The master craves an apprentice with a rich intellect and dazzling skills. What he gets are bankrupt minds.
Master Cornelius keeps vigil on a lonely mountain top. Someday, the perfect apprentice will knock on his door. A true scholar of the mystic arts will climb over the heap of weeping gutless gormless feckless hopeless helpless other applicants who crawled to the door before him. The next lad will shine. Magic in his fingers. Flames dancing in his heart. He’ll be the one with magic flare.