16th of Season of Earth, 58th year of the 32nd cycle

  After the feast, Newt took a fasting pill and returned to cultivation. Hours passed as he made minor corrections to the vast majority of his spell formations. None required a major overhaul, but a scant few remained in perfect condition, requiring no modifications.

  Two days later, he finished his inspections and corrections, sinking his teeth into the creation of new spell formations. From the first stroke, Newt confirmed what he had already guessed from the corrections he had been making to his existing spell formations.

  “It’s tougher than before.” The obsidian ground offered greater resistance, slowing down his pace by ten to twenty percent. Newt drew a breath and exhaled his frustration. “Cultivation is not a race. This improvement is good, it makes my foundations more solid and the maximum realm I can climb to higher and easier to achieve.”

  He exerted his will over his domain, and lines formed, splitting the solid, volcanic rock. Using his research into various fuels and volcanic activity, Newt optimized the materials involved in the spell formations while following the runic blueprint Dandelion had given him.

  Each glyph took between two hours and a better part of a day to inscribe, examine for faults, and test the energy flow through it. Thanks to his knowledge of spell formations, Newt knew that scribing the formation was just one of the multiple steps in laying it. Fortunately, there were no unaccounted foreign influences in his realm to reduce the efficiency, otherwise such complex work would have taken several times as long.

  Newt had lost track of time, but the chime caught him by surprise. He had done half the work he intended for his session. Dejected, Newt sighed. Even with the best cultivation chambers he could reasonably get, and the expensive pills he was consuming, his speed was miserable.

  “Wait.” Newt frowned. “The speed at which I work hasn’t declined yet, that means I have at least two to three days before I have to leave the chamber.”

  Newt waited and no second chime came. He was about to continue his cultivation, when a chill traveled through his whole body. He was in danger.

  Newt abandoned the work on his realm, opened his eyes, and found himself inside his sealed cultivation chamber. There was no dizziness, he had not overtaxed himself, and no imminent danger revealed itself.

  Another chime sounded, and Newt left the room to see the outer disciple clerk running and hitting the runes, which sounded the chimes for those inside the chambers.

  “What—” Newt said just as the door to his right swung open.

  “We’re under attack!”

  “Who’s attacking?” Emeraldstreak asked, emerging from her own cultivation chamber.

  The clerk looked at the three core disciples in confusion. She was at the second realm, much older than Newt, her biggest prospect in life was becoming an outer elder. She had no idea what was happening, and all three core disciples realized it at the same time as two more doors opened.

  “We’re under attack, let’s go!” Blaze, the third core disciple, said, rushing towards the Chamber of Instruction’s main hall.

  Chaos ruled outside. Screams and clashing of steel and elements came from the distant outer disciple living area towards the periphery of the island. High in the sky, higher realm cultivators battled. Flashes of fire, giant rocks, whirling tornados, and watery whips smashed against red waves, but made no sound.

  Newt caught the scent before his mind processed what his eyes told him. Blood. Blood was everywhere. A blade of blood slashed a brontosaurus-sized boulder, and the rock fell towards Newt and the others, but before it could land to crush them, it smashed against a shimmering dome, stone dispersing into dust which disintegrated into spiritual energy.

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  Crimson rain fell on the shield, turning to pink mist as it evaporated like drops of water landing on a searing pan.

  “The beach!” Blaze shouted, running towards the sound of the battle.

  Newt once more glanced up, looking at the chaos and elemental havoc taking place beyond the safety of the sect’s defenses. He nearly sighed with relief that the defensive formation was fixed after his first tribulation the previous year. Otherwise, the battle would have spelled disaster.

  Emeraldstreak dashed after Blaze, ironically a water cultivator, clipping Newt on the shoulder and snapping him out of his daze. He ran. The notion of rushing towards a battle of unknown proportions, with his sect’s status a mystery, seemed rash, bordering foolhardy, but then he recalled his obligations towards the sect.

  Explorer’s Gate would raise him, and he would protect it to the best of his ability. With that thought, and with how much the sect had invested in him, how the elders had saved his life twice during his solar tribulations, Newt sent a surge of spiritual energy towards his legs and sprinted forth as fire burst beneath his feet.

  He overtook his senior sister, then Blaze. Newt raced, trees blurring beside him as blood and elements exploded in the bright, blue sky. A mountain of ice crashed above his head. Newt caught a glance of a broken body, wearing a red robe, smeared against the shield and gulped.

  Why attack during the day? Newt managed to wonder before running into the open field and madness. A wall of yellow and green fought against a tide of red-robed madmen. Massive battles between mortals could make one’s heart quiver, the battles of the same scale between lower realm cultivators inspired pure terror.

  Men and women jumped or soared, brandishing weapons glowing with the elements, protecting each other in the pandemonium of cries and screams, giving their all to battle against scarlet blades which drank any blood they shed. Rocks, ice, and body parts flew, accompanied by sprays of blood.

  Newt reached behind his back, grasping for his glaive, ready to charge, yet grabbed nothing but air. Save for spars and missions, he kept his weapon at his residence. Suddenly, he did not know what to do. Rush to his residence? Fight barehanded?

  Blaze, just as unarmed, rushed past him and threw himself into the melee. The man solved Newt’s problem, and he charged into the thick of it with a furious roar. Granite Crust covered Newt’s body, his hands transforming into flaming mauls, and he propelled himself with a fiery blast, smashing a cultist’s head into a pulp.

  The body landed on rubble. A scant handful of buildings and solitary walls remained of the outer disciples’ improvised settlement, even those disappearing as fighting spread and engulfed them. Emeraldstreak rushed over to Newt, trampling another cultist, her body encased in a translucent green shell.

  A cultist stabbed the fresh corpse Newt had just made, the sword glowing ominous scarlet, and Newt rushed him. He threw a punch, but the man dodged only for Emeraldrstreak to pulverize him.

  Thirdrealmers. The vast majority of the land-bound attackers were at the third realm. Newt ducked under a glowing blade, wondering in the back of his mind whether the fourth and fifth realmers had a separate battlefield.

  How did they get here anyway?

  An excellent question, but Newt lacked time to think. His throat stung with phantom pain, and he jumped back. The blade flashed before his face, but he grabbed the cultist by the wrist and squeezed it into mush, the bloody barrier cracking and shattering under the pressure of Newt’s enhanced body.

  He almost took the sword, but the mere thought of wielding that blade called forth a storm of nausea. Newt let it fall, pulled the man forth, and realized she was a woman. His hesitation lasted the barest of moments before he ended her with a flaming fist to the head.

  “Where’s the sect master?” A shout came from the chaos, but nobody had a response.

  ***

  Sect master Greenthorn placed the fine crystalline cup back on its delicate crystalline saucer. He had been waiting for the audience at the imperial capital for two weeks. The invitation had come sealed by the highest ranking imperial minister’s stamp, inviting him to discuss a matter too sensitive to commit to paper.

  Greenthorn rarely visited the capital. There was really little reason to frequent the distant, obscenely overpriced city. Even when looking for extremely rare and valuable resources, it was much cheaper to seek them out through a network of contacts and friendly sects than to enter the royal capital and fall victim to a merchant’s skinning knife.

  As expected, the imperial family had received the sect master well. The invitation entitled him to a cultivation environment not at all inferior to what he had at home. Given the way the imperials received their guests and how long they let them wait to show their might, the supreme quality cultivation chambers came as a compensation for others to endure their whims.

  But that was fine. Greenthorn had time, and the tea and the highest quality delicacies he received allowed him a minimal indulgence warranted by his high realm and status.

  I’ll be back home in a month or two.

  He had no reason to worry. The cultivation world was a blue sky without a cloud in sight.