44th of Season of Fire, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  Newt ran, fiery blasts exploding from his feet, propelling him impossibly fast. The sun had long since set, and he did not pause to admire what was possibly his last sunset ever. He flew, his feet destroying the earth and the roads. He did not care. If anyone ever pursued the matter and he still lived, he would pave the road by hand if that was what the law required.

  A thousand miles. All he needed was to cover another thousand miles before noon, and he would reach home, reach safety. On the first day it was possible, even probable for him to run a thousand miles in ten to twelve hours, after two weeks of working his body to the bone, not so much.

  Newt abused his spiritual energy as soon as a trickle appeared in his body. As the fire flickered instead of bursting from his feet, Newt knew he had failed. He would struggle, do his best, but even eight hundred miles were beyond him, let alone a full one thousand.

  The librarian promised he would send Newt’s letter to the Explorer’s Gate. It was due to arrive in some ten days, on the fifty-fifth, ten days after Newt’s death. The letter was short.

  Esteemed Sect Master,

  Please help, I’ll be heading for the Dragon’s Rest mountain and should be near it on the forty-fifth, prior to the solstice.

  Eternally grateful,

  Newstar Blazing Salamander

  It was a fool’s hope, but the two minutes needed to scribble a handful of words were not wasted. They gave Newt the last hope to cling to as he ran. He had not paused to sleep, nor eat, nor drink.

  The last drop of water he had was the tea, and before that, he did not know. Newt’s lips were cracked, his head light, his limbs made of lead.

  I’m dead. He wanted to cry. A day. One measly day, and he would have made it. Why had he strayed so far to the west while escaping Savage Wood? Did the airship drift westward, and they did not know? Should he have wasted more time to gather his bearings when fleeing? Why was the world so damn huge?

  Pointless questions flooded Newt’s mind. Questions void of answers, full of consequences.

  The sky turned pink before him, a red line spreading beyond the mountains, the familiar chain of dormant volcanoes near his home. Was it already dawn? Probably. The sands of time were running out, a mere handful of grains left.

  Six hours left to live. Less. Would he really spend his last remaining moments running his legs and lungs and spirit ragged? Maybe sit down, lie on the grass and enjoy the feeling. Rest before the sun incinerated him.

  The idea sounded divine. There was no chance to make it, absolutely no chance, and yet Newt refused to surrender. If he had to die, he would die fighting. He was no longer the scared boy he once was. No, he would live through it somehow. Even if the sun scorched him, even if it reduced him to ash, he would somehow find a way. He would live.

  I’m delirious. I’m dead, why should I force myself still? Newt staggered, but righted himself and kept going. Because I can rest after I’m dead. Until then, I will give it my all. For father, for mother, for Master, heavens, I’ll do it for Obi or the girls.

  A tear slid down his cheek. For myself. I’ll do it for myself.

  The sun rose higher. With only two hours left, Newt staggered forth, no longer running, no longer burning spiritual energy for techniques. He was sapped. No spiritual energy, no strength, moons of running had drained him of everything, save for will to live, so he walked, his walk faster than a mortal’s sprint.

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  Images flashed before his eyes, friends and family, regrets. He really regretted killing his uncle. The man was scum of the earth, a waste, he had tried to erase the family’s glorious history and topple them completely, and yet he had once carried Newt on his shoulders. They laughed and giggled, and he smuggled sweets for Newt even when his father and mother would not give him any as a punishment for some irrelevant accident.

  Newt remembered the white vase, spinning on the small wooden stand after he had crashed into it. He could hear the sound echo as fine porcelain danced atop lacquered wood. The vase tipped, and Newt watched leaf-thin work of art fall as if through molasses, its blue flowers spinning. The vase struck the floor, the fragile noise making Newt wince. He could still smell the dust, and recall the realization that he was in for a spanking.

  Victor was the first to arrive, then Newt’s parents.

  “What happened?”

  “I was spinning little Newt, and he slipped from my hand and…” Victor gestured at the stand and the fragments of white porcelain.

  “Victor, you’re going to bring the whole house down one day.” Newt’s father stormed out, furious, but Victor winked at Newt and left, just like that. Twelve years later, Newt killed him. Like a rabid raptor.

  Another tear escaped Newt. If he could redo everything, he would have incapacitated Victor and let him go, like the other elders. Had he done that, he would have been furious with the Blood Cult once they killed Victor, but it was better than dying to Newt’s fist.

  Newt realized he had fallen. His mind had drifted too far into the past, forgetting the present. He picked himself up from the ground and trudged on, but the memories overflowed.

  He was back at Jasmine’s place, the Steelwheel patriarch had arranged a playdate. The two of them rode a pair of duckbills, ten feet long, three feet tall, while the servants gripped the reins, ensuring no harm came to the children.

  He was older than when he broke the vase, six or seven. Jasmine was his best friend, and Newt loved her dearly. Every day he pestered his parents to let him visit her, studying, exercising, and doing Elder Stronggrow’s assignments just to get his father to allow him to visit his fiancee.

  Patriarch Steelwheel always had treats for them, and fun activities, like swimming, riding exotic dinosaurs Newt had never before seen, he even organized actors and plays for them.

  How did that kind man get tangled with the Blood Cult?

  Newt snapped out of his happy thoughts, taking another labored step forward, followed by another and another.

  Why was the Blood Cult in the area? Were they looking for Magmin’s realm? For something else?

  At that point, Newt realized something. I’m back at the Dragon’s Rest mountain. What if they are still here? Searching and watching?

  A fraction of his strength returned in the surge of panic, and Newt abused it for all it was worth, sprinting forward once again.

  The thought had already passed through his head countless times since the crash. The Blood Cult was targeting him, and him specifically. Newt recalled his talk with the librarian.

  The Blood Cult had suffered grievous losses, ones which would have crippled major sects, while the rest could not even suffer such damage, because they lacked the foundations and the cultivators of such high realms.

  Nobody would have wasted so many ninth realm powerhouses just to avenge a meager realm three cultivator, even if that third-realmer was the son of their leader. Any organization which acted in such a way would have been snuffed out a long time ago.

  There was a secret there, Newt realized in his delirious state. Something did not add up. The world of cultivation was one of brutal efficiency, one in which those who made the wrong moves became footnotes of history.

  The only thing extraordinary about Newt was the Magmin’s realm. But the cultists had no way of knowing that.

  And why not? Another voice asked within him. If the honorable ancestor at his seventh realm managed to figure something out, that means that ninth or tenth realm masters had an even greater chance, observing the situation from even greater heights.

  Newt’s mind labored, following the insane line of thought.

  What if they knew all along? What if they don’t want Magmin’s realm, what if they wanted someone to snatch it? To replicate Magmin’s cultivation, and that’s the person they want, that’s the reason they left my ancestors alone, but always watched us? What if they had pushed us into decline through some underhanded manipulation?

  Newt was out of breath, the sun was high. He glanced up, he had half an hour left. Half an hour to figure out the secret. He set it as his new purpose in life.

  Why would the cultists manipulate us? What would they possibly need from us? Then Newt recalled Magmin from his vision, fighting and annihilating the Blood Cult’s tenth realm grandmasters.

  They wanted to sacrifice Magmin? Newt’s labored breath sped up as he finally found the last piece. They want to sacrifice me?

  He fell, but a powerful arm caught him.

  “I’ve been searching for you for more than fifty years.”