49th of Season of Air, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  Newt distinctly disliked being the center of attention. The establishment Dandelion had chosen was a great place to be when Dandelion won the event, and when Newt’s participation went by largely unnoticed. With Newt winning again, that was no longer the case.

  Fortunately, his two elder sisters noticed his unease and sat next to him. Greenbow, whom Newt could not help but see as a matronly granite statue, even made suggestive gestures, whispering in his ear, giving him a loving look every now and then, making it seem as if they were romantically involved.

  She probably thought she would keep ladies from pestering him, but Everlast and Maelstrom both snickered whenever they met Newt’s eyes. Dandelion was still a riot, drawing attention to himself, and Newt was grateful for his effort.

  He told anecdotes about how he escaped an overpowering flying beast by slapping its testicles, and about battling building-sized bugs with moving trees as comrades. The latter story sounded like he had read an account about a subjugation of a particularly ancient ankylosaurus and adjusted it to sound absurd. The first story, however, was food for thought.

  Was hitting a tyrannosaurus on the testicles a valid strategy? Was the target even strikeable? Newt never paid attention, but in a lull between pointless chats, he considered it, and he was certain he had never seen anything dangling.

  Just as he wondered whether he had always fought against female dinosaurs, Maelstrom grabbed a chance and took Greenbow’s place when the woman left for some reason.

  “I didn’t know you liked them old and blocky.” She was one step away from bursting into laughter, and Newt really could not blame her. Even he found Greenbow’s act comical.

  The question still made him feel uncomfortable, but after the embarrassment he had suffered during the talk with Elder Woodhopper, discussing romance with someone ten times closer to his age did not come as impossible as it would have three years prior.

  Newt opened his mouth to answer, but failed to find his words, so he took a sip of tea to buy himself time. Maelstrom stifled a laugh. She read him, but better to stay silent and appear stupid than to leave more openings for her jabs.

  “You are a beautiful woman yourself.” He found the way out, a line which would embarrass him into silence if he ever received it. “Maybe not as blocky, but beautiful in your own right.”

  The effect was not quite what Newt had expected.

  Maelstrom burst into laughter, and the whole room turned to see what was going on. Newt’s face turned crimson like lava. Fortunately, Maelstrom waved the idlers away.

  “He just told the best joke I heard this year.” Her statement only increased everyone’s curiosity, but she waved them away once more. “It’s an inside joke, unfortunately. My apologies.”

  Nobody believed her, but nobody would dare argue with her either.

  “Pumpkin,” Maelstrom poked at Newt even with her first word, “I am the heiress of a grand sect. Apart from the imperials, the women who can contend with me in prestige and looks can be counted on one hand.”

  She leaned in and whispered into his ear, her warm breath tickling him in a strange, unfamiliar way.

  “Your attempt to embarrass me with a compliment was quite frankly pathetic.”

  She got closer still, her lips nearly brushing against Newt’s earlobe, giving him phantom tingling where he was unsure whether she had made contact or not. He wanted to escape, but she was playing a game, and running away was a show of weakness. The heat radiating from his face definitely was not a weakness, he assured himself.

  “You are wonderful and innocent, so I won’t torment you. But you should know that if I wanted to, I could whisper a word and you would remain seated there until all other patrons left this place.” She moved away, a cheery, playful smile on her face.

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  “But I would never do that. To be honest, you are fascinating.” Greenbow returned and loomed over Maelstrom, but the heiress pretended like there was nothing but air behind her back. “You are young, loyal, and full of ideals, despite everything you have suffered. I can tell what Dandelion admires about you, and he is right, you are a pumpkin worthy of admiration.”

  She added the last part just as her words had grown too honest.

  Maelstrom stood up and winked.

  “I’m going to call you pie from now on.” She froze at Newt’s words. “If you keep calling me pumpkin, I’ll call you pie, so that we’re a pumpkin pie whenever we’re together.”

  “That makes no sense, why should we make a pumpkin pie together?” Maelstrom asked, unaware that two thousand years later, much to her horror, Newt would insist with surprising tenacity that they should name a girl Pumpkinpie.

  ***

  51st of Season of Air, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  The challenge Newt appeared in was a known one. He stood before a massive white cliff face made of bone. The holes for climbing were easy to see, but some were illusions, others hid traps, like oil one would have difficulty removing from their hands, which would make the climb next to impossible.

  “Welcome to the rise to power.” A melodious voice Newt would attribute to a young woman suffused the miniature world. “My challenge is simple. You climb. The farther you reach, the better your placement. Should you be a part of a group, your group’s average result shall be calculated for your final result.”

  Just that bit of information made Newt feel glad he had placed no bets for the final round, satisfied with his winnings.

  “Like in any real rise to power, climbing shall come with pressure — the further you climb the greater the pressure. But, you need not face it alone, each cliff is three hundred yards tall, a trivial distance for a cultivator to climb. Those climbing the same cliff shall share its pressure. Being the first comes with greater pressure, but should you start climbing a cliff and reach the top first, your entire team shall gain ten yards per person, up to seventy, to the height they had climbed. Like in life, being left behind comes with its own pressure and inevitable downfall. And know that the slowest few on each cliff shall fall. How many shall depend on their strength.”

  The woman’s voice flickered, a note of malice entering it.

  “A solitary endurance challenge without interaction would be boring; so, while your spiritual energy shall be locked away while you climb, everyone is free to use it to eliminate anyone else on the ledges, with a caveat. Should you eliminate someone, your whole team shall carry the burden. Quite literally. The vanquished person’s spiritual weight shall be added to each cliff’s burden the vanquisher’s team faces.

  “As for the climb itself, it shall be traitorous. Traps litter the field, and the unwary shall find themselves crippled before they finish the first cliff. Like traps, boons are also concealed in hazardous portions of the cliff; these shall appear from the tenth cliff onwards. The hazards I have mentioned may be traps in and of themselves, traps of your greed, or perhaps boons already looted by those ahead. Either way, know that your risk might go unrewarded.”

  The voice paused again, as if considering whether there was anything left to say about their creation before concluding.

  “I wish you ill fortune, for those who wish to climb by relying on something as fickle as luck deserve to die. I do, however, wish you a sharp wit, a measure of confidence, and ability to judge both yourself and those around you. Fare well and rise high.”

  The voice vanished, and Newt and everyone else threw themselves at the seemingly infinite cliff. The pressure immediately bore down on Newt. It was slight, but it completely severed his ability to use spiritual energy for anything other than basic body enhancement all cultivators did to enhance their physiques passively.

  He took a split second to adjust, but others took a bit longer, and Newt made use even of the tiny advantage he had. Climbing felt familiar, thanks to the training his sect had provided for the competition, and he fell into the practiced motions with ease.

  He did not know how bad the traps would be, nor how much they would hamper his progress, but the person speaking did not seem like she would rely on luck. Everyone would find traps in their path on every cliff, and they would face an equal number of them. Newt knew that for a fact.

  His body was that of a fifth-realmer. That should mean that whatever traps a third-realmer would find crippling would only be a nuisance to him. Gingerly checking every handhold before using it was no less of an inconvenience, so Newt decided to plow through the danger and trust his endurance.

  Newt climbed the wall as rapidly as a gecko, noticing a number of others sharing his approach. Immediately, a scream echoed along the cliff face. Several dozen yards away from Newt, a young man nursed a bleeding hand, a metal jaw clamping his fingers.

  While the injury was far from serious, climbing with a shackle and without the use of fingers would greatly increase the climb’s difficulty, even if he could remove the implement after reaching the top. Newt took in the sight, its implications, and changed his approach.

  Instead of pushing his hand all the way into the handhold, he only grabbed its very edge with the tips of his fingers. Thirty yards up, he brushed against a band of metal.

  The jaw snapped closed, catching nothing, and Newt continued his ascend.