Magma Dragon Cultivation

67th of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd cycle

After overcoming his initial aversion, Newt enjoyed the theoretical discussions with the sect master. They were eye-opening, as was the wealth of runes the man offered once they refined what it was that Newt wished to achieve with his realm and techniques.

Newt spent three days refining the lava streams flowing towards the barrier of his realm, turning the straight lines into a network of glyph-shaped channels. The design also involved earth-themed runes where lava could not reach and funnels for the crystalline pinecones, to prevent them from getting stuck.

Newt’s second realm would one day become a wonder, but while the flame-enhancing runes came in a great variety of purposes and shapes, the earth runes focused on strength, hardness, and endurance.

The cultivation of his second realm would take months, but rather than depressed, Newt felt excited about the prospect. He had a direction, and right or wrong, Newt would blaze his path boldly. If Blackfist, a cultivator over one hundred years old, dared abolish his realm, why should Newt hesitate in case his plans failed?

But he had a feeling he was heading in the right direction. Earth energy for physical empowerment, fire energy for everything else.

“Start,” four referees shouted simultaneously, snapping Newt out of his daze.

The first tournament matches started in four adjacent rings. Newt’s enemy, armed with a heavy saber, kicked up sand as he rushed towards him. The insignificant man, whose name Newt did not bother remembering, lifted his massive weapon, aiming to cleave the arrogant youth in half. Newt simply released a controlled blast beneath his left foot. Finesse rune showed its worth, helping Newt estimate the force needed and perform the subtle move perfectly.

As the weapon crashed towards the spot he occupied a moment ago, Newt reinforced his right arm, shoulders, spine, and lower body. He slapped the man, who was at least twice his age, straight on the cheek. The scene was comical, a stick-thin youth moved as if blown by the strike’s draft, then slapped the attacker with the weight of a mountain.

Blood and spit sprayed from Newt’s enemy’s open mouth as he spun from the force of the slap, and landed head-first into the sand.

“Winner, Newstar Blazing Salamander!”

Newt looked to the stands, Jasmine’s gaze was glued to him, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Winner, Hardsteel Blackfist!”

Hardsteel wielded a broad-bladed sword, he was built like his father, bulky and muscular, his short hair black, his beard a two-day stubble. His gaze met Newt’s, and the Black Fist sect’s young master flashed his rival a mocking grin.

He mouthed something, but Newt missed the words. A taunt, he guessed, and Newt had a feeling he was starting to understand how Sect Master Blackfist felt when Newt acted like a spoiled brat. Hardsteel was as relevant as an annoying fly.

Newt felt no desire to observe the others fight. His opponents were at the peak of the first realm or lower. Newt’s own realm was high enough to make him an elder in the Black Fist sect, and after the first clash, he could feel it, but his second and third opponents really drove the point home.

Newt was an adult stealing a prize in a children’s competition. And while embarrassing, the feeling of mopping the floor with his opponents intoxicated Newt. It helped him vent years of helplessness he spent striking bare rock, hoping for a lucky find which would secure him a decent meal.

Slap after slap, Newt reached the finals, where Hardsteel awaited.

“I’m gonna destroy you,” the young master said with a laugh. “Your former fiancee is a very passionate girl, isn’t she?”

Hardsteel winked, and while Newt felt anger rise, the emotion which dominated his mind was disgust. Jasmine was engaged with Hardsteel, yet agreed to share his father’s bed without hesitation.

“Very passionate.” Newt nodded, his voice flat.

He had had days to process Sect Master Blackfist’s words, and came to terms with reality. He had lost interest in Jasmine and joined the tournament to remove his heart demon. The strangest thing was that Newt’s heart demon and Hardsteel looked nothing alike. The heart demon was dashing, with heroic features, smooth skin, and long black hair; in Newt’s mind, his heart demon could charm any woman. The real Hardsteel was handsome-ish, well built, but had all the charisma of a leprosy-stricken toad.

If not for the physical resemblance, Newt would have wondered whether Blackfist had really sired the young man.

Luckily, the Black Fist sect’s young master did not get to exchange more witty remarks and insults with Newt before the referee sounded, “Fight!”

Hardsteel thrust his sword forward, his form definitely better than Newt’s other opponents. The young man had received formal training with the weapon and did not overextend himself. Instead, he maintained a steady rhythm, keeping Newt away. Step, stab, step, stab, slash, then again, and again.

After the fourth cycle, Newt realized his opponent was either trying to lull him into complacency or he really thought a single combination would win him the match.

Step, stab, step, as the young man made the second step of his combination, Newt also stepped closer. Right on cue, Hardsteel stabbed, but the enemy was too close. Newt slapped the flat of the sword with bare palm, throwing the weapon out of its wielder’s hand, then he slapped the young master on the cheek, grabbed the hem of his robe and planted him head-first into the sand.

The stands were dead silent. The referee stared in shock while Blackfist gazed at the scene before him with terminal boredom.

“Well, go on with it,” the sect master said after the silence stretched too long.

“The winner and our tournament’s champion, Newstar Blazing Salamander!”

Blackfist smiled a bit and remained silent for two to three heartbeats before standing and addressing the crowd.

“Dear guests, disciples, and participants, it is with great joy that I present to you our champion.” The sect master spoke with leisurely formality as the referee and one disciple plucked Hardsteel from the sand and carried him to an infirmary.

“Alas, it is with great sorrow that I must announce my retirement from the leadership of the Black Fist sect. I would like to entrust the position to my second in command, the deputy sect master, Black Knife, assuming he is willing to take it.”

Newt spotted another man, flustered by the declaration, sitting a dozen seats away, beyond the living wall that was half the Blackfist’s harem.

“I didn’t expect this,” the deputy sect master stuttered, but found his words soon enough. “I will naturally carry the burden of our sect’s future and lead us all to a, um, brighter future.”

“Well said!” Blackfist applauded with a straight face while his wives and children gaped, their minds trying to catch up with the bizarre events unfolding before them.

There were rewards, and there was to be a feast, probably a ceremony too, but Newt did not care for them any more than the former sect master. The sole purpose keeping him there was his former fiancee.

As expected, Jasmine proved herself a clever girl. The imminent change in the Black Fist sect’s ownership would make Hardsteel a useless braggart without access to resources she craved, and she immediately found her way out.

Newt watched emotions flicker on her face, offended that shame failed to find its way there. Once she had made her mind up, Jasmine ran down the stands, jumping onto the sand and throwing herself into his embrace.

“Newstar!”

Hot air burst beneath Newt’s feet just as Jasmine was about to grab him. He flew back a yard and Jasmine fell flat on her face, rising a small cloud of sand.

The young woman lifted her head, giving Newt the most miserable look he had ever seen.

“Newstar?” the manipulative snake said with the wounded voice of a kicked baby velociraptor.

“Jasmine.” Newt nodded in acknowledgement, but that was the only word he had to spare for her.

He watched her writhe in the dust for a long moment, recalling how he had planted Hardsteel into that same dust not two minutes ago, and he suddenly felt as if a chain shackling him had snapped.

Newt smiled and turned around. He had achieved what he wanted at the Black Fist sect, and profited immensely beyond that. In an uncharacteristic burst of optimism, he decided that befriending Blackfist was worth it, and that he should give the man an honest chance instead of a tentative bond of mutual convenience.

He ignored the chaos, and the change in the sect’s leadership, as well as Blackfist’s immediate departure gave him an opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

He was halfway out of the city when Blackfist caught up. The distinguished sect master wore an old brown robe, its color pale from prolonged exposure to the sun. He carried a bindle of all things, but Newt’s third eye caught that the thick shaft was infused with spiritual energy, and when he paid it closer attention, he found it was actually a thick black war staff.

“How are you doing?” the sect master turned vagrant asked.

Newt drew a deep breath and looked up, gazing at the clouds drifting in the wind. “Good. I think I finally have some closure and that I can move forward. You?”

“I am incredibly glad I am leaving this dump. I have spent too much time inside the city without seeing the wider world.” Blackfist’s smile beamed with wanderlust, and Newt flashed back a surprisingly similar smile.

It was time to visit Magmin’s second realm, then see the wider world.