Magma Dragon's Heir

46th of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd imperial era

Newt stopped before the closed gate, wondering why his uncle had allowed vines to smother and conceal the fearsome ancestral guardian statues which flanked the main gate. He spat on hundreds of years of tradition for the sake of greenery blooming with white and purple flowers.

Nobody had noticed him yet, which was even more unacceptable. The security his father insisted on had grown so lax, he reached the gate without being challenged. And the gate was closed! Like they feared invaders. Trying to calm himself, Newt examined the once black walls painted white from up close and felt his stomach churn. Based on everything he could see, Newt concluded his uncle was trying to undo the family history and spit on their ancestors.

The most terrifying thing was, a part of him understood. Newt had grown up hearing the stories of how his grand slayer lineage had grown weaker and weaker, smaller and smaller, until they were reduced to their current state. Not a regional giant amongst the awakened, but a local power among commoners, slightly better than wealthy landowners.

Newt could have understood his uncle if he had destroyed the tradition to remake it, to try to ascend, to regain the glory. But that wasn't what he saw. His uncle had abandoned their past prestige, choosing to be a wealthy commoner rather than a poor awakened.

Disgusted, Newt looked at the massive wooden gate. He was about to knock, when he pushed it open instead. He wasn't there to act civil — he was there to wreak havoc and mete punishment. The gate swung open, followed by two startled yelps as the heavy wood smacked the bored guards.

"Who goes there?" they shouted, but Newt stepped in without answering.

The men scrambled to block Newt's path and pointed their spears towards him.

"Stop," the older guard, whom Newt vaguely recognized, shouted, his face red with embarrassment and anger. Then he recognized the scrawny youth before him, and his tough facade broke down.

"Master Newstar?" the guard choked a sob, tears trying to escape his wet eyes as he lowered his weapon.

The younger guard seemed confused, but followed his senior and withdrew his spear.

Newt found himself embarrassed. He wanted to say something to the old guard, but he had no idea what the mature man's name was. He probably caught his name at some point, but when he was the young lord, common household guards were beneath Newt's notice.

"It is I… Good Sir," Newt added after thinking how to address the guard. When he was a child, his father had taught him that 'Good Sir' was a great way to address non-awakened who seemed honorable and respectful.

I wonder why I found it so difficult and beneath me to show the non-awakened basic respect and courtesy before spending three years in a mine? It was a shameful fault, one which Newt would correct.

"Thank the heavens you are all right!" Newt's cheeks burned with shame when he heard the joy and relief in the guard's voice. "Your uncle is destroying everything. He is selling your family's manarium reserve to pay for feasts and banquets, redecorating and renovating everything which didn't suit his taste, he has added nineteen young women to his harem in less than three years, hosting opulent weddings…"

The guard kept talking, letting his pain pour out, and Newt couldn't help but wonder why a common guard would care. He took a moment to realize why the man was so devastated by what had happened. All advisors and some of the servants and guards come from branch families, descendants of those who lacked talent or drive. Or, more recently, the descendants of those the main lineage couldn't afford to awaken. The guard was probably Newt's distant cousin, crying over the state of their ancestral home.

I need to fix that. Everyone should get at least second realm saurian cores, while those showing exceptional talent should get even better.

"What is your name, Good Sir?" Newt finally mustered his courage to ask.

"Redblaze, master Newstar," Redblaze said, not sounding the least bit offended because his young lord didn't know his name.

"Redblaze, what of the family advisors?" The man was Newt's cousin. The odds of parents nearby adding the Salamandra family's ancestral 'Blaze' to their child's name by accident were nonexistent.

"Your uncle, the new patriarch, imprisoned the two who disagreed with his… design." Redblaze spat the word. "The rest supported him. The main family lacked resources to purchase adequate cores for the advisors' descendants to awaken. Because of that, most of them had outlived their children. Since their realms have plateaued, and their descendants are non-awakened or dead, they supported the patriarch in selling everything relating to realm sculpting and advancement."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Madness," Newt muttered, and Redblaze nodded.

"They don't think so," Redblaze said. "The mine is depleted, there's no need to stay strong to resist other families and organizations, because we have nothing of interest. If anyone comes asking for our ancestral techniques, the patriarch has declared he would hand copies over without resistance. To make the shame worse, nobody came to claim them even after the declaration."

Newt was sixteen, yet he nearly suffered a heart attack when he heard what level of sacrilege the family had stooped down to.

"They would hand out ancestral teachings to anyone who asked?" he stuttered, struggling to control his rage, yet the air around his skin still started simmering as faint red scales covered his body.

Redblaze was nodding when he noticed the phenomenon.

"Master Newstar, you—" he started, and his younger colleague withdrew a step.

"Where is my uncle and where are his heretical advisors?"

Redblaze gulped. "They are in their residences."

Newt nodded, and stormed off towards the main mansion, the patriarch's family's residence. The castle covered over forty acres of land, with the main housing area at the center. A village meant for servants surrounded the complex, dotted with gardens and orchards. When they saw Newt march down the paved street, the residents fled, pulling the children into their homes, hoping to escape getting caught in the carnage they expected.

Newt ignored them and slammed open the mansion door, heading to the large common room. Inside, three young women, barely a year or two his senior, looked at him.

"Who are you?" One of them asked, rising from the table where they shared tea and gossip.

Newt ignored her and headed deeper, into the audience chamber.

"I am speaking to you, peasant!" the woman shouted, and the familiar, haughty tone he once used stung Newt like a slap, but he had more important matters to handle than a single shrew.

The audience hall's door slammed open, revealing an empty chamber. Thankfully, the chamber walls were not painted over, still covered in intricate murals depicting their founding ancestors' majestic feats.

"Guards, a thug has entered the premises!" the shrew shouted, running behind Newt, and the young man finally couldn't endure any longer.

He controlled his strength, but a mere slap still sent her flying, blood oozing out of her mouth. The young woman was out cold on the floor, her cheek swelling. For a second, Newt was worried he had killed her and heaved a relieved sigh when he saw her chest moving.

"What's happening?"

Newt caught a drunken slur, and the hair at the back of his neck bristled. He spun around, his heart pounding. There he was. Victor. Newt's uncle was a handsome man, no different from his heart demon. He appeared thirty years old. His robe was crooked, revealing a bare breast, firm, but free of muscle, hinting at a body of someone who never had to work or fight his entire life.

"Newt?" Victor shouted, the drunken haze retreating, but not leaving him completely.

Newt didn't care about his uncle's circumstances. They were in the same realm, and his uncle was a genuine threat, not a heart demon. One wrong move, and he would pay with a limb, or with his life.

Newt charged. He had no weapons, but neither did his uncle. He lacked techniques, but his uncle had obviously neglected his training for a very long time. In Newt's mind, they were equally matched. And in an equal match, initiative and attitude mattered the most.

Red spectral scales envelopped Newt's skin, followed by rough rock, just as immaterial, which covered the scales a moment later. Meanwhile, his uncle gaped at him. The speed at which Newt moved, the distance he covered in every bound, they were clearly beyond normal humans. Which left one logical conclusion — the boy had awakened.

Unaccustomed to battle, Victor let his attention drift to the less important matter. Instead of focusing on his enemy, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. To awaken, one needed to absorb and refine a saurian core. But where could Newt find something like that in the darkness of the abandoned and thoroughly explored mine?

The erratic train of thought came to a crashing end as Newt's fist connected with Victor's chest. Newt paused, watching the drunkard fly across the room and strike the far wall, offering no resistance.

His heart demon would have struck him dead twice over. He was prepared to dodge to the side; the blow being merely a feint, but when his uncle failed to move, when Newt's mindcore failed to register a stir of mana moving through his enemy's body, Newt added force to his feint and committed, despite believing it a trap of some sort.

While Newt couldn't believe what was happening, Victor smashed into the wall with a boom, blood spraying from his mouth, and he fell down, unconscious. Newt stood there, his fists clenched, heaving for breath, as he realized he didn't want for the events to unfold the way they did.

His torture of three years, the long days of suffering, they couldn't have such an anticlimactic end. Newt wanted his uncle to fight, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat by a hair's width, he wanted… Something. Anything. He didn't want to strike his uncle and accidentally kill him in one blow while the man struggled to come to terms with what was happening before him.

Wait. Did I really kill him?

Newt suddenly felt sick. He wanted to defeat his uncle and have him face justice for what he had done. He didn't want to kill the man without hearing what he had to say, without knowing why he had betrayed his father and their ancestors. To know whether the love and kindness he showed Newt were genuine or an act.

Struggling for breath, Newt sprinted towards the crumpled shell of a man.