45th of Season of Fire, 56th year of the 32nd imperial era,

  the day of the summer solstice

  The mine shaft was dim, illuminated by the dull glow of manarium detritus sparsely embedded into the walls. The dry air suffused with fine dust hampered Newt’s breathing. Still, the young man’s worn out pickaxe hit the granite with a bang, sending a spark and a trickle of crushed stone to the ground.

  Nothing.

  Steel struck rock again and again, much like it had the past three years, ever since Victor, Newt’s uncle, had turned him into a slave and imprisoned him in the depleted manarium mine.

  Digging for the mana-infused crystals was a fool’s errand, a prison, and a humiliation served all at once. And yet, Newt had no choice. In the early days, he was defiant, then he grew hungry. He started considering himself, his past actions, and how his decisions had led him where he was.

  Day after day, moon after moon, the same questions haunted him.

  Did this happen because of me? Was I such a poor heir? He considered his studies, and even if he couldn’t call himself a genius, he was hardworking and studious. He might not have been kind, and he gasped whenever a raptor appeared unexpectedly, but he was neither cruel, nor overly haughty.

  Another spark burst into life before darkness swallowed it.

  Would Uncle Victor have defeated Father if he had not captured me and used me as a hostage?

  He knew the answer, and the universe responded with another spark, a brief flare of light which illuminated the darkness.

  Is this divine punishment?

  Spark.

  What happened to Mother?

  Spark.

  To Father?

  Spark.

  Will I find a stray gem and get meat tomorrow?

  Spark.

  The youth toiled, producing flashes of light in the dark, his scrawny frame digging inside what history has proven to be his ancestor’s ruinous mistake.

  Newt’s ancestor, Grandmaster Blaze Salamandra, had purchased the Dragon’s Rest volcano eighteen centuries ago. Five hundred years before he would die of old age, the patriarch of the once mighty Salamandra family had gambled all his wealth on a slim chance to increase his realm, to extend his longevity. He followed a folktale, which stated that the entire mountain range was a magma dragon’s burial ground.

  The grand ancestor’s gamble failed. The mountain became his tomb, and his descendants declined, wasting centuries on digging and failing to find anything more extraordinary than a mid-sized manarium deposit deep in the mountain’s bowels. A crystal vein not worth half the price they had paid.

  Even after their great patriarch’s death, the Salamandras searched for the dead dragon’s double core. Generation after generation, they grew poorer and poorer, weaker and weaker, swallowing humiliation and disrespect from local upstarts, until the mighty noble household was but a pale shadow of its illustrious past.

  Finally, they exhausted the manarium mine during Newt’s father’s reign. With their meager source of income gone, the Salamandras’ prestige plummeted, falling from the status of a small local power to a family of irrelevant, low-realm mages living at the fringes of the empire.

  And Newt, Newt wasn’t even a knight, the lowliest of three awakened classes. He was sixteen; once an heir of a lineage with proud tradition, if not wealth, and a shoo-in for a dinosaur’s core, to becoming a mage. And yet his uncle threw him into the gloom when he was merely thirteen. His scrawny hands clutched the pickaxe’s haft, smashing at the rock with despair and impotent rage. Always asking the same question.

  Is this my fault?

  Metal met granite, and another spark flew in the dark as the sun blazed high above the ground, beyond Newt’s gloomy world. The gigantic celestial body reached its zenith, baptizing the forgotten grave with the purest fire energy.

  The unremarkable spark, one of the countless tiny flames Newt had offered as sacrifice over the years, froze mid air. Newt struck the rock again, sacrificing yet another handful of granite, and a second spark blossomed, freezing just beneath her sister. The cosmic power fueled the twins, and in an instant, they grew from imperceptible silvery dots into eye-sized white marbles, then into miniature suns larger than a grown man’s fist.

  Newt covered his eyes to shield himself from the blazing orbs, frozen in shock and fear. The air shimmered with scalding heat. The localized conflagration should have turned Newt into a charred skeleton, but the burning fury disappeared, becoming a life-nurturing warmth.

  “What the?” the youth said, his voice cracking, his throat dry.

  He removed his hands from his eyes and gazed at the orbs. They were the same size, but of different colors. The lower sphere pulsated like a heart, dark red, the color of spilled blood marbled with crimson lines, throbbing with power. The upper orb was brownish-yellow, its tiny form pulsating with the weight of the world.

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  Newt gaped in wonder. He knew what had appeared before him. His tutor had told him the stories and family legends since before he could remember. The stars which accepted him, which searched for a new master, were the dead dragon’s double core. The unreachable goal his ancestor labored for centuries to find. They had to be.

  Newt reached for the lower orb, his hand shaking from excitement. The pickaxe clattered to the ground, echoing in the flickering shadows. Newt’s heart trembled in euphoria as his fingers crawled towards the fire powerful enough to burn bronze.

  Suddenly, the tiny suns flickered. The stellar alignment which fueled them, which made their inner worlds visible, had passed, its energy receding.

  The panicked young man pounced, his hand no longer inching forward, but darting for the cores. If he could reach them in time, if he could internalize the dragon’s cores, and claim the ancient beast’s realm, he would immediately become a powerhouse, a dragon’s heir.

  His fingers passed through the illusory flame, grabbing nothing, and in that moment, Newt’s elation turned to despair.

  “No!”

  Newt’s head spun. He wanted to die then and there, to end himself with the pickaxe. He was too late. The chance had slipped through his hesitant hands. Once more he was the architect of his family’s doom.

  Just as he screamed in misery and self-loathing, fire incinerated his heart, and a star exploded behind his eyes.

  Writhing in pain, Newt collapsed, thinking himself dead.

  He awoke drenched in sweat, blistering heat searing his skin and lungs, warm, hard rock pressing against his back. His eyes stung, and he squinted upwards before opening them wide.

  Hell. He was in hell. The sky above burned, its expanse bright red, painting Newt’s blue irises violet. Strange black pines obscured half the scene, and a sulfurous reek assailed Newt’s nostrils as he watched plumes of red smoke drift like clouds high above.

  “Where am I?” he whispered in surprise before recalling the burning sensations which caused him to faint.

  Newt clenched his chest, his bony fingers pressing against his ribs, but the pain was gone. Still laying on the ground, he struggled to make sense of his situation. His mind raced before he sighed in dejection.

  I failed to integrate the magma dragon’s cores, but at least I suffered no injuries. I’m either dead, or this is a secret realm created when the dragon died. Newt knew a lot of magic-related information. He had spent most of his childhood preparing for the day he would refine a dinosaur’s core to form a core of his own and start gathering mana. The grand ceremony should have taken place on his fifteenth name-day, had fate not played a cruel game with his life.

  Newt struggled to control his breathing, and after calming down enough, he scanned his surroundings, remaining on his back.

  He was in an unknown, exotic forest. The sloped ground was hard and black, like lava which had cooled, its gentle waves pressing against his skeletal frame. Based on the steep incline, he sprawled atop a mountain, his feet facing down. The tall pines had the identical shade of tar as the rocky landscape, their leaves pinky-long spines, their conical crowns spaced far away enough to see the sky and the drifting red clouds, but probably not enough to fit another tree.

  There was no movement nor visible danger, so after several minutes of lying patiently, Newt rose to his feet.

  The pervading heat was insufferable and seemed to grow as he stood. It pinched and clawed at Newt’s skin, drilling through it, but caused him no harm. The needles of energy pierced deeper into his flesh and followed a flow only to disappear between his eyebrows and within his heart.

  Is this mana? But I haven’t awakened. I can’t gather it yet.

  As these thoughts passed through his mind, a part of him could not help but hope. If he could establish his realm, he might be able to find out about his mother’s and father’s fate. Newt could break his shackles and free himself. He could grow powerful and defeat his uncle, avenging all the loyal relatives who had perished and suffered after the coup.

  He forced himself to calm down and approached the closest tree, wishing to meditate next to its base, but the closer he drew, the hotter the air grew.

  The heat is coming from the trees?

  Newt squinted, examining the thick, black trunk, and saw a heat haze shimmer around it. He also noticed that its rough, scale-like bark was calcified. It resembled cracked, worn out stone from a long forgotten era, its bleeding sap akin to fire frozen in time. The awed youth glanced up into the branches, finding fruits similar to pinecones, if pinecones were crystalline and translucent.

  “Is that manarium?” the boy muttered in disbelief. The surrounding trees housed at least twenty crystals, each more valuable than the ones he had mined in the three years of his slavery. As Newt squinted, he realized what the difference was. The gems hanging off the black pines were clearer, more radiant.

  Newt gulped, his eyes burning with desire. High quality manarium? Which realm? Second? Third? I’m rich!

  The greedy thought stole Newt’s attention away from more urgent questions, but the problem was, he had nothing on him with which to carry the harvested gems. He was shirtless, his tattered pants barely covering his knees, and even if he knew how to weave a basket, which he didn’t, nothing in the inhospitable terrain seemed like proper material for weaving.

  And there was one final question burning in his mind. How do I pluck them?

  He looked around, but saw no loose stones laying on the volcanic rock he stood on. There were no broken branches or bushes sprouting from the impregnable soil. The only choice he had, if he wanted to get those gems, was to climb the calcified pine.

  He who dares…

  Newt drew a deep breath and hardened his resolve before advancing towards the rough, black tree trunk. The heat was infernal and growing stronger, but he endured. Sweat streamed down his scrawny torso. The muck and grime which had stuck to his skin in the mines fell off, washed away by perspiration. His skin was the tortured bone-white of those who had not seen the sun in years, all his ribs visible, his vertebrae forming a miniature range of ridges running down his back.

  Persistence and despair forced his hand, and Newt plowed through the unbearable heat. He reached the dark bark and touched it. Sweat on his palm sizzled and turned to steam, but the blaze which should have seared his flesh became a nourishing warmth, passing through his skin. The energy followed a brand-new channel leading towards his heart, where it disappeared, satiating a hunger Newt didn’t know he suffered from.

  This isn’t an actual flame, it’s fiery mana, and I can absorb it!

  A tear of joy slid down Newt’s cheek, evaporating before it reached his smiling lips. He dared not guess why, or how, but somehow he had awakened his core and met the minimal requirement to start his journey along the ranks of knighthood.

  His life was about to change. He would correct all the injustices he had suffered and restore his family. He would—

  Sky’s crimson light dimmed.

  Newt looked up, expecting to find a really thick cloud, but found a giant dark blot covering the heavens. A pair of vicious red eyes, burning with hunger, scanned the forest, searching for food.

  Newt swallowed a lump and cowered, almost hugging the rough, black pine for safety.

  He hid from the colossal pterosaur, two words crossing his mind. The terror his father warned him of and scared him with when he misbehaved had appeared above him.

  A heart demon.