn't  sparkglitter, or possibly a hybrid alchemical mixture. Sparkglitter was also a restricted fourth-spiral material, while its less reactive cousins were third or second-spiral. Unless Professor Sorcell decided to teach a bunch of second-spirals how to make restricted alchemical reagents, this material was likely just analogous to sparkglitter in some respects.

"And no, you will not be making this," the substitute Professor added, her authoritative voice cutting through the conversations and silencing the class. "I will perform the experiment again. Extend your magic sense and focus on the resulting energy fractal."

Maxwell did as she asked, closing his eyes and forcing his magic sense to extend. Doing so was strenuous and required a high level of concentration, although became second-nature and passive above a certain level of power. It was no doubt trivial for an Elder mage like Sorcell, while baffling difficult for a mage of Maxwell's level. Or it would be if Maxwell hadn't absorbed a significant portion of the latent ichor in his blood. His magical control was higher than ever, and extending his magic sense was an order of magnitude easier than it had been just weeks prior.

The ability to observe magic was a sixth sense. It was entirely mental, and it allowed mages to perceive the imperceivable. It was to glance at what was beyond the physical world and into the grand tapestry of magic. Magic was energy, and it permeated all of reality, especially so in a dense mage congregation like Caelum Academy. Even minutes following the sparkglitter detonation, Maxwell could still see the residue, a lurid concentration gradient that was slowly remediating itself, the universal law of entropy undefeated, even by magic.

And then Sorcell ignited the second batch of sparkglitter.

The iridescent lights had been truly mesmerizing before, but it was nothing compared to what he saw now. Magic wasn't like light or radiation or heat. It didn't form beams or waves. No, magic swirled. 

The magic was building up in the sparkglitter, a black hole sucking the dormant magic in the room. It got denser and thicker, coalescing until it finally reached critical mass. The magic, pure magic, erupted, and that was when Maxwell saw it.

Fractals. Infinite, endless, and utterly inconceivable fractals, swirling and spiralling into eternity. Kaleidoscopes of meaning, of comprehension, danced just out of his grasp, unattainable to his poor mortal soul. He could feel the ichor within himself reach, the divine authority echoing through his arcane sight like a ripple. But nothing came back. The world did not obey the Gods anymore, and why should it? They had abandoned it. Left it to rot.

Maxwell reached out one last time to the fractal complex as it began to wither, pushing his magic sense to its very limits. And instead of retreating, an infinitesimal fragment of undistilled meaning reached back, connecting and searing a single concept into his mind. 

It wasn't a word nor a sound nor even an image – but rather a feeling, a raw and chaotic pulse of pure intent. It thrummed in unison with the divine blood in his veins, and an inexplicable sense of insignificance coursed through him. The concept was truly ancient, perhaps as old as the Gods themselves, and it hummed with creation. A cacophony of information flooded his mind, indecipherable, indiscernible, unfathomable. Except for one short notion, blazing like a wild inferno, screeching, piercing. 

The World was dying.

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The classroom snapped back into focus, the sparkglitter detonation slowly dispersing into the air. It didn't look nearly as majestic as Maxwell remembered, not in comparison. He could barely focus on anything, the ancient words still seared into his every thought, pervasive.

Maxwell glanced down at his trembling hands and willed them to still. The noble girl beside him was clearly in awe, but not shaken like him. And as Professor Sorcell's gaze washed over him, he too pretended merely to be pleasantly surprised. Her eyes focused on him momentarily – Did Maxwell see them narrow? – and then she looked away, dismissing the class with a curt wave. 

Maxwell gathered his items and, as composed as he could, stiffly walked out of the classroom. Ignoring everyone and everything, he silently bee-lined to his room. Arriving at his door, he stumbled inside, slamming the door and collapsing to the ground. 

None alive knew the exact details of the curse that the Gods had blighted the world with, but it was widely known to have chiefly affected the use of magic. The most ancient Archmages, such as the Headmaster, had been alive before the Gods cursed the land, and they had written entire books on this. The Headmster in particular had claimed that prior to the curse, magic was truly limitless. Any competent sixth-spiral mage could raise mountains, spread the seas, or create life from ash, tasks that in the modern-day would require an Archmage, if not multiple.

Unless the divine curse wasn't stagnant. Maybe it wasn't a shackle, but rather a vine, a strangler fig, slowly squeezing the life out of the world. A slow, deliberate death sentence passed down not just to the life the Gods had created, but down to the very fabric of the world itself. If he was right, then the curse was truly insidious, a sinister execution, which raised the question of how long he had left.

Maxwell's hair stood up on its ends, his hands suddenly feeling clammy as he staggered to his feet. A sickening vertigo overtook him, and it required all of its willpower to stay conscious. He stumbled to his desk and grabbed his notebook, the checklist staring back at him. Even the next task, to perceive his own aura, seemed trivial in the face of his sobering realisation. 

No, he could still have time. Maxwell shook his head, clearing his mind. If the curse was truly as insidious as he believed, then it raised the question of how long. How long until the world 'died'. Truthfully, Maxwell did not have the power to do anything about this. He needed to get stronger, and that began with his checklist. Power was his shield, his sword, his multi-tool. If the world had truly begun to die, then he would need to tear every scrap of knowledge and power he could from the abyss.

He would stop holding back. A resolute shiver ran down Maxwell's spine, his hands clenching in determination. There were dozens of goals on his checklist, each more insane than the next. And it would begin at Tempave's thickest congregation of knowledge, the Caelum Academy's Royal Library.