A 3-pound chunk of flesh lay on the floor, skin-side up and dripping blood. Surrounding it on all sides were four unmoving bodies, tenderized limbs riddled with holes and gashes. They were almost corpse-like in appearance, though I knew they weren't quite dead.

  I hadn't gotten out unscathed, either. It wasn't clear who the chunk of flesh belonged to.

  One of the near-corpses spoke. "H-how - how did you do this? You were only supposed to be a..."

  "A 3.9?" I laughed. "I called in a favor with the school newspaper. I have a few supporters."

  "What the hell does that-?"

  Another corpse's eyes widened, giving it the appearance of someone who'd been frightened to death. "Fuck! You idiots! I told you we shouldn't have tried it. We got played! This bitch is probably strong enough to make the top ten, but they hid it from us. This was a setup! A fucking setup!"

  I stomped on its neck.

  "Don't be so full of yourself," I said. "After giving Zeke his own treatment a few months ago, all I had to do was sit back and wait for more people to reveal their true colors. You guys are just a few among many."

  Humming in satisfaction, I cracked my neck back and forth. "Still, I can't believe how many take issue with my teaching methods. I'm only helping people understand what they've done to others."

  I lifted my foot, but the corpse didn't respond. Lack of oxygen, perhaps.

  "Stop it!" A third corpse yelled, crawling toward me despite the holes I'd drilled through its leg bones. "Stop it with that stupid fucking attitude! You don't get to come in, do this to us, and act like you're so much better!"

  I raised an eyebrow. "Why can't I? I only broke your legs because you did the same to a helpless low-tier. Meanwhile, I've never even injured an innocent person. Why can't I be better than you?"

  "Nobody buys it anymore," the corpse spat. "All this talk about 'justice' and 'teaching' people a lesson - you think anybody believes it? We're just punching bags in your eyes, training equipment to help you get stronger! You probably feel so slick, fooling people into thinking you're a good person, but everybody can see right through it!"

  "Wow," I giggled. "Are you sure you should be talking right now?"

  I leaned down, pulling its head upward by the hair and meeting its eyes. "The last time someone you were beating up on 'talked back' to you, you broke two of their spinal vertebrae and shattered their left hand. I don't have to be a good person to be better than you."

  Unable to stand, the corpse resorted to thrashing and biting, and I slammed its head back to the ground.

  "Shit! Ow… Fuck! Fuck you! You think you're something special, huh?" It growled in rage. "Just because you were born a bit stronger, with a little more potential - it's all fucking luck!"

  The corpse spat out a mouthful of blood, staring with malice in its eyes. "If I was born as lucky as you, you think I couldn't prance around all high and pompous like you are? Just think for a second! My parents are both measly mid-tiers – I'm born to be a loser, especially here at Wellston! Every time I squeak out a win, it might be my last. So whenever I win, I beat them down extra hard so they don't try again! What the hell is so wrong with that?"

  "Right." I rolled my eyes. "Like you were oh-so-scared of that low-tier boy whose only ability is jumping a little high."

  I thinned the claws on my right hand into long, sharp needles. "After months of dealing with trash like you, I've heard every excuse under the sun: that if it wasn't for X or Y circumstance or so-and-so family member…" I pressed down on the spine with my transformed fingers, surgically, producing cries and shrieks as I cracked a cervical vertebra into pieces.

  "But with just a little bit of digging, their so-called 'justifications' all turned out to be irrelevant excuses."

  I moved on to the second vertebra, and the screams doubled in volume. "I treat students every day, working with Doctor Darren. That's how I know who my targets are - by examining their injuries and listening to their stories. The names of your little group popped up. Your names appeared in the mouths of students who won't be walking for multiple weeks. When they wake up, they'll thank me for helping them."

  There was a period of silence in response, which I used to cool myself down… And then I noticed, belatedly, that I'd been ranting without an audience to listen. The corpse had passed out cold, likely from the pain.

  "Monster… Get away…" It mumbled softly, mouth muscles moving on pure mindless instinct.

  How annoying.

  It was one thing to be name-called. I could easily dismiss it as ungenuine provocation intended to get under my skin. But to be truly seen as a 'monster' - by scum I considered even worse than myself, no less… I turned around, walked away, and deactivated my abilit-

  I frowned, deactivating my abili–

  What?

  I deactivated my abil—

  What? Why haven't they disappeared?

  My claws remained. Somehow, the claws remained despite my attempts to dismiss them. After glancing down at my hands, I realized that the odd, red material constructing them had reached all the way past my elbow.

  Odd. That's never happened before. Wait a second… is it still-?

  It was spreading up my arms - quick enough that I could feel the sensation against my skin. Yes, it was like liquid now, dripping down to my legs and submerging my torso in thick red sludge.

  Panicked, I tried to tell it to stop, to command it back to its original form, but it didn't respond to my mental commands. A nauseous dread began to spread through my body, following the lead of the crimson tide, and I screamed for help, yelling out as loud as I could muster. But the hallway was mysteriously empty, and I was helpless to resist the waves of bloody quicksand devouring my skin. Soon, it was up to my chest, up to my shoulders. I thrashed wildly and struggled as I tried to run away, but it held me too tightly to escape. It swiftly crawled to my neck, spreading up to my chin, and I took a last, gasping breath as the substance subsumed my entire body.

  I was drowning, drowning in the devil's flesh.

  .

  .

  .

  I woke up.

  A cross-section of sunlight filtered through the window, striking my eyelids in an oddly peaceful way. As I came to, I realized I was lying in my familiar hospital bed, sighing a heavy breath of relief. I sat up against my pillow, rubbed my eyes with my index fingers, and stared blankly at my palms as they vibrated in the air. My hands were shaky from stress, sore and tender like the rest of my body (as of recent) - but at the very least, they hadn't turned into a living, moving mass of red. It had only been a dream.

  Well, not 'only' a dream. I took a few minutes to sort out subconscious-generated memories from real ones.

  By my best judgment, the fight had actually occurred - I'd confronted a group of four decently powerful mid-tiers on the recommendation of some student patients, banking on the fact that my out-of-date 'official' ability level would cause them to underestimate me. After eking out a victory with awful injuries, I had taken the opportunity to unload my usual 'I'm only doing what you did' performance. Then, rather than being swallowed by red sludge like in my dream, I'd instead vomited all over the floor and limped back to the school infirmary.

  It was not an uncommon course of events - at least in the past four months of my life. My recent day-to-day could be best characterized by the sad fact that I thought of both the bed in my dorm room and this particular window-side infirmary cot as 'my bed.' Unfortunately for my self-respect, I was equally familiar with both.

  'The fiercer the fight, the higher the growth.' Beginning with Zeke four months ago, I'd been following the words of world-famous Researcher Amon Akbas, the grandfather of modern society's understanding of ability progression.

  The advice was also, in his words, an oversimplification. The more complicated truth was that several conditions generally correlated with ability growth. From what modern-day scientists could find in his writings, he had listed off the correlative factors of limit-pushing aura usage, high bloodstream adrenaline concentration, hypervigilant mental state, genuine fear for one's life/health, and strong negative or aggressive emotions.

  These were the so-called 'five factors' - and they had remained at the core of ability science for centuries. Any proposed 'growth activity' had to induce similar conditions in the body and mind, or the academic community would dismiss it out of hand.

  No known action produced these conditions more completely or intensely than a severe, aggression-fueled battle between two closely-matched sides. My near-daily attempts at 'teaching' had an alternative motive along the same lines. I was trying to induce in myself the 'five factors' at the highest possible rate.

  I challenged the students I knew were the most vicious. But it wasn't simply because they deserved it most - it also made certain that I was genuinely afraid of what would happen if I lost. I caused unnecessary pain not only to instill remorse or sympathy for their past victims but to provoke my own emotions.

  My main saving grace through all this time had been the infirmary.

  I stretched out, focusing on the sensations in my sore muscles and joints. I realized that I felt frighteningly fine. There was a bit of pain and fatigue, yes, but nothing that would keep me from going to class. Wellston High's healing facilities were truly among the best of any school.

  "Hey, Meili? Are you awake?" Darren's voice called from the other side of the room.

  "Yes! I'm up!" I hollered back. "What were the results of the scan?"

  He walked over to my bedside, choosing to speak face-to-face rather than disturb the patients further. "Slight improvement, like usual. You're nearing the second half of 4.1. If you can keep up the same growth rate for another few weeks, you'll move up once more."

  "That's not bad," I said with a smile. "Weren't we just speculating a few days ago that my growth would start to slow? Looks like I'm still going just as strong."

  "I wouldn't go that far," he replied. "Of the past four months of our experiment, you've gotten into, by far, the most violent conflicts in this most recent month. That you're growing at the same rate implies a level of diminishing returns."

  More nuanced than I was being, I thought. "I agree that putting in more effort for the same result isn't great. Hmm... okay, where are we in terms of growth factor attribution? Are we beating a p-value of 0.002 now?"

  "God. Please don't remind me. We're breaking every rule of statistics by trying to calculate a p-value using a single-person sample." Darren groaned, shaking his head. "But fine. If we ignore the obvious problem, then yes. With the fake formula we're using, the results we're seeing are significant. Your sudden flip-flop from fighting once a month to nearly every day created an undeniable change."

  I smirked. "You've been practicing your statistical vernacular, hmm? Is that how you'll phrase our findings at the research summit?"

  "No," he replied flatly. "I'm going to dress our results up as being far more important than they actually are and use the connections at the conference to get offers in the private sector. Then I'll use the offers to re-negotiate a 35% salary boost with Headmaster Vaughn."

  He grinned to himself, forming a dark look of glee that I'd been seeing from time to time.

  The upcoming Ability Research Summit would be the culmination of four months of work on both of our sides. Mine was to get a particular research internship in New Boston, while Darren's was to get paid what he was worth. I had decided on this path shortly before the Zeke incident - and from then on, I had been 'teaching sympathy' to Wellston High's most terminally violent students.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  My circumstances at the time were rather unique. I had gone from barely participating in any actual combat to suddenly fighting more than just about anyone. The switch was so close to instant, in fact, that one could cleanly separate the 'before' and 'after' phases of my 'lifestyle change' and draw a uniquely solid conclusion about the causal relationship between combat frequency and ability progression.

  Once I had realized this, I immediately went to Doctor Darren for his expertise. I also forwarded my idea to the Lingard clan. Things had aligned suspiciously well (more likely, that was just how life went with the support of a clan with twenty god-tiers), and now we were standing on the cusp of success.

  "Jeez. You adults sure are scary!" I half-joked. "I don't know... I'm still a bit worried. Do you really think we'll do well with presenting?"

  He raised an eyebrow, gesturing at my Lingard clan earrings. "Your clan contract is pulling a hell of a lot of weight to get us in, Meili. The annual Ability Research Summit is so damn prestigious that even an average performance will work fine. As long as we don't make complete fools of ourselves, we'll have a few hours of afterpartying to jab elbows with the biggest names in the space."

  "I get that," I said with a nod. "Supposedly, even the Vice President of NXGen will be attending. I'm just worried that a high-level audience will make for more difficult questioning. You said it yourself, there's a lot in our case study that they could poke at."

  "That's the right intuition, but not quite right," he said. "With an audience of high-profile scientists, findings that specifically contradict the predominantly accepted view become incredibly difficult to defend. Our research supports the current frontrunning narratives using a novel methodology. And just as importantly, the results are satisfying to listen to."

  "Oh." I realized what he was getting at. "Ooh. I get it. What kind of ability researcher doesn't want to hear about the girl who tripled her growth rate by getting into more fights? Especially when it conforms to all of their own findings on how ability progression works."

  "Exactly. We're there as a light appetizer, something fun to spark the audience's interest and get the show on the road." Darren smiled, reaching down to pat me on the shoulder. "Still, an appetizer is better than anything I ever thought I could achieve. I'll have to thank you if all goes well."

  I sputtered, slightly flustered by his uncharacteristic behavior. "Thanks? But I'm benefiting from this just as much as you are, and you're the one making things work! Most of my contribution is selfishly going around and picking fights for growth's sake. You've written almost all of the analysis, and you're also doing the measurements and calculations…"

  He shook his head. "You could find a hundred researchers who are smarter or work harder than I do. The summit organizers invited maybe ten of them. You're the one who got us through the door."

  I winced, not knowing how to respond. (At least, not without breaking into unproductive ranting about how fucked up it was).

  Plans were going perfectly, with success peeking through the horizon. Holding a positive and optimistic conversation was still somehow difficult.

  After living in this world for what was approaching five years, I found myself making the same observation. Along with my parents, Darren was among the three adults I understood best, and the picture I got of the typical adult psyche was objectively depressing.

  Naturally, I wasn't the largest fan of working adult society in this world. There was a particularly gauche analogy that I kept on going back to: even the successful adults I knew reminded me of bullied, disabled children.

  A little girl, socially ostracized by all her classmates for her slight speech impediment - she represented my mother. Then there was the image of a little boy with a cleft lip, perpetually excluded from playing baseball with the other boys at school - that was my father and Doctor Darren. They were fully capable of participating and contributing just as well as anybody. But for some unreasonable factor outside of their control, they had been slotted for the position of second-class human being.

  In my old world, these people comprised a small percentage of the population. In this world, the vast majority were second (third, fourth, fifth…)-class. Nearly all people were born with a massive strain, a set of harsh restrictions, on what they could or couldn't do - the type of hard limit that only a tiny minority labored under in my previous life. It was difficult to wrap my head around, harder to get used to, and impossible to accept.

  I pulled my phone out of my skirt pocket and checked the time. The screen flashed 12:17 - I grimaced at the little 'PM' beside it. It wasn't as extreme an aftermath as some of my previous fights, but I had still slept through all four of my morning classes.

  "I have to go eat lunch," I settled on saying, stopping myself from thinking any further.

  .

  .

  .

  Popularity in a world of quantifiable superpowers was a curious thing, doubly so at a place like Wellston High. Social competence and physical appearance mattered, of course, and there was still some emphasis on whether or not you 'knew' all the right people. But those things only mattered as tiebreakers when comparing individuals of roughly similar power levels.

  If an elite-tier student suddenly transferred to the school, it wouldn't matter that they knew nobody - they would still be immensely more 'popular' than a mid-tier who 'knew' everybody. Appearances were also far less of a differentiating factor. Not only did people simply care less, but the active, combat-focused culture seemed to have created a world where high physical fitness (i.e., attractiveness) was simply the norm.

  Still, I was an otherworlder with a deep-seated mental framework. I often found myself unreasonably occupied with my appearance. Especially after rolling into the cafeteria straight out of bed, I was far more concerned with my unmade hair than the soup and sandwich I'd ordered, constantly brushing it this way or that way with my phone as a mirror.

  "Let me get this straight," Ventus said, swallowing a large bite of his burger. "You just completely thrashed a group of strong, feared upperclassmen and walked it off... but you're worried people will think your hair looks weird? Really?"

  I felt a light blush coating my cheeks, and I shrugged, trying to brush it off. "I mean, I just got out of bed and didn't have time to style it how I normally do…"

  He snorted. "I guess. I'd say you look just fine, though."

  "Thanks," I said, taking my first bite of the sandwich. "I think it's a matter of perspective, you know? I wouldn't mind if my largest pitfall was a little thing like appearance. I'm pretty happy to be worrying about something so small."

  "Oof." Ventus mimed an emotional injury, putting a hand over his chest. "That's a good one. Point definitely taken. I'd much rather be stressing over my hair than my power level."

  "I didn't even mean it like that," I said with a smile. "But now that I think about it, you probably shouldn't be talking. What's it like mud-wrestling down in the... triple-digit rankings? Is that right? I didn't know the numbers went that high."

  Ventus glared, slurping extra aggressively from his straw. "I don't know. After I moved up to 98 on Monday, I forgot about everything that happened before that."

  I laughed, then realized my tomato soup was quickly getting cold - and that I hadn't even touched it. I tried a spoonful and winced. Soup was better eaten warm.

  "Wanna trade?" Karrin, one of the strong-ish freshman girls in my clique, poked me in the arm. "I love anything tomato, and I wouldn't mind having it cold. You can have my delicious kale salad…" She made a gagging noise.

  "Sure." We swapped bowls, and I took a glance at her features. Light brown eyes with mid-length amber hair. Long eyelashes on a slim face. Very little makeup.

  "Mmm! Thanks!" She ate a mouthful. "Hey, did you see the match last night between Imand Strauss and Linda Acerno? It was pretty cool!"

  "I was probably sleeping off my injuries in the infirmary." I flashed an embarrassed smile. "Just woke up ten minutes ago, actually. Was there an upset? Everyone said that Linda Acerno would be able to take the title from him."

  "Exactly! Because she's immune to the effects of venom with her body made of fire - but I knew better from the beginning!" Karrin beamed, excited. "When she went for her sun-bomb attack, Imand Strauss unleashed some weird neon yellow gas… And then there was a massive explosion!"

  "There was a double knockout, and it was a tie," Ventus complained. "It's not like you got it right either. You said she would lose, and we said she would win! We were both wrong!"

  "But I was right that Imand would keep his title." She had a smug look on her face. "A draw was all he needed! And now, every time Linda Acerno challenges him, he can just use the same move. He might be able to hold onto the championship for longer than anyone else in history!"

  Ventus groaned. "I don't understand why you're such a diehard for him. The only reason he wins every time is because he can make his stuff invisible. That's it! It's all cheap tricks in the end…"

  "Well, I don't see you going around making your wind invisible!" Karrin said. "It always has a purple glow to it! Maybe if you could, you would be an elite-tier already."

  "Wha-? You're a 3.2, just like me!" Ventus protested. "Obviously, everyone fighting in the Champions League can do things that we can't. I just think Linda Acerno deserves the title - she turns into the sun with her signature move!"

  "Right." Karrin rolled her eyes. "It's just the sun, not that she's a redhead twenty-something who sweats through her tank top."

  "I see the way you look at your boy, alright? You can't shame me!"

  I tuned out their familiar squabbling, focusing back on my sandwich. Then, my reflection on my phone screen distracted me once again, and I was back to picking at my hair.

  Karrin wasn't too far from the norm when it came to girls of her age and level. Interested in ability fights, with a slight bias toward slick, powerful young men like Imand Strauss. She wore next to no makeup but was athletic with a great physique - something like 0.3 on my old life's tomboy scale.

  With appearance as less of a differentiator when it came to social status, nearly everyone put less emphasis on attractiveness for its own sake. The concept of 'beauty' still mattered, yes. But it appeared in conversation, art, and literature far less often than I was used to, holding a shockingly small slice of the pie that was broader culture. Ventus and Karrin would swap celebrity crushes - but appearance was only a part of it, and talk of abilities always came in.

  Was Imand Strauss' Venom Control better than Linda Acerno's Inferno Body? Which one was cooler? Stronger in a fight? More useful day-to-day? As Ventus and Karrin argued, I realized that I'd heard far more debates along the same lines than pure discussions of celebrity attractiveness.

  Strong was the new beautiful, the latest version of handsome. I found it hard to decide if it was shallow or high-minded of me that I couldn't get on board.

  Eventually, the two seemed to come to a tentative peace. Apparently satisfied with the case he'd made for Linda Acerno supremacy, Ventus turned back to me.

  "What were we talking about before?" he asked rhetorically. "Oh, right. I think I disagree with what you were saying about worrying. I mean, wouldn't it be better to have no worries at all? I think that's what I'd want."

  On the side of my vision, I spotted Arlo sitting a few seats away. Though he typically tried to hide emotions like interest, his body language made me think that he was. Karrin and a few others sitting at the table turned toward me, wanting to listen.

  "Ehh… Maybe?" I made a 'so-so' gesture with my hand. "If you're actually living a perfect life, then I guess you would have no worries. But if someone isn't troubled about anything, I think it's probably just because they're forgetting something or they aren't thinking hard enough."

  Ventus's face scrunched up. "Isn't that kind of depressing, though? You'd almost be doomed to stress about things for your entire life, no matter what. I would hope that all the worries disappear after you reach a certain level…"

  I took a bite of salad (not great tasting, but my body was probably thanking me). "I don't think so." I paused, trying to think of a good way to explain my thought. "How do I say this… Stress helps us live more complete lives, right? I think someone who always has a few worries will end up living a fuller life than someone who stops worrying after reaching a specific level of success."

  "Really?" Ventus asked. "So, would you rather be a billionaire who's constantly worrying about something or a billionaire who has no worries at all? I know who I'd pick."

  "The one with no worries would be way happier," I replied. "But being happier doesn't mean he lived a better life, and having 'no worries' doesn't mean there's nothing in his life to worry about, only that he hasn't thought that far. I'm not sure who I'd choose."

  Ventus furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head back and forth in thought. "Ugh. Maybe I should take that ethics class with Mrs. Athanasiou before talking about this type of stuff. I have a feeling there's a whole bunch flying over my head right now."

  I shrugged. "I don't really know what I'm saying, either. I read a few chapters of a textbook once, and that was about it."

  There was a bit of an awkward silence at the table, and I gave myself a mental eyeroll. Maybe not the best topic for a lunch-period conversation.

  Arlo, thankfully, decided to contribute.

  "I think that's pretty logical," he said. "Nobody lives a perfect life, so having no worries results in missed opportunities for improvement. That's what you meant, right?"

  Oddly, the image of Arlo's mother and father appeared in my mind.

  "I'm kind of mad at myself for not phrasing it exactly like that," I said. "That's exactly it."

  Ventus mouth made an 'o' shape. "...And because everyone has weaknesses, it's good to be weak in the unimportant areas and strong in important ones. So worrying about little things can be a good sign."

  "Yeah," I replied with a smile. "But now it feels like we're taken a really long-winded route just to make fun of my hair. It's pretty 'weak,' isn't it?"

  "Uhh… I didn't want to say anything," Ventus said, scratching his cheek sheepishly, "but it does look a little weird when you're wearing it all the way down like that."

  Arlo nodded, blank-faced."I didn't realize how much that ponytail was saving your haircut. Now it looks like someone put a wet blanket on your head."

  The table burst out into laughter, and I felt happy.

  ……

  But not quite.

  It didn't feel right to feel happy. Things were going too smoothly, and my problems were so minor, so trivial in significance, that I became worried all over again - because deep down, I clung to the idea that I didn't deserve it. Why hadn't the world punished me yet? Why was I doing so well? Why wasn't there a catch? I'd tortured dozens of classmates for my own selfishness, going lower and lower, but I had only received benefit after benefit.

  My power level was much higher now, strong enough to break into the top ten if I wanted. My grade seemed to respect me even more after watching me ruthlessly beating down those lower than me. But I was being undeniably selfish. Causing pain and suffering that I wasn't even sure would make the school all that much better. And was my performance of goodness really that convincing? Or were all the freshmen simply trying to curry more favor as I gained more prestige and reputation? Either way, life had gotten easier the more violent I got. Violence got easier the more violent I got.

  I'd started with Zeke and hoped that the world would send me punishment.

  It hadn't.

  I moved on to the people most similar to Zeke, reported joyseekers who chased the high of hurting someone else.

  I grew stronger.

  I broadened my scope simply to 'those who have attacked someone helpless or innocent.'

  My growth continued, and even more quickly than before.

  If a morally righteous saint had been reincarnated in my place, she would've been lucky even to reach high-tier as an adult. Meanwhile, I was a 4.1 at only 14 years old - my goal of god-tier was beyond the mark of 'realistic' and closer to 'likely.'

  Yes, this world was one where cruel people won and kind people fell behind. Losing ideologies went extinct. That was all there was to it.

  I was a winner. But I nearly wished I'd lost.