Magma Dragon's Heir Chapter 146 - Why?

29th of Season of Water, 57th year of the 32nd cycle

“Help,” the girl whimpered, snapping Newt out of his daze. He looked up to see her deathly pale skin and the aberrant glyph marring her bare chest.

The girl was rely a non-awakened maid. Newt recalled her serving tea back when they were still children, when the young miss had retainers her own age, to groom and raise to serve her for life.

The thing in the ceiling was watching, but seeing a dying girl, Newt clenched his teeth and ran into the chamber of horror. His boots splashed as he circled around the stacked bodies, heading for the chained-up serving girl.

He passed others, under normal circumstances, Newt would have known the exact count, but in the bloody room, under the watchful gaze of the thing which lurked beyond the ceiling, beyond the seal, he had no clue how many people were suspended between him and the dying girl.

Dozens, hundreds, thousands. Numbers lost aning, since seeing even a single human treated like sacrificial blood was enough to scar the budding soul.

It watched.

Newt could feel it watching him as he reached the girl and helplessly stared at the steel thorns protruding from her wrists. His eyes were clouded, and he had no clue how to remove the spikes without hurting her further, so he snapped the chains.

He picked her up as gently as he could and turned to leave. The act made sothing deep inside him turn more solid, more real.

“Newstar.”

He ignored Brave’s pained rasp and stopped himself from sprinting out. The speed at which he moved would have pushed the broken girl beyond her ability to handle, snapping her body. Newt walked slowly, water sloshing beneath his feet.

Yes, it was water. Nothing more, nothing less. Water.

“He gave them Mother,” the dying girl whispered, her voice a flickering fla caught in a storm. “He gave them Threeflower.”

Her lips were blue; her fingers cold. Newt was immune to re mortal heat and chill, but those fingers grabbing his forearm were the coldest thing that ever touched his skin. No frostworm could ever compare.

The basent stretched into eternity. Hours must have passed in which all he could do was sense labored breath, straining to keep going, weakening by a fraction each ti the frail girl breathed out.

Rose. Rose can help.

“I don’t want to die.” Glacial fingers, which gripped Newt’s arm, went slack.

Tears blurred his eyes, and he lost sight beyond sars of light and darkness. Newt moved following his mindcore, which told him mana still flowed with the girl’s blood. She was alive, barely; rely passed out.

She’s alive. Rose can help.

Newt repeated his mantra, seeking salvation after visiting the abyss of blood.

“Newt!” Obsidian shouted all of a sudden, and Newt realized he was outside.

“Heal her,” he croaked, and Rose was already there, motes of blue light flowing into the girl he cradled in his arms.

“Are there others? Shouldn’t we rescue them?”

Yes, there were others. Countless humans were used as nodes of a spell seal, bound and broken and twisted. But if his friends went down there, it would ruin them. Newt knew their forward path would be shaken, if not outright destroyed. It would see them.

He gingerly moved the girl, handing her to Jasmine.

“You stay here.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, clearing his sight. “I’ll bring the others.”

Obsidian moved to follow.

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“Obi.” Newt’s voice was sharp, but he did not know what he wanted to say. “You can’t go down there. I’ve already seen it, but you don’t have to see sothing like that.”

Those were the wrong words to say, and Newt knew imdiately.

“And you’re saying I should let my friend go through whatever’s down there alone?”

Yes.

“...” No words could find their way past Newt’s lips. He simply allowed Obsidian to follow. They sprinted to the basent, and, surprisingly, Obsidian’s reaction was nowhere near as bad as Newt’s.

“Heavens,” he gasped when he saw all the blood and the bodies, but muttered curses were the extent of his reaction.

Obsidian didn’t notice the thing in the ceiling watching them like a predator. To him, the runes carved into dead and dying humans were nothing more than cruel butchery; they held no threats or tempting promises Newt sensed from them.

It’s better this way.

The countless bodies chained to the walls were, in fact, twenty-six. Many more were thrown onto the pile, and Newt suddenly understood why there were no servants anywhere. They were all there. Used by the cultists for whatever nefarious purpose the eldritch formation had.

Without any prior arrangent, Newt went left and Obi went right, checking the state of those hanging off the chains.

His first was dead, as was the second, and the third. The fourth person was gasping for breath. Newt broke their chains and brought them up. His mind had entered an altered state; up, down, cower beneath the malevolent gaze, check whether the next body was still breathing, up and down again. The movent was done in a trance, Newt’s mind disconnected from reality as his body did what needed to be done.

Then, Newt faced Brave. His mindless routine shattered, and he stared at the man he had respected as a child, but loathed as an adult.

“Why?” His voice trembled as he glared at the chained man hanging limply from the chains, blood still oozing from his runic wound. “Why did you get tangled up with the Blood Cult? How could you be so stupid?”

The man looked up, his eyes taking too long before focusing on Newt.

“We never approached anyone.” He licked his lips, struggling to form the words. “We’ve been staying with the Steelwheels ever since you kicked us out of the clan. Then, one day, Patriarch Steelwheel showed up with a group of higher-realm awakened who captured us and brought us down here. They have been torturing us for days, weeks. I don’t know how long.”

Newt stared blankly as Brave passed out. Newt’s lips moved, mouthing silent words, “If they weren’t the ones who called them, and if it was Jasmine’s dad—”

His head snapped back towards the exit. A sudden urge overwheld Newt, a desire to tear Jasmine’s father to pieces. Him and his entire filthy family. Why did he do it? Why did Jasmine do what she had done to him? What was wrong with them!?

Newt almost ran to hunt him down. But he didn’t. He focused on the more important thing. On the human lives before him. On people needing his help.

He broke Brave’s chains and carried him out, laying him on the courtyard’s soft grass for Rose to heal when she got to it. Twelve people were already sleeping, covered with tablecloths Obsidian’s sister had pilfered from the mansion.

Two more were waiting for healing while Rose covered her latest patient, moving towards an unconscious, withered man, who seed sowhat familiar to Newt.

“Two more to check,” Obsidian said, lowering another wounded onto the grass.

Newt nodded. They went back underground together and returned empty-handed a minute later. Fifteen out of twenty-seven still lived, Brave being the only surviving Salamandra clansman. Newt thought about the pile of bodies. At least fifty people were stacked atop each other there. His stomach no longer twisted. It boiled instead. He was seething with fury. He was angry at everything and everyone. His dumb clansn, his dumb uncle, dumb Jasmine, her dumb father—

Her father!

Newt turned around and looked at Obsidian.

“Obi, can you take care of things here? I have sothing else left to do.”

Obsidian nodded without a word, his grim expression more than enough to show his determination.

Newt ran into the mansion. Overturning everything as he searched for the one behind the disaster.

Why? The question hamred at his sanity. He clenched his teeth, searching for the sick, sadistic bastard.

That irrelevant, tiny, evil man brought the Blood Cult into their quiet little town. He sacrificed his servants. He sacrificed Newt’s kin and intended to push the rest of his clan off the cliff. Why? Why did he do that?

Was the inconspicuous patriarch of a mortal family a hidden mber of the Blood Cult? Was he their supporter? Newt didn’t know, but he planned to find out.

He searched every nook of the vast manor, checked every corner, every secret chamber his eyes and mindcore detected, and he found nothing out of the ordinary, and no sign of the target of his ire.

He fled. Newt ran out of the complex, onto the street. Not a single person could be seen. Newt was montarily terrified. He feared the Blood Cult might have sacrificed the entire town, but then he saw timid eyes hiding behind the window shutters. The wooden covers hung open just a crack, enough for those looking out to see what was happening in the street.

“Did anyone see where Old Steelwheel had run off to?” Newt’s voice bood in the street, but no response ca.

***

“You will now tell how and why you got involved with those n,” Flaax told his prisoner, who hung off a tree, just out of sight of the town walls. If any ergency happened, he could appear by Newstar’s side in a blink, but until then, he had a suspect to interrogate.

After all, no innocent man fled his own ho if he was really held hostage by the cultists.