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Chapter 159 - The Number Games
🕑 Added 2025-03-09 05:42:07 +0000 UTC48th of Season of Fire, 59th year of the 32nd cycle
The whole situation seemed surreal. Nine moons ago, the sect was a ruined battleground, but as Newt walked the path towards the inner elder residences, he noted that nothing had changed. The Chamber of Healing, along with all other chamber buildings, appeared the same as ever. The devastated rainforest was unmarred by the destruction and rivers of blood which had flowed through it.
Even the most observant cultivators would never guess that the tranquil forest had witnessed a slaughter less than a year ago. Only the lack of people hinted at the tragic loss of life. Newt looked around and decided he would have to visit the outer disciple residences, to check the scene of the greatest carnage his sect has ever faced.
He wondered which elders survived, which had fallen. The imperial librarian claimed only a handful perished, and Newt had witnessed some die. But even if the librarian had said nothing, Explorer’s Gate had repelled the attack, meaning the majority of elders should have survived, enough to drive away the demons.
Newt could have asked the sect master for the names, but the busy man had already graced him with an impossible amount of time, with whole weeks spent searching for him. It seemed inappropriate to further keep him from his duties, especially when Newt could ask the questions of others.
Besides, Newt had not one, but countless questions. How were Goodair, Obi, Jas, and Rose? Were Elders Flameax and Woodhopper alive?
His master was obviously fine, since the sect master told him to visit her and that she was anxiously awaiting news of her disciples.
Newt reached the white mansion, which bordered a palace, and knocked on the door.
An unfamiliar woman, seemingly in late thirties, opened the door.
“Greetings, disciple Newstar. I am Violetcloud, please come in, your master is expecting you.”
The fourth realm outer elder kept her voice cheerful, her smile friendly, but Newt’s chest tightened. It was his first time seeing her, and from chats with his senior sisters, he knew their master only employed Elder Freshshine, descendant of a former teammate of hers.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elder Violetcloud.”
The elder’s smile grew more genuine at his polite greeting, and she led the way to Elder Alabaster’s study.
“Elder, your disciple has arrived,” Freshshine said and saw Newt into the chamber before leaving.
The door closed and Newt found himself in a crushing embrace, a gust from his master’s sudden burst of speed blew his hair back.
“Thank heavens you’re all right,” Elder Alabaster whispered into Newt’s shoulder.
He wanted to say the feeling was mutual, but words failed him, and he just nodded.
“What about your brother and sisters?” Elder Alabaster released Newt, but held his hands.
“I traveled with Greenbow and Emeraldstreak. Both were healthy the last time I saw them. I don’t know about elder brother, we got separated during the crash. What happened here? How is everyone?”
“Freshshine and Twinflower have perished, as did Venerable Alorex. Flameax lost an arm, but he’s fine now, Longfang barely survived. Venerables Thunderwing and Monsoon are fine. Who else do you know among the elders? Right, Woodhopper is alive, but miserable, her beast companion perished protecting her.”
Elder Alabaster was nervous. She bit her lip and avoided Newt’s gaze, looking everywhere but straight at him. Finally, she worked up her courage, and squeezed his hands tighter.
“The Deeproot twins, Obsidian and Jasmine, have perished. Roselilly is the only one who survived from your old team. Goodair is alive, but what happened changed her. It changed all of us. I don’t know if you had any friends amongst the outer disciples, we lost a lot of them, same with laborers and outer elders. Most of them… the cultists outclassed them in battle.”
Elder Alabaster’s words birthed a heavy silence. Her mind was locked on the horrible truths regarding the tragic event, but she could never voice them to a youth who lost his friends.
Most laborers and outer disciples who failed to reach the inner disciple status in the first ten to twenty years were in truth a burden to the sect. Even the outer elders were a needless drain on the resources, for few stood a chance to reach the fifth realm, let alone the sixth. Disciples at their realm were a resource countless times more valuable.
Sects kept such members for the sake of their descendants and any potential talent the future generations might have. A single elder who rose to the sixth realm among the descendants of those who failed to reach the fifth was worth the upkeep of all others who failed in their parents’ generation. Seventh realm cultivators were a huge profit, and those of a higher realm an impossible gem mined against all odds.
The culling of lower realm members, especially those who already had sons and daughters, had done sect more good than harm, even with some talented individuals dying. The weak perished, the strong or lucky survived, freeing up resources for the fresh blood to replace them.
In less than fifty years, the sect’s lower realm cultivator population would recover completely. The imperial commendation, combined with the associated glory and resources, would increase Explorer’s Gate’s standing, impacting the quality of new recruits. Simultaneously, the lack of disciples would allow them to rightfully claim an increased number of young cultivators while their rival sects would have to swallow the injustice.
Games of politics and numbers played out in the background after the dreadful assault, and Elder Alabaster was one of the smallest pieces in the giant puzzle. What mattered was the loss of elders. Imperial law would protect Explorer’s Gate’s interests for a hundred years after the attack, but after that contests and conflicts would start anew, and the sect needed to recover as much strength as possible during the grace period.
“Could you tell me what happened to you?” Elder Alabaster asked, motioning Newt to sit and sounding a chime to let her new attendant know she required tea.
Newt removed his spear, leaning it against the wall, and Elder Alabaster noticed the gesture along with its implications. She knew her disciple would not part from his weapon for a long while, and Newt was not the only one. The majority of battle-hardened survivors walked around armed.
They had dashed into hell unarmed once, it would not happen again.
Elder Alabaster listened in silence as Newt gave a much longer and more detailed account of his life since the tragedy. He focused on his two senior sisters. Emeraldstreak, Aura, and Newt were young, focused on cultivation and advancing their realm more than on practical matters. They once believed that as long as one in the team knew enough survival skills they would be fine. How wrong they were.
Had Greenbow fallen with Stegorock and Sharpcut, Newt’s group would have wandered considerably more, and that wasted time would have killed him. Had Dandelion found him an hour later, Newt’s fate would have been sealed.
“Master, I believe all disciples need extensive wilderness survival training,” Newt said in the middle of his telling.
“And they get it,” Elder Alabaster said, a guilty look flashing in her eyes, “but not at random times. I understand you were frightened, but proper training takes more than a year. You have dipped your toes across several topics, but never deeply enough to master them, and yet, spreading your attention like that costs you precious time.”
Violetcloud entered the room and served tea. Elder Alabaster used the distraction to let Newt consider her words.
“You are like a sapling, full of growth and life,” she said after the servant left. “If we stunted a sapling’s growth, freezing its roots, just to hang some apples for a year, it would damage the future tree, make it less than it could have been. Same with our growth, your cultivation is swelling, carried on by the tide of youth. Stopping that growth to teach you ultimately irrelevant skills is folly. Same for Emeraldstreak and Goodair. Greenbow and Stegorock are considerably older; the prime time of their growth has passed, and they had the time to learn a host of useful skills.”
Elder Alabaster smiled to take the edge of her words. “To be honest, I believe that learning spell formations and how to fight with the spear are a waste of your time right now. You should solidify your realm, prepare for the next breakthrough.”
Newt opened his mouth to speak, and Elder Alabaster thought to cut him off, but allowed him to speak. She wanted to hear his argument.
“Master, isn’t it better to be prepared for incidents like this?”
Elder Alabaster smiled.
“Newstar, the demonic cults assault one organization every ten to twenty years on average. There are ten grand sects, ten contenders below them, and close to a hundred large sects like ours. Let us say, the cultists only target the one hundred of us, and they don’t; that means our turn is once in a thousand years on average. In those one thousand years, at least nineteen generations of disciples would waste a year of their time.”
Newt did not need to hear the entire speech. He understood what his master was saying. That year might cost the majority of those disciples the ability to reach the third realm, some would not reach the fourth because of the wasted time, and it might even hamper those with potential for even higher realms.
Still, Newt listened. Elder Alabaster offered hard numbers based on the generations she had observed and a thought crept into his mind.
To really ancient cultivators, people are just numbers.
