Nothing to Lose Devon Shih
A long time ago, I lost what felt like everything. A drunk, ruined man broke into our house and crumbled the entire building. My dad shielded us from the falling roof as my mom barely got us out into the yard. No adults survived the scene. The men were crushed in the rubble, and although my mom was rushed off to a hospital for her injuries, she died before she got there. After my sister and I started living with our grandmother, I began to comb through the local library. At first, I wanted to know everything about the man that killed my parents, perhaps to unleash some sort of revenge, but I never did find anything. Grandma talked me out of my foolish thoughts, and I stopped looking. I didn't stop reading, though. Countless more hours of digging through books brought me an encounter with an essential question: I wanted to know how the man had collapsed an entire building. He didn't have so much as a hatchet the night he did it. That question led me to books on the endowments. Written records of lectures from famous grandmasters taught me everything about the endowing arts. And then, I came across an old diary. It was around the same time we lost my
14 | Fiction
sister to sickness, so I read the diary extensively. It kept me busy. From its pages, I learned of many medicinal herbs, animals of interest and philosophy on all things regarding the soul. But there was one section that I constantly revisited; it was about an ancient way of sensing — of endowing arts — and if someone should learn to control the power, they could theoretically crumble a building with nothing but their practiced soul. The power was once only for people who had nothing to lose; people who were so broken, they were ready for any consequence — so they wreaked havoc. These people felt nothing, metaphorically and literally, since all seven endowments needed to be completely depleted in order to perform it. Touch, Taste, Sight, Sound, Smell, Movement and Breath. Made up of the five senses and life-essentials Movement and Breath, those
Graphic by Esther Wan
were the seven, manipulatable, endowments. For a while, I was obsessed with it all — the diary, the endowments, the power; I began teaching myself to manipulate my own endowments, and I even learned to perform even the strongest techniques. Drunk with power, I moved a boulder and killed a deer in the forest. I had done it for my grandma; I thought it would help. It was her who saved me from becoming a monster again. When I brought the deer home, she made me carry it back into the forest. Back to the place it belonged. Then, she and I gave it a proper farewell. I apologized that day. I apologized in the silence. I apologized in the rain. I apologized for hurting others — for hurting myself. I apologized to my parents. I apologized to my sister. Then I apologized to my grandma, who I wish I had thanked instead. Years later, the next time I would perform any endowing arts, I was in the forest again. I used the destructive power to protect a creature that needed me. The day began cold with the crisp air gnawing at my dirt-ridden toes. I found my jacket sprawled over my body and I remembered where I was. Quietly, I rose. The