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

Newt left his realm along with Magmin, a part of him wondering why the serpent hadn't disappeared like usual. The only explanation that came to mind was his realm advancement. But he had other, more important things to think about.

His realm had expanded, and his body had grown stronger, but he had to test how much stronger and get used to that strength. Then, once his body and mind stabilized again, he could absorb the mana from the crystals he had mined and advance the two stages for a bit of extra strength and mana he could use on his abilities.

Awakened advancing without reacquainting themselves with their abilities often resulted in accidental injuries, usually of non-awakened commoners. But that required time, as did draining a thousand-odd pieces of manarium, and with his goal in sight, Newt didn't want to stay in the mines a second longer than necessary.

One very confident part of him was certain he could crush his uncle even without expanding his realm, but another, more rational voice whispered that he should grow as strong as possible before braving new dangers.

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 faint glowing outline with his mind's eye. The weeks of training and exercise were paying dividends.

The sight assured Newt he wasn't making a mistake. Effort and practice paid off.

Half a day passed during which Newt relearned how to jump the distance he wanted to cross, how to throw a stone where he wished, and how to lift a boulder which would have broken his spine three moons ago.

Once he was satisfied and confident he could handle the changes of his body, Newt shifted his focus to the manarium. He had never drained them for mana, but even so, he knew he shouldn't eat them like he did in Magmin's realm. Manarium was mana-infused rock; it did not melt, did not turn to vapor in his hand. It was solid, very solid, thanks to mana keeping it together.

Fortunately, Newt knew the theory of absorbing mana from crystals. The proper way was cupping a crystal between one's palms and controlling your own mana, using it to draw out the mana like drinking water through a straw.

The rich used runic seals, which did the drawing for the host, extracting extra mana from the air to offer increased efficiency than just consuming the crystal.

And finally, there was the wasteful way in which a mage could extract all mana within reach without the runic seal. But this approach wasted huge quantities of mana, and Newt had no intention of using it.

He started with the higher quality crystals, because expanding his realm should in theory increase the passive rate at which he gathered mana, and Newt's realm lacked a construct for active energy gathering. Draining the first gem took ten hours. The manarium crystal dulled and crumbled into slag when the last sliver of mana left it. The next one took nine hours, then Newt had to focus on the small mound of first realm gems.

Each crumbled after less than a minute, but the sheer quantity meant Newt spent over sixteen hours to go through them.

Newt's preparations took two days, but he thought they were worth it. He was ready.

Then another question popped up in his mind, What do I do with the guards? Should I kill them?

Newt considered the matter while climbing up the tunnel, but it did not sit right. The guards weren't any he knew. They were probably farmers his uncle had recruited. Certainly uncouth, and they laughed at him, but they never hurt him, nor did they spit into his food, or worse. They were ordinary people, surviving in a world ruled by awakened and infested by saurians. Besides, the thought of murder scared him. He had never killed anyone.

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Newt's steps faltered. The guards and the locked grated door were beyond the next bend, but he still hadn't decided their fate.

Father said fighting non-awakened commoners was demeaning and beneath a righteous man, unless you were executing them for criminal behavior.

Newt wondered whether that belief was why other awakened underestimated his family and treated them the way they did. Why commoners living in their lands dared act brazenly. Salamandra was a mythical beast which absorbed fire. A peaceful existence, which lashed out only when provoked, burning everything around them to ashes.

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 towards others 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 turned to smoke beneath his fingers. Earth mana coursed through his body, coating him in a layer of phantasmal 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 battered 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 possibly achieved the same feat if they strained for a while, using both their arms. But the sight of a naked, starved youth doing it so casually 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. It would soil the teachings of his ancestors.

The slim guard's hands shook as he took his pants off and offered them to Newt. The Salamandras' centuries-old tradition won against mindless rage, and Newt put the pants on. Without a glance or a word, he left, sparing the commoners.

The sunny world outside was dazzling, and Newt closed his eyes. Instead of black, he saw a vague gray landscape 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. The mountain's simple autumn smells intoxicated him.

He stood there, thinking.

Should I confront my uncle, or should I 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, breaking all obstacles in my path. Newt clenched his jaw and continued down the trail. Doubting himself too long might birth a heart demon. He had defeated one version of his uncle. There was no 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 family's castle. 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 castle, Salamandra home, stood on the cliff, surrounded by a seven feet thick and twenty feet tall black granite wall, beyond which stood an array of buildings made of granite and well-maintained gardens and orchards. Newt had expected to see the black ominous fortification, but didn't.

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 some stranger sensibilities. Flowery vines strangled the fruits in the orchards, while bright flowers filled what had once been vegetable gardens.

What was once an imposing home of warriors, made to withstand saurian sieges, 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 ambient mana 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 dragon, or a scamming serpent, depending on how one looked at it. But whatever Magmin was, the passage of eons since its demise had failed to drain all the energy within his grave.

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

The time for punishment had come.

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