54th of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd cycle

Newt slept poorly that night. Doubt haunted his soul, and he feared it might escalate into a heart demon. He almost gave up on going to Black Fist sect, only to realize that running away from his fears would turn his potential problem more substantial.

He left the clan with nothing but three spirit gems and a purse of coins, wearing his clan’s traditional red robe with a wide orange sash under a gray travel cloak. Elder Stroggrow was the only one aware of his departure. Other than Elder Marrow, the rest of the elders were busy exploring the depleted mine, searching for the lode they believed Newt had found.

Yellow leaves fell off trees, dancing in the chill wind, heralding the Season of Water and its snows. Non-cultivators toiled in the fields of the nearby town called Harthow. The whole administrative district was at the fringes of the empire, near the border with the Savage Wood, poor in resources and beneath anyone’s notice. Their only notable product was the common-grade grain, which they produced in large quantities.

Newt ran and observed the mud-stained men and women, wondering what was happening within the confines of their skulls. What hopes did those people foster? Did they plan to sell everything they owned to try their luck and cultivate? Would they do it for their children? Did they even have talent?

As he followed the hard-packed earthen road and observed the distant, always green Savage Wood, Newt asked himself what exactly was talent? Humans could not cultivate, not until the sorcerers of old refined spirit beast cores to open their third eye. Not until ages passed and they discovered some spirit beasts did not have a core which opened the third eye, but the second heart. And then, ages later, cultivators finally found the ultimate, highly evolved spirit beasts, which granted both.

The history of cultivation was insane, much like men taming velociraptors for hunting; like domesticating yamaceratops for eggs, or rubbing two sticks to start a fire. Did it take talent to come up with such civilization-changing ideas? Was it just a matter of chance? Madness?

Newt did not know. In his opinion, talent required several attributes - persistence, endurance, focus, and chances seized. Thinking of seizing opportunities, he recalled how his came to be, and wondered what would have happened had he been faster, had he grasped the flaming stars while they blazed.

Would he have become a grandmaster of an unknown realm, ninth or tenth perhaps? Would he have become a dragon? He wasted a chance to soar, but grasped the chance to climb. The latter was talent.

And yet, for a moment, he cursed his lack of decisiveness, but then recalled that his first realm was better developed than Magmin’s. His failure may one day prove to be a golden opportunity.

Newt ran, observed, and contemplated. Sleeping and dining in roadside inns as he pretended to be a mortal man, listening to the banter of those surrounding him, sometimes disgusted by their vulgarity, sometimes touched by their virtue.

As days passed, he realized cultivating behind closed doors, or in the welcoming darkness of the mine, was a fool’s errand. That he was missing an entire world, substituting it with empty space. By the seventh day, when the city called Black Fist Gate appeared in the distance, Newt wondered whether his uncle had made the same realization as him and remained bitter at his family for constraining him, for limiting him for a whole century.

Newt dispelled the thought and focused on what was before him. The unorthodox Black Fist sect, their evil sect master, the tournament. Did his future have violence in store, would he really have to fight the Black Fist sect’s leader?

He reached the city’s massive walls in the evening. The gate was still open, with a pair of guards clad in black robes standing watch, collecting entry taxes from merchants who wished to enter the city and trade.

Newt paused, his third eye registering a stream of spiritual energy coursing through the men. It was weaker than his clan’s elders, but certainly more than the wisps which flowed through the commoners.

With no idea what else to do, Newt joined the line and waited for the guards to finish their inspection.

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“Everything is in order,” a guard said, collecting the tariff and letting the wagon into the city.

“Halt,” he said when Newt approached, so Newt halted. “What business do you have in the Black Fist Gate?”

“I am here for the tournament.” Newt paused before adding, “I wish to participate.”

The guards spared him a brief glance. Underneath his cloak, Newt wore new robes, a bit of dust clinging to the bottom of his pant legs. His clothes were otherwise clean, his red hair tied into a neat bun. He was unhealthily pale and skinny, the consequences of his years in the mines made persistent by his rapid advancement in cultivation. Despite his best efforts for over two weeks, he had barely gained half a pound, and as spiritual energy reinforced his body, changing its shape would prove difficult in the lower realms.

“You wish to join the sect, Junior Brother?” the lanky guard asked, but his more robust colleague smacked him on the shoulder.

“Leave the kid alone, Hardy,” he said before addressing Newt. “Ignore him. Welcome to the city. The Vixen’s Tail is a good place to spend the night. They have fresh food, strong drinks, and passable company, if you want it. As for the tournament, it starts in three days, so you have plenty of time to apply if you wish to test your skill. I have to warn you that the competition is tough. This is the first tournament the sect is organizing and a number of wandering cultivators decided to participate in hopes of joining.”

Newt processed the information and gave a polite bow. “Thank you for the advice. Where is the Vixen’s Tail?”

Twenty minutes later, Newt was at the Vixen’s Tail. He was oblivious of the name’s suggestive nature, and he was shocked by the amount of flesh the waitresses revealed inside the establishment. He gulped, and his face turned red, but leaving the moment he entered felt even more embarrassing than taking the second step inside.

Newt gathered his courage and went towards the nearest empty table. He sat and waited, observing his surroundings. Scantily clothed young women moved about, giggling as they brought food and drink to the patrons, often stopping to chat.

“What will your pleasure be?” A shapely young lady with smooth black hair tied into a ponytail and large brown eyes asked. Newt glued his eyes to her face, fearing his gaze would rove if he so much as glanced lower.

“I,” he stuttered. “Do you have any recommendations for supper, and I would like a room for the night.”

The girl looked at him, her smile turning more genuine and mischievous. She leaned over and her voice became a seductive whisper as she drew out the words.

“I love the big, massive sausages and we are famous for breasts.” She paused and drew back, her tone going back to normal. “Yamaceratops breasts, fileted and breaded until extra crispy, with hot sauce. I promise you’ll lick your fingers when you’re done eating them. Or I could lick them.”

She winked, and Newt struggled not to faint and suppress the stupid smile, which tried to invade his face several times.

“As for the rooms, we have some, but nights are getting long and cold with winter upon us.” She hugged herself to accent it, pushing her chest up. “I don’t think you can sleep well on your own.”

“Just breasts, thank you,” Newt somehow managed, before realizing his faux pas. “Breaded yamaceratops breasts. With the sauce. And a room for one. No company.”

Newt lowered his gaze towards the ground in embarrassment, but his eyes got lost in the mountainous region for a couple of moments before finding their way further down.

“I am Dahlia.” Dahlia giggled. “Do you want to drink something? We have an excellent selection of wines, and if you want, I will gladly keep you company for the evening. You can buy me dinner, and who knows what happens after a little wine and fine food.”

Dahlia winked, but Newt missed it. Then he realized the young woman introduced herself, but he did not. So, he stood and gave her a hand, keeping his eyes low, but with the change in position he was no longer looking at the floor.

“I’m Newstar. Nice to meet you, Dahlia.”

“Nice to meet you, Newstar,” Dahlia’s voice and laughter were like the ring of a silver bell. “When meeting new people, you should look them in the eye, not their chest.”

Newt’s gaze shot up. “I didn’t, I mean—”

“It’s fine, whatever is on display is there to be seen.” She moved her head closer to his, whispering in his ear, “And if you treat me to a nice dinner, I can let you touch. I was serious when I said I loved massive sausages.”

She clicked her tongue, and Newt fell back into his seat, struggling to coin a coherent sentence, but eventually managed. “I would like to treat you to dinner, and I don’t know much about wine, but you can order one fine bottle for us to share.”

Newt was too young to drink wine before, and he had been too busy ever since leaving the mine to worry about something as nonsensical as alcoholic beverages. As for the nearly nude Dahlia, the closest Newt had seen was Jasmine in a bathing suit when they were bathing together in a stream a week before his uncle staged the coup.

The seductive waitress left, and Newt’s heart calmed down.

I absolutely cannot let her invite herself to my room.