Miriam scrambled backward, away from the smoking husk of the microwave, her gaze fixed on Yan Wuchang. The jade pellet was gone, but its warmth still bloomed in her chest, a counterpoint to the chill of institutional linoleum. She saw the grime on his face, the dark smudges of soot, the raw, red burn on his palm where the alchemical pearl had formed. But she also saw something else: a fierce, desperate certainty that had nothing to do with psychosis. “The… the rot,” she stammered, pushing herself to her feet. “It was real. All of it.” “Of course it was real,” Wuchang scoffed, dismissing the two bewildered security orderlies who now gaped at the wreckage. “Did you truly believe the Grandmaster Alchemist of the Azure Ridge Sect spun fairy tales to amuse a flock of mere mortals?” He wiped a smear of soot from his cheek with the back of his hand. “You have been cured. Now, you will aid me in curing the greater ill.” Miriam looked from Wuchang to Toby, who was still slumped against the wall, eyes glazed, muttering about the “Deep Dweller’s melody.” The orderlies, snapping out of their stupor, advanced with batons held ready. Their radios crackled, demanding explanations for the damaged property. “Hold!” Miriam’s voice, though shaky, carried unexpected authority. She stepped between Wuchang and the approaching orderlies. “This is a medical emergency. Patient 404 experienced an acute stress reaction. The… the device malfunctioned.” She straightened her lab coat, finding a wellspring of composure she hadn’t known she possessed. “I administered an experimental sedative. He requires immediate transfer back to the VIP ward for observation.” The orderlies exchanged wary glances. “Doctor Hess, you can’t be serious. Look at this mess!” one of them protested, gesturing at the exploded microwave. “Sergeant Alaric, are you questioning my medical judgment?” Miriam’s tone sharpened, cutting through the chaos. She leaned closer, her eyes locked on his. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to explain to the medical board why a prominent psychiatrist couldn’t manage her patient’s psychomotor agitation, leading to further damage and potential injury?” She swept a look over Wuchang, whose expression remained a mask of arrogant triumph. “He’s still highly agitated. We need to move him, *now*.” Alaric hesitated, then lowered his baton. Dr. Hess had a reputation, and challenging her in a crisis was a career risk. “Fine, Doctor. But he’s still cuffed, and we’re escorting you every step of the way.” “Unnecessary,” Wuchang declared, effortlessly flexing his wrists. The restraints, still latched but no longer connected to anything, fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. “A Grandmaster does not abide by such pedestrian restrictions.” Miriam suppressed a groan. “Right. Sedative’s wearing off faster than I anticipated. We’ll need a stretcher for Patient Vance too, he’s still heavily affected.” She shot Wuchang a look that clearly said, *Play along, or I’ll sedate you myself*. Under Miriam’s surprisingly firm direction, they navigated the labyrinthine corridors. She spun a convincing tale of “acute delusional exacerbation” and “neurological event correlation” to every staff member they encountered, her medical jargon a shield against scrutiny. Wuchang, for his part, strode with an air of magnificent purpose, occasionally offering unsolicited, scathing critiques of the hospital’s “devolved healing tinctures” and “inefficient ward layouts.” Toby, still in his semi-trance, was rolled along on a gurney, occasionally humming a deep, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. They reached the VIP floor, a hush falling over the usually bustling corridor. The air here felt thicker, dense with an acrid pressure that scraped Miriam’s ribs, distinct from simple quiet. Wuchang’s nostrils flared. “Stronger,” he muttered. “The sorrow’s pall is almost fully formed.” Miriam used her keycard, granting them access to Victor Dalgaard’s heavily guarded suite. The internal security team, accustomed to her regular visits, barely glanced up as she led Wuchang and Toby’s gurney past them. The outer chamber was empty. The inner door, normally locked, was ajar. A strangled sob echoed from within. Miriam pushed the door open to find Elias Dalgaard huddled by his brother’s bedside, a small, silver letter opener clutched in his trembling hand. Victor lay still, a cadaverous pallor to his skin, but the air around him shimmered with a sickly, bruised-purple luminescence. Elias looked up, his face streaked with tears, eyes wide with a manic desperation. “It’s spreading,” he choked out, voice raw. “I can feel it. The rot is inside me too. It’s been sleeping, waiting.” He lifted his sleeve, revealing a patch of mottled, blackened skin on his forearm, a horrifying mirror of the decay that had afflicted Miriam moments before. “It’s *my* fault. This is the only way.” He raised the letter opener, its tip glinting in the low light, aiming for his own throat. “Foolish mortal!” Wuchang barked, moving with a speed that blurred him across the room. Elias froze, a gasp caught in his throat, as Wuchang’s two forefingers jabbed precisely into the hollow of his neck, just below his ear. The letter opener clattered to the floor, his arm going limp, entirely paralyzed. Elias crumpled, his eyes still wide, unable to move a single muscle. “Self-sacrifice?” Wuchang sneered, his voice laced with disgust. “How quaint. How utterly pointless. You believe your demise will sever the bloodline and save this city? You understand nothing of true alchemy, nor true atonement. This ‘Taint of the Void’ you speak of is merely an inherited predisposition, a weakness in the spiritual foundations of your lineage. Killing yourself would be like burning down the library to ‘cure’ a poorly written scroll. It solves nothing! It is a coward’s way out, not an alchemist’s solution. You merely pass the burden on, hoping some other fool will pick up the pieces of your negligence.” Miriam stared, aghast. Wuchang’s words were brutal, but there was an undeniable force to them, a conviction that resonated with the terror she now felt. The purple light around Victor intensified, pulsing like a diseased heart. “The curse… it has reached its apex,” Wuchang declared, his gaze fixed on Victor. The unconscious billionaire’s body began to convulse, a sickening ripple passing through his frame. Slowly, impossibly, Victor Dalgaard’s emaciated form lifted from the bed, hovering a foot above the mattress, bathed in the sickly violet glow. The room itself seemed to groan, the air thickening, pressing in. A frigid knot seized Miriam's ribs, a foreign grief bringing salt water to her lashes without reason. The miasma rolled outward from Victor in choking pulses. “The Sorrow-Plague is preparing to detonate,” Wuchang said, his voice grim, devoid of its usual cheeky arrogance. “This entire sector will be consumed by its grief-stricken decay. I can stop it. I can absorb the miasma, draw it into my core and cleanse it. But my core, only recently mended, would be shattered. I would be… diminished. Perhaps irrevocably. Or…” He looked between the floating, tormented Victor and the paralyzed, weeping Elias. “I can let them both perish, and save myself. The plague would be contained, their bloodline extinguished. Tell me, Doctor Hess, what is the value of one life against a thousand? Against a million?” The air crackled with malevolent energy. Victor’s eyes snapped open, a void of purple light, and a choked scream ripped from his throat, not of pain, but of utter, cosmic despair. The ceiling above them began to crack, black ooze oozing from the fissures. The city outside, unknowingly, held its breath. The choice was laid bare: sacrifice himself, or let the world burn.

Cowards and Curses