29th of Season of Water, 57th year of the 32nd cycle

  The four lower-layer cultivators drew strange sabers. The weapons’ flat sides were jagged, covered in barbs and hooks, striking or grabbing the usually safe sides with bare hands would cost Newt a chunk of flesh.

  “I’ll handle them.” Newt growled at his teammates to stand back, and they did, while the two guards trembled by the door, still petrified. Newt glanced at the poor mortals and retreated so as not to implicate them in the battle of cultivators.

  “You handle us?”

  “Tear him to pieces!”

  The men charged, slashing at Newt from all angles.

  Newt’s skin rippled as Granite Crust’s black scales manifested, Magmin Scales burning beneath them.

  Danger sense registered nothing, no attacks, no threats, and Newt decided to capture the men alive.

  And do what with them, exactly? Bring them over to the Explorer’s Gate and then what?

  No. The men were hardened criminals, and death or crippling were the best way to handle them.

  Newt whipped the glaive off his back, blocking one strike, and sending a blast of fire at the attackers as his improved Firewall scorched them. At least, Newt thought the technique would burn his enemies, but all of them manifested shields of water, countering his flame.

  Two came at him from the flanks. Newt stabbed at one, who dodged the blow, then smashed the butt end of his glaive into the other. The third and fourth man came straight at him, using the opening their two comrades had made.

  Flames danced atop Newt’s glaive, turning the weapon into a fiery serpent, and Newt spun. Fiery shaft struck the closer one. The man flew back with a grunt, but the other one slammed his saber against Newt. Granite Crust drew some more spiritual energy, balancing the extra fire energy Newt was flaring with, but that bit of extra wasted energy was the extent of the damage.

  The man had over-committed, though. Newt’s left let go of the glaive, and his hand grabbed the cultivator’s throat. The water barrier creaked, but held. Then, fire burst from Newt’s palm. Water turned to steam, and the man’s head was ablaze.

  He opened his mouth in a silent scream, but fire consumed the air. The cultivator’s flesh turned black, and Newt’s stomach flipped.

  Furious howls exploded all around, and the remaining three men grew frenzied. One charged Newt, but the other two charged the mortal guards, stunning Newt. Abandoned by his comrades, the cultivator stood no chance in a one against one. Newt swung his glaive at the attacker, most of his focus still on the two pouncing at the guards.

  The man attacking him unleashed a nauseating stench. His eyes turned red, and he swung his saber to meet Newt’s weapon, but he was too weak. Newt’s blazing glaive threw the saber to the ground. A shield of water painted crimson before the brilliant flame, sprang into existence, but failed to stop the glaive’s descent, which bisected the cultivator in the stench of burning flesh.

  Newt barely acknowledged what had happened as the other two cultivators skewered the mortals. The sabers glowed with an unnatural red light. The blades siphoned the blood from the guards’ terrified bodies, turning them into withered mummies, and Newt’s head spun with the realization.

  The men before him were not unorthodox cultivators. They followed a demonic path.

  “Well, now you’ve done it.” The fatty said, drawing his own weapon, which was of a higher quality than those of his minions. He stabbed the blade into the guard Newt had slapped unconscious, shriveling him into a prune.

  “We were planning to take your clan’s riches and lands, but I guess now it’s personal. I can’t just let old two and three die without washing their lives with the lifeblood of everyone in your clan.” The fatty licked his lips, his runic weapon filling Newt with unease.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Newt glanced back; Obi and the rest had drawn their weapons.

  “I can handle them, you keep yourselves safe.”

  He looked at the three enemies fanning out before him, opening up a bit of distance, drawing them away from his teammates. Then, the fatty stabbed his saber into the corpse of his nearly bisected friend.

  The blade shone with an even fiercer light, drinking blood while the other two once more moved to flank Newt, but after having their fill, the weapons suddenly turned dangerous to Newt’s senses.

  “Are you the Blood Cult?” Newt growled.

  Fatty’s eyes turned wide, surprised for the first time. “What does a kid like you know of the Blood Cult?”

  Dammit. Newt had spoken quietly enough so his friends could not overhear, but the fatty had no such qualms.

  “What an ugly face,” the fatty continued. “Did you try to join, but they rejected you? The cult doesn’t hand out its sacred teachings to just anyone. Especially not dead kids.”

  He lunged forward, his two teammates once more attacking from the flanks, but Newt suddenly sensed no danger from the fatty. In the next moment, the fatty stabbed his saber into the other former comrade, and Newt’s flanks were exposed.

  Both flared with phantom pain, and he jumped forward, gracefully rolling despite wielding a glaive. The fatty seemed just as surprised and abandoned the corpse while his allies’ sabers clashed.

  Newt slashed horizontally, but the fatty dropped to the ground, his arm sinking into the corpse. Newt wanted to stop him, but phantom pain flared in his back. He spun, his glaive whirling like death, severing a cultist at the waist, forcing the other to jump.

  The man tried to follow his leader’s example, his clawed hand stabbing into his friend’s still living torso. The dying man squealed, but Newt would not let the cultist drain his ally. His glaive fell, beheading the cultist.

  Newt spun around, but he was too late. The fatty had already turned his former ally into a withered husk, disturbing red runes glowing on his arms, blood flowing up from his hand, towards his shoulders.

  He seemed to be in a trance, and Newt jumped at him. Glaive slashed down, but the fatty suddenly opened his eyes. They glowed crimson. The fatty sidestepped, saber sweeping upwards, meeting Newt’s weapon. Fire and blood clashed, a rain of sparks falling atop the red-eyed man.

  “I will drain you, boy. Your blood will flow through me and push me to the fourth realm. I will eat your parents and siblings.” The fatty licked his lips, looking behind Newt. “I will eat your women.”

  “Obi! Don’t come anywhere near! I can handle him.”

  “You stand no chance.” The blood flowed from a corpse not two yards behind Newt. It rose into the air, seeping through nothing towards the cultist’s hand. “You are strong, but this town is full of blood.”

  The cultist jumped back towards the mansion and tried to push Newt back. Newt’s body was too strong, and instead of pushing him back, the fatty pushed himself forward. Newt reached out for the ground, rising the paved road. The bump, combined with the sudden surge of motion tripped the fatty.

  Newt swung down with his glaive to finish the job, but the stream of blood turned solid. The fatty blocked the glaive, intercepting the shaft. The blood made solid shattered, landing on the ground in a spray, but it had bought its master enough time. The cultist rolled away, Newt’s glaive smashing the cobbles into molten pieces.

  Fire Burst propelled Newt to the side, and he swung his glaive again at the fleeing fatty when a sudden stab of phantom pain made him launch himself into the air. A javelin of blood shot out of the cultist’s hand and below Newt’s feet, the blood sigils disappearing from his skin and eyes.

  The fatty’s nimble run faltered, his speed dropped, as did the glaive’s head, which severed his arm.

  He screamed as his arm fell, but bizarrely, instead of spraying, the blood flowed out of the severed limb, back towards his body, while the stumped arm did not bleed at all.

  Newt knew there was another trick. Something the fatty could do with that blood, so he did not let him. He swept the glaive upwards diagonally while jumping ahead of the fatty, beheading him mid jump.

  Newt panted. His head snapped left and right as he scanned the empty street, the bodies, and the blood splattered all around. His guts churned, but instead of squatting and heaving, he summoned flames and burned the cultists’ bodies to ash. He had no idea whether they could somehow reassemble themselves, heal, combine or whatever dead Blood Cult members did after dying.

  “What… Was that?” Jasmine spoke first, reminding Newt of yet another problem. What was he supposed to tell his friends? The Blood Cult was a taboo subject.

  ***

  What in the heaven’s name are Blood Cult initiates doing here? Sect Master expected something bad to happen, but cultists appearing in broad daylight, revealing their powers? The imperials are going to crawl all over the region.

  Flameax calmed. He considered the situation rationally, what his duty was. Imperial law dictated that reporting the cultists was paramount. Newstar’s safety was paramount. What if a senior cult member appeared in the few hours Flameax would need to deliver the news to the nearest authority outpost?

  In the end, he dared not risk Newstar’s safety.

  I guess I’m now paying for the days of boredom in the Savage Wood.