43rd of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd cycle

Spiritual energy gushed out of Newt’s twin spirit roots, flooding his body, reinforcing and nourishing it. He was still scrawny, ten weeks of slightly better diet barely keeping up with the increased physical activity from exercises and mining spirit gems.

In two and a half months, Newt had mined a wealth of spirit gems, enough to see him through two to three layers if he drew all their energy. The problem was, he did not know how to proceed. He could enter Magmin’s realm, but the serpent would be at the second realm, likely with wings and new supernatural abilities. Its heart demons would be stronger, and even Magmin itself might be hostile.

On the other hand, whatever skills Magmin knew would prove useful to Newt, assuming the serpent agreed to teach him. But even if it did not, the layout of the realm itself might inspire Newt to cultivate his own. Thus far, his abilities were leaning towards melee, primarily defense, so whatever offensive options Magmin had learned would be a great addition to Newt’s arsenal.

Alternatively, he could consume the spirit gems, advance by a couple of layers, leave the mine, and try to fight his uncle with nothing but defensive techniques. The Blazing Salamander clan had its own heritage. A store of martial arts, spiritual techniques, and cultivation insights amassed by the generations of patriarchs and clan elders.

Indecisive, Newt closed his eyes and went to check the first layer of his second realm, or his eleventh realm. Like with the layers of his first realm, there was no tangible border, no visible divide to tell Newt where the new layer began. The only indicator was the shift from a sparse grove of Magmin Pines to a bare wasteland of rock and lava.

I have a bunch of empty space, but it won’t stabilize until I complete the layer. What do I do with it? Should I keep reinforcing earth and fire glyphs? Should I focus on one element?

Newt had options, peace, and a realm to explore, but lacked the courage and most importantly, he lacked information. Magmin’s realm was far from safe even the first time he accidentally entered it. And the same creature’s realm, but more advanced would definitely kill him. Newt was certain an evolved pterodactylus awaited him, and he did not want to face the monster without adequate weapons.

That left him with one choice only. Newt sighed. He would first have to confront his uncle, learn some of his clan’s skills, and arm himself before he went to explore Magmin’s second realm.

But reaching that one decision merely resulted in more choices he had to make. How strong would he have to be to confront his uncle? Magmin?

For Magmin, Newt guessed the peak of his realm and he would have to hope he was strong enough. For his uncle, though… Newt considered the question, and a part of him was certain he could defeat him now. Newt thought his uncle a treacherous weakling, a stain on the face of the cultivating population, cunning without strength, but he knew that was not entirely true.

Even a middling first realm cultivator could crush normal people, not to mention a peak second realm one, but Newt’s father warned him not to rely on his realm too much. Without proper cultivation, proficiency, and techniques, one’s realm was hollow.

Damn, Newt struck the tunnel wall with his fist, his skin turning granite just in time to protect him. He smiled, looking at his darkened fist, seeing only the spiritual energy outline with his third eye. The weeks of training and exercise were paying dividends.

I should increase my realm as much as I can before I confront Uncle.

Newt hated staying in the mines any longer, but he was not comfortable with his spiritual energy capacity. Three layers, plus the increased efficiency and effect of his techniques should put him on equal footing with his uncle in terms of the amount of spiritual energy they had at their disposal.

As for the techniques and skills, Newt was certain he was superior, since his uncle was never into training and cultivation.

It won’t take more than a day or two. Endure. He sighed and went over to his cache of spirit gems.

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Two days passed.

What do I do with the guards? Should I kill them? Newt considered while climbing up the tunnel, but it did not sit right. They were rude, they laughed at him, but they never hurt him, they did not spit into his food or worse. They were just ordinary people, surviving in a world ruled by cultivators and infested by spirit beasts. Besides, the thought of murder scared him.

His steps faltered. The guards and the locked door were beyond the next bend, but he still had not decided their fate.

Father said fighting mortal men was demeaning and beneath a righteous cultivator, unless you were executing them for criminal behavior.

Newt wondered whether that belief was why other cultivators underestimated his family and treated them the way they did. Why mortals dared act brazenly. Salamander was a mythical beast which absorbed fire. A peaceful existence, which lashed out only when provoked.

Newt mulled over that thought. He considered what had happened to his father and mother, what had happened to him, and he realized he was thoroughly provoked. His attitude may have been horrible, but his father’s and mother’s were not. If what had happened was karma, it should have struck him, and him alone. Not his parents.

Without realizing it, the youth smoldered. Literally. Air shimmered around his skin as he reached for the old iron gate.

“Hey,” the guard yelled, but Newt ignored him and grabbed the portcullis. Rust smoldered beneath his fingers, earth-aligned spiritual energy made his palm and muscles as tough as granite, and Newt yanked the door of his prison.

The mine entrance was weaker than it appeared. It was grand once, but long centuries had weakened both the iron gate and its wooden frame. The iron squealed, the frame burst, releasing a cloud of wooden dust, and Newt tossed the barred door over his head and into the darkness.

Iron clattered against rock, sending a shower of sparks, terrifying the prison guards. A strong man could have achieved the same feat, but seeing a naked, starved youth do it with one hand toppled the two guards off their chairs.

Newt glanced at them, and focused on the slimmer, smaller guard.

“Your pants,” he said, his voice lacking emotion, despite Newt still thinking that maybe he should slaughter the guards. Yet, as he looked at the pathetic wretches, he knew he would spare them. Killing them would taint him.

The slim guard’s hands shook as he took his pants off and offered them to Newt. Newt’s father’s teachings won against his rage. He put the pants on and left, sparing the mortal men.

The sun was dazzling, and Newt closed his eyes. Instead of black, he saw a vague gray world and rough outlines of nearby objects, much like he did in the mine. For the first time in years, he drew a breath of fresh air, then another.

He stood there, thinking.

Should I confront my uncle, or should I just leave? A tiny worm gnawed at him, making him wonder whether he was powerful enough to defeat his uncle.

No weak thoughts. I am done with being weak, and I will stride forward. Newt clenched his jaw and continued down the path. Doubting himself too long might birth a heart demon. He had defeated one version of his uncle, he did not need to create a third.

Newt strode down the mountainside, earth covered the bones made of igneous rock and short pines grew along the path towards the clan’s village-sized estate. Newt turned around a bend, and the horizon opened before him.

The endless plains stretched down, five thousand feet below. In the distance, another mountain emerged from the ground, shrouded in mists. He watched the towns and villages between the two, before finally forcing himself to look to his right. The clanhold, surrounded by a seven-foot-tall black granite wall, with carefully constructed buildings of white-veined red stone and well maintained gardens, should have stood there.

It did not.

Newt’s heart clenched. The bastion of his childhood only existed in his memories. The ancient buildings and halls were painted white, as were the walls, matching mortal sensibilities. Bright flowers replaced the topiary shrubs and flowery vines strangled the once carefully trimmed trees.

What was once an imposing home of warriors had degraded to something lesser, more comfortable. The sight disgusted Newt. His skin crawled and he could feel flames trying to escape him.

What have you done with our home?

Newt almost bellowed in rage. Almost. With a deep breath, the fire subsided, the rage was there, but bottled up, like magma in a volcano, waiting to erupt. Newt shifted his attention and realized the spiritual aura of their ancestral home and the mountain itself was considerably thinner than the mine he was in just a short while ago.

He did not think twice about the matter, the mountain itself was an ancient, fossilized corpse of a majestic spirit beast. Even if eons had passed since its demise, the energy within would still be more concentrated than around its grave.

Newt waited another minute to calm down, then continued his descent. The clanhold, or whatever the clan changed the complex’s name to, awaited. As did his uncle.

The time for punishment had come.