I stared at the crystal earring for a long time.
At some point, breakfast had arrived. At some point, it had gone cold. At some point, I had apparently eaten it. I couldn't remember any of those events. My attention remained fixed on the small crystal resting inside the wooden box.
The earring wasn't magical.
At least, no device I had ever tested it with had managed to detect anything unusual. There were no inscriptions hidden inside the metal, no mana signatures, no dormant enchantments. It appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary piece of jewelry.
Yet it was the only possession my mother had carried with her from Xenria.
The only thing she'd insisted on keeping.
The only thing she'd left for me.
Unfortunately, she'd forgotten to include an explanation.
"Very helpful," I muttered.
Closing the box, I slipped it back into my bag. The morning hymns ended shortly afterward and the prayer hall gradually emptied. Worshipers filed out in small groups while volunteers prepared for the next service. After sitting there for another minute, I stood up.
It was time.
An hour later, the city of Umria had become a distant shape behind me.
The dirt road followed the coastline before curving around a series of rocky cliffs. Most people avoided this area because there was absolutely nothing here worth visiting. For me, that was precisely what made it useful. I continued walking until I reached a narrow opening in the rock face.
Calling it a cave was generous.
It was more like a crack that happened to be large enough for a human to stand in.
Still, it was private.
That was all I needed.
I set my bag on the ground and began unpacking. A notebook covered with years of observations. Mana crystals. Copper wire. Insulating cloth. A mana meter. Some crude tools. Two sandwiches. The wooden box.
One by one, I arranged everything in neat rows.
Years ago, I'd stopped feeling embarrassed about how ridiculous my experiments looked. Scientific breakthroughs rarely resembled the dramatic discoveries shown in magazines. In reality, they looked like piles of junk spread across a dusty cave floor by someone who desperately needed a better hobby.
Unfortunately, I didn't have a better hobby.
I had an obsession instead.
For three years, I'd chased a possibility that every professor, researcher, and practicing mage insisted was impossible.
Increasing magic power.
According to conventional magical theory, a person's maximum magic output was determined at birth. You could improve your control, increase efficiency, learn better techniques, and acquire stronger spells. But the size of your magic core was fixed.
End of discussion.
The problem was that reality kept refusing to cooperate with theory.
Artificial cores existed.
Mana boosters existed.
Military enhancement programs existed.
Somewhere along the way, somebody had clearly discovered methods of altering magical performance. The official explanation was always wrapped in technical jargon and legal restrictions, but the conclusion remained the same.
Change was possible.
The question was how.
I opened my notebook and flipped through page after page of notes. Most of the entries ended the same way. Failed. Inconclusive. Needs verification. Stupid idea.
Three years of effort condensed into hundreds of pages.
Three years spent pursuing an answer that almost nobody else cared about.
If I was being honest, I wasn't completely convinced by my latest theory. There were too many assumptions, too many unknowns, and far too many places where an explosion could occur.
Still, it was the most promising lead I'd found so far.
And, more importantly, it was the last one.
For a while, I simply sat there staring at the notebook.
The cave was quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. Occasionally, a gust of wind would make its way through the narrow opening and cause a few loose pages to flutter.
Three years.
Three years of this.
Three years of chasing theories that nobody else cared about because nobody else had a reason to care. If you were born with a good magic core, life was simple. You trained. You improved. You joined a university and eventually became a respected practitioner.
The entire system was built around people who had already won the lottery.
People like me, well, good luck!
I flipped to one of the older pages.
My handwriting was messier back then.
"Attempt 17: prolonged mana exposure."
Failed.
"Attempt 24: resonance amplification."
Failed.
"Attempt 31: external stimulation using concentrated mana fields."
Failed.
There were dozens of them.
Some had failed because the theory was wrong. Others had failed because I couldn't afford the proper equipment. One of them had failed because I'd accidentally fallen asleep halfway through the setup after a sixteen-hour shift at the mine.
That one still annoyed me.
I wasn't sure whether it counted as a scientific failure or a personal one.
Eventually, I found the latest entry.
Attempt 67.
No failure mark yet.
Just a question mark.
A hopeful little question mark.
The most dangerous symbol in the world.
Hope had a habit of encouraging people to do stupid things.
I glanced at the mana crystals arranged on the floor.
Each one represented several days' worth of savings.
Technically, I should have sold them and used the money for food.
Instead, I was about to feed them into an experiment with an estimated success rate best described as "optimistic fantasy."
Uncle Hess would've called me an idiot.
Then he would've helped me carry the equipment.
I smiled despite myself.
"Thanks, old man."
For a brief moment, I considered walking away.
The thought surprised me.
Not because I hadn't considered giving up before.
I had.
Many times.
Usually around two in the morning.
This was the first time the thought had seemed reasonable.
I had enough money to survive a few weeks.
There was a technician position waiting for me if the exams didn't work out.
Life wouldn't be particularly exciting, but it wouldn't be terrible either.
There were worse fates than stable employment.
The realization made me uncomfortable.
Because part of me wanted to accept it.
Part of me was tired.
Tired of studying.
Tired of failing.
Tired of pretending the next attempt would somehow be different.
I closed the notebook.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
The funny thing was, I wasn't even rejecting the technician job.
I was rejecting the idea of quitting before I knew for certain.
Maybe that made me stubborn.
Maybe it made me stupid.
I stood up and finally began assembling the apparatus.
The design wasn't complicated.
Complicated designs failed.
Simple designs exploded.
I preferred the second category because at least you learned something afterward.
The first mana crystal was mounted inside a copper framework. The second was positioned opposite it. Thin lengths of wire connected the two through a crude regulator I'd built from scavenged components.
To anyone passing by, it would've looked ridiculous.
To me, it looked like three years of frustration.
Once everything was in place, I sat cross-legged in front of the setup and took a deep breath.
There was no elegant way to explain what I was attempting.
Official magical theory claimed that every magic core naturally rejected foreign mana signatures.
I believed that statement was incomplete.
The human body adapted to all sorts of external stimuli.
Muscles adapted.
Bones adapted.
The nervous system adapted.
Why would the magic core be different?
My hypothesis was simple.
Repeated exposure to carefully regulated external mana would force the core to compensate, however slightly.
Not enough to create dramatic changes overnight.
Just enough to shift the baseline.
Enough to matter.
Enough to push me over four MCass.
That was all I needed.
Not greatness.
Not genius.
Four MCass.
It was almost laughable.
A lifetime's ambition reduced to a single number.
I activated the first crystal.
The cave immediately filled with soft blue light.
The mana meter flickered.
Stable.
Good.
I activated the second.
The reading rose slightly.
Still stable.
Better.
Now came the dangerous part.
Slowly, I extended my senses toward the flow of mana coursing through the apparatus. My control wasn't exceptional, but after years of practice I'd become reasonably precise.
The energy drifted toward me.
My magic core responded immediately.
A familiar sensation spread through my chest.
Pressure.
Warmth.
Resistance.
I gritted my teeth and continued.
The readings climbed.
Thirty.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
The regulator vibrated slightly.
That was expected.
Forty-five.
Fifty.
The glow intensified.
Something inside me stirred.
I leaned forward.
Excitement flooded my thoughts.
For the first time since beginning the experiment, reality was behaving exactly as predicted.
The crystals weren't destabilizing.
The regulator hadn't melted.
Nothing was on fire.
A genuinely historic moment.
Then the mana meter surged.
Fifty.
Sixty.
Seventy.
"Eighty?"
I stared at the display.
"Eighty?"
That wasn't supposed to happen.
Nothing in my calculations suggested—
The regulator burst apart.
The first crystal shattered.
The second followed less than half a second later.
A wall of mana slammed into me like a runaway carriage.
The cave disappeared.
The world became blue light.
And then pain.
A spectacular amount of pain.
My final coherent thought before colliding with the cave wall was remarkably simple.
I knew I should've become a technician.