48th of Season of Fire, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  Newt reached his residence, the generic housing which all core disciples received as a benefit of their status. The only use he found for the building was that of storage, since he constantly moved between library and cultivation rooms, only stopping by to sleep.

  The lacquered wooden door had a tiny hole in the frame. He might have missed it, if not for a bee pushing its way out and buzzing away.

  Was that always there?

  Nervously, Newt held his breath and opened the door.

  The air was stale, his two pairs of spare shoes dusty by the door. Newt walked into a cozy living room, his old spear where he had left it, leaning against the corner wall. Sunlight trickled in at an angle, motes of dust dancing in its rays.

  Newt had few impressions of the building. It was irrelevant back when he got it. Worse, it separated him from his friends, it housed his spare clothes and scant few personal possessions he owned. That was it.

  Newt scanned the room. Four sealed letters lay at the center of the table. Newt approached and opened one mechanically.

  Son,

  I heard about the attack, please let me know you are alive and well.

  Dad

  Newt swallowed. A typical message from his father. The other two were from his mother. The first letter had thrice as many words, but the same content as his father’s, the second a mere plea for him to respond, sent two moons later. Both his parents’ handwritings, their sharp and deep lines, showed the urgency and the strained nerves of the writers. Newt wanted to get out of his messy robes and see Rose, but he had enough time to pen a pair of letters.

  Dad,

  I’m alive and well.

  Son

  Newt chuckled at the message, using the bit of humor to fight the dark mood and the emotional storm brewing in the back of his mind. To his mother, he wrote a proper message, thanking her for her concern and asking about her.

  Newt looked at the final message, the seal of black wax depicting a dandelion flower, a handful of its seeds detached and floating away.

  Dear Little Brother,

  I have heard of your circumstances several hours ago, and I am heading out as soon as I pen this message.

  The odds are you will read it by the time everything is over and long in the past, but still, there are certain things I wish to share with you.

  Life is sometimes harsh, we lose the people we know and love. When I first heard of the misfortune which had befallen your sect, I did not rush to your aid. Instead, I considered what I should say to you, and I believe you need to face harsh realities of life.

  You are a survivor. Since we are survivors, our lives are often filled with tragedy because we outlive our loved ones. Our allies fall where we do not, and even in peace, we resist the ravages of time better. Based on what I have heard, the assault on your sect resulted in many deaths, and you have almost certainly lost people you knew and cared about. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but be aware that this will happen again and again.

  Do not drive away people, for true friends enrich our lives and make them better. Grieve, honor the fallen, and move on. Anything less is a betrayal of their feelings and their wishes. Once upon a time, I have mentioned drowning in sin, and while I am certain you would never do that, I must warn you not to indulge in escapism. Strong face their problems and sorrows head on.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  And you are strong. Possibly the strongest person in the world. March on towards your future, remember what you are feeling, remember those you love, and think. Think about what you can do to make the world better, to ensure others do not experience such pointless loss. Think about your path, Blazing Star, and walk it.

  I’m off to find you now, but my gut tells me you are not peacefully sitting in your sect.

  Dandelion

  Newt folded the letter and placed it atop the ones from his father and mother. The chair screeched against the floor as he moved it and sat down. Dandelion. Something about the man was off.

  Newt once thought the man was better learned and stronger than him, which he was. But when Newt fell three days ago, his body was at the peak of the fourth realm, Dandelion’s was merely at the peak of the third. Newt could see his realm as clearly as he could see his body. So, why, why did Dandelion seem stronger than a mountain and certainly physically stronger than Newt?

  The mere thought of it was insane, but Newt knew with every fiber of his being that Dandelion could stomp him into the ground in a purely physical duel. Even after Newt had reached the fifth realm.

  The Blood Cult’s attack happened about a season after Dandelion had left. How much time would he need to travel wherever it is he went? How much time to gather the Blood Cult?

  Newt scoffed at the ridiculous thought. For a moment, he actually considered the ridiculous notion that Dandelion was the leader of the Blood Cult. He tried to forget the thought, but what if? What if an old monster of the Blood Cult could transfer his or her blood into an unsuspecting victim, achieving immortality of sorts?

  Dandelion’s behavior differed greatly from the rumors when Newt first met him. Instead of a brutish former bandit, he spoke calmly, going out of his way to help Newt even though there was no need to help him. Dandelion could have thrown him out or killed him.

  No; Elder Frostgrave, sect master, and many others have seen and scanned him. There’s no way he could have hidden himself from their scrutiny.

  Newt forced himself to stop exploring the unwelcome line of thought. There was nothing to gain by doubting Dandelion. The man knew all his secrets, even about Magmin’s realm. Had he wanted to, he could have destroyed Newt without resorting to the Blood Cult. Unless the cult really planned to sacrifice him, and needed him to reach a certain realm, but if that were the case, why reveal themselves so early?

  Newt ran his fingers through his messy hair. He went to the bathroom, washed himself, and donned a new robe before heading out again. He sealed the nasty thoughts and questions, taking in his surroundings instead.

  The inner disciple residences appeared the same, a blocky building to house everyone. Newt checked the tablet with warnings, noticing no new additions since he had first joined the sect over two years ago.

  Has it really been that long?

  Newt climbed to the topmost floor and knocked on the door of his old apartment.

  After a dozen breaths, Rose opened the door. Perfectly decent, she wore her robe and did not reek of alcohol. She was pale, fatigue etched into her face. The hollow look had wormed its way back into her puffy, red eyes, but a spark of recognition roused her and started a rain of tears.

  “Heavens! You’re alive!” She grabbed Newt and hugged him tightly, wanting to draw him towards her, but dragged herself towards him instead.

  “They are dead. All of them,” she sobbed. “I thought you were gone too, but you’re safe. Thank heavens you are safe.”

  Newt returned the hug, pressing Rose’s body against his own as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  “I’m proud of you, Rose,” he said, surprising himself by how true the statement was. He was proud of her because she had survived. He was proud of her because she was facing reality without escaping into alcohol, like she did when her team had suffered its first fatality.

  “I’m a mess, please sit down while I freshen up. Do you want something to eat? I have some prunes and dates and nuts.” Rose herded Newt to the table and placed a dish with nuts and dried fruit before him before rushing back to her room.

  Newt swallowed a lump which had been choking him ever since Rose opened the door. Everything about the room was so familiar, identical to how it was a year ago, back when four people lived there instead of one. He glanced at a door.

  A part of him hoped and expected Obi would come out, say something stupid, which would provoke his sister to run out of her room and call him a dumb kidney stone. On some fundamental level, Newt understood that eighty percent of disciples had died. He knew it even before Dandelion and the sect master had found him.

  But his emotions changed when those numbers translated to faces of people he knew and cared for. The disciplinary elder and his spearmanship teacher dying made him sad, but that was it. His sorrow for the two seniors’ passing eclipsed what he felt about eighty percent loss of life amongst disciples, while he despaired about Obi’s and Jasmine’s deaths.

  Newt focused on those emotions. All lives were equal on paper, but he would have preferred the sect to have suffered an eighty-five percent loss of life with all his friends alive than the current situation.

  I guess that’s why we’re all numbers, he mused and rubbed his eyes. That is not right. No, sacrificing the numbers for the sake of personal gain or happiness is evil. That’s what the Blood Cult does.

  I should protect the numbers. They have faces, names, loves, and dreams. I will protect them.

  Newt did not know it, but something inside him grew more solid.