Metaworld Chronicles

Gwen wondered if Elizabeth Sobel, her predecessor, would have looked more svelte, fabulous and in control if placed in the same predicament.

When to her complete surprise, the final battlefield manifested as a sealed mining shaft commonly found in the Murk, her mind had instantly turned to the same tactic the Earthen Wyrms used to devour their prey—to lead with one's mouth and hope for the best.

Without delay, she had relented an unearthly volume of her stowed vitality, tapped into Almudj's blessing to supplement her needs, then near-emptied Caliban's internal stores to make the match truly interesting for the last Holland.

Her one regret was that contestants couldn't see the lumen-projectors outside the arena, for she would have truly enjoyed the expression Poins must have made when he realised the only way through Caliban was via its puckering, salivating orifice.

That was because Caliban's Void-tinged slime formed a near-vacuum seal of the tunnel, so much that were it not for the various vents built into the complex Force Barrier Mandalas, she doubted her "Mongolian Death Worm" would have possessed any mobility.

Her only inconvenience was that Caliban's rapid expansion had quickly forced her into a hilariously compromised position against the wall had she not put up a double-glazed Shield to protect herself. However, once she had settled herself, Gwen had time to foment her next move, which was to put a conclusive exclamation mark to the question of what weight she wielded in London.

"Ariel—" She called forth her purring, furry Kirin, fully stocked up on her Almudj's Essence over the last few days and choked full of the most vital Wildlands Creature Cores Charlene could provide. "You ready to impress?"

"EE—EE!" Ariel proved an eager participant, having spent the whole fight pent up in its Pocket Dimension, watching Caliban hog the spotlight. Now, its glowing horns of solidified lightning glowed with the power of a small power plant in semi-meltdown, ready to deliver its mistresses' displeasure to the man cornered by the business-end of its sibling.

With a dainty gauntlet resting on the head of her pet, Gwen willed forth the lion's share of Almudj's Essence, transforming Ariel wholly so that the crowd rose into wild whines of awe-inspired jubilation. Ariel, who was already an impressive chimaera before it took on Gwen's Essence boost, reformed into a radiant demi-Dragon with unquestionable semi-divinity. From its eighteen-point stag horns to its slender, serpentine neck covered with fish-scale patterned fur, it was the closest thing many Londoners had ever seen of a "true' Dragon-kind.

"EE—EE!" Ariel pawned the air with its immense mittens, all the while stomping the ground with its lightning-charged hooves, leaving behind horseshoe-shaped imprints of molten silica. The light of the plasma sparking off Ariel's fur to sizzling the Walls of Force was such that the generators near the pane where girl and Kirin hid bulged and warped as the sheer volume of otherworldly mana radiating from Gwen's Familiar seared their observer's weeping retinas.

Mid-transfusion, Gwen felt an invisible, empathetically driven bolt of Ash-tinged fire drilling into Caliban, growing until it felt like someone had pricked the inside of her skull with a needle. For a creature with no organs and arguably no nerve endings, Caliban was insensible to pain, which meant whatever Poins was doing had to be doing some real damage to tickle her insides.

"Ouch—" Gwen reflexively gritted her teeth as she touched a hand to her temple. A younger Gwen would have grown distracted, but an experienced masochist like herself managed to brush off the pain through sheer force of will. That said, there was nought she could do to dismiss the strange side effect of Elemental Ash, a feeling akin to injecting anaesthesia into her emotional centres.

Activating her Link Sight, she saw the vital form of Poins, burning like a miniature sun with limbs, tossing bolt after bolt of dark energy from his hands into Cali's maw like a man angrily feeding Dede breadsticks.

With each blast, the numbing sensation intensified, permeating Caliban's body, bleeding the accumulated effect into her Astral Soul.

Gwen guessed that the Ash-tinged smoke spears must be one of those prized secretive magics of the Hollands, meaning it was probably a good idea to prevent her opponent from reaching the full potential of his rare art.

"Bloody oath—" She fought down her nausea. "Alright, Ariel, it's time to lend Cali a horn or two."

She gave Ariel one last pat on the head, then dematerialised her Kirin to recombobulate her Familiar closer to Caliban's mouth, all the while ensuring that an eruption of tentacles from Caliban's howling, angry maw would shield the suddenly-appearing Kirin.

"Don't die, Magus Holland." Feeling a little cheeky, she decided to echo the words Thomas had delivered only ten minutes earlier, then followed up with an exclamation that dwarfed anything the Steam Mage had thus far demonstrated.

Then, Gwen began the famous invocations her audience had been waiting for in the grandstand, a phrase made infamous by her enthralling IIUC highlights.

With deliberate emphasis, her lush lips formed the perfect syllable to begin her spell, followed a few seconds later by the sound of reverberating thunder from down under.

Edward Poins Holland felt a buoyed sense of hope when, after six consecutive Hellfire Bolts that drained his Cinder Spirit and deadened his mind, the worm creature's advance was halted, and its undulation dulled.

To the observers, the young man was arguably deserving of the reputation attributed to his House, for Poins was a walking avatar of smog and ash, appearing and disappearing as his body displaced between the Prime Material and the Para-Plane of Smoke. Both of his hands, now imbued with the residue mana from his Hellfire Blasts, glowed with smouldering Elemental Ash, igniting the clambering particles surrounding his body as they dissipated, leaving phoenix trails of flaming embers.

Had the fiend finally run out of vitality? Poins' mind grew hot with visions of victory as he shook the corrosive particles of ash from his insensible fingers. The girl had fought his brother, and now she had conjured a full-sized Death Worm from Mongolia. Surely, her mana and vitality should have struck rock bottom? If he were to dispatch the worm, would the sorceress then appear? He wasn't in peak condition himself, but he felt confident he had the necessary spells on hand to hinder the bumpkin the moment her pretty face showed herself.

His plan was simple, for he would obfuscate her senses with phantoms conjured from Elemental Smoke—then he would Cinder Blast her defences to keep her on the back heel—then, as a masterstroke, he would permeate her Astral Body with enough Elemental Ash to render her senseless. At that point, she should be reduced to nought but a moist oyster on his plate!

But what of her retaliation?

There was a saying, Poins recalled, that one could not raise Manticore cubs without venturing into a Manticore's lair.

Elemental Smoke could not rival Dust for its absolute ability to withstand all forms of damage, but what he did have in abundance was the ability to warp and dodge incoming spellfire. Likewise, while Thomas, his brother, focused on offence, he possessed a more rounded suite of powers, including a Signature defence spell taught by Holland's Captain of the Guard, Smoke Ward—a form of Abjuration that emphasised diverting incoming attacks through a dispersed field of deflecting force shards. These were excellent against consumption-based powers like Void. Additionally, what gave Poins his absolute confidence was his House Armourer's Enchantment of Greater Protection against Lightning, built especially into his suit for the occasion after two months of planning and foresight.

And if his offence should fail?

Poins had already polluted the surrounding air, or what's left of it, with particles of his and his Spirit's Essence, readying the battleground for a Dire Haze should events turn southward for the never-setting sunset of Exeter.

To snatch victory from the jaws of seeming defeat! Could there be a sweeter moment for a heroic Scion of the Hollands? What would his brother do? What would his father say? And to have the girl confess to her willingness to be a marriage candidate? It was a delicious thought, even if the prospect made him a little afraid.

"Hellfire Bolt!" The final bolt cratered the creature's face deep enough for him to see its charred, pink interior.

To his pleasure, "Caliban" then ceased its movement entirely, making victory feel so close he could almost taste it.

Ding! The subtle chime of the Adjudicator's message channel bloomed besides Poins' ear. For a second, Poins wondered if enough Elemental Ash had permeated the girl to make her give up the fight.

"Don't die… Magus Holland."

Instead, what came across was a passed-on missive that was seductive, husky and sweet all at once, with implications no kinder than a hatchet to his ego. It took Poins another split-second to realise she had spoken the precise words used by Thomas before his failed alpha strike.

Instantly, Poins' mind filled with nagging doubt. He would have written off the mockery without his brother's words, but now, he wasn't so sure.

What did the girl mean by it?

Were Thomas and the Ravenport's heiress in cahoots?

They had, after all, known one another since he and his brother were at Eton and Charlene at Cheltenham. Compared to himself, his brother had always been the popular one, the one who the girls at Cheltenham had pined after, and the heir that caught their father's and mother's eyes.

Taken as such, was the girl's mockery a warning passed on by Thomas against his ambitions? Poins had been the one who suggested taking the girls on to usurp their wealth and gain their bloodline. Yet, hadn't Thomas agreed to it? Hadn't his brother put the measures in place to take advantage of the Barlow Group's feud?

The more he thought about it, the more he sensed a terrifying logic piecing together.

Unfortunately for Poins, there existed only a split-second between Gwen's warning and the miniature sun now blooming like an electric flower. More so than ever before, he felt like the baited Dire Bear their father had made them fight in their youth, trapped in a makeshift arena to be pommelled and pelted by Elemental Steam and Smoke, only to regenerate and be subject to the same torture the next day.

But even the vividness of that recollection fell suddenly behind Poins as every memory muscle in his body activated to form a deflection field around his Avatar of Smoke.

"EE—EE!" Came a cry of dire cuteness inside the glowing halo of scintillating plasma.

The Kirin! Poins refocused his thoughts at once. The Void fiend must be spent, meaning if he could defeat the Kirin, then the girl had no choice but to face him in person, exhausted and OoM.

"Cinder Bolt!" Poins launched himself as a jet of smoke toward the back most section of the battle arena's makeshift tunnel, all the while launching no less than three bolts at the iris-searing vision of the hazy Draconid. His attacks flew true, but just as his assault was about to connect, a flurry of flesh in the form of tentacles formed a wall of meat in front of his quarry, eating his attacks before falling apart in agonised sections of smouldering, ash-tingled chunks.

Poins felt his spine freeze.

"BARBANGINY—"

There was no need for an open broadcast, for Poins heard the sound as clearly as the ionising air near the Kirin as it lowered its head.

There was a brief lull, two blinds of the eye as Poins shifted into defence, then his world turned irrevocably emerald and white.

In the All England's arenas, the barriers were bolstered by multi-core Aether Engines and imbued with anti-magical Mandalas should the battle Mages grow too passionate in their search for victory.

When finally the spell the Adjudicators had been waiting for began to manifest, the All England's technicians had readied every safety mechanism available to the century-old establishment as contingencies.

However, when the living, forking emerald lightning struck out in ten-thousand filaments like a distended tree of life and the Divination department's instruments swung past orange into the scarlet, Magister Yvonne Jerribeth knew the audience was in real danger.

"Deploy the Anti-Magic field." Her voice cut through the alarms like a hot knife, stern and unquestionable. "Award the match."

Her employees obeyed without delay, synchronising movements as they activated the intricate mana-draining Mandala built under the Transmutation layers. By Allenberg's Theory of Planar conservation, it was impossible to eradicate mana itself—though it was entirely possible to deploy Arcanistry in such a way that undesired mana manifestations could be shunted elsewhere, such as into the limbo of the Astral Plane, or perhaps into the Elemental Plane of Air.

The decision proved correct, for the Magister could visibly see the Walls of Force warping from the excess energy. Despite the contestant's employment of what could only be an upper-tier Spirit, neither the beast nor the girl had considered mitigating their power output, conceivably because of their confidence in the All England, but more than likely out of neglect. Whatever the case, Magister Jerribeth breathed a sigh of relief when the walls re-established their structure, accompanied by the slow fall of indicators on the Aether Engines' heat levels.

"Make the announcement," she said to her staff as she teleported away, her mind still half-lingering on the "compassion" given by Lord Ravenport and full of fury for the Hollands that had compromised her perfect tenure. "I'll personally certify the outcome."

It took almost a minute for the mana from Ariel to thoroughly flush from the battle arena, leaving Gwen standing in a field of broken stone and molten debris beside a half-cooked Caliban quivering with delight and a Kirin mewing with haughty pleasure.

When her eyes doubly scanned the battlefield and could not locate her opponent, the pit of her stomach dropped.

FUCK—was the first thought in her head. Had she overdone it? Had the Devourer of Shenyang officially screwed the Royal Corgi?

Just in case, her eyes scanned the arena once more, each pass engendering in her a growing degree of paranoia.

FUCK—FUCK—FUCK—

Visions of all-out total war flashed across her frontal lobe.

Had she atomised Poins? Reduced man into his primordial elements?

Perhaps Poins was hiding in a pocket dimension like Jean-Paul?

But that wasn't possible either, for all it took was a persistent disturbance like a lightning field, and Poins would be ejected and disorientated—and then doubly atomised.

For assurance, she glanced at the sidelines, only to see a jubilant Charlene with both hands balled in a gesture of victory.

Charlene's lack of panic calmed her somewhat. After all, Poins wasn't the true heir, or was he? The Exeters have got an heir and a spare, and the "spare" was the spare for a reason.

"MAGUS SONG—THE VICTOR!" The declaration from above reverberated, likely hoping that she could acknowledge the fact. Gwen was vaguely aware that the Adjudicator had announced the outcome several times already, though her present worry was more so for the trouble at hand.

At any rate, the crowd wasn't clapping, and Gwen could only guess why.

"Umm…" Gwen turned her face toward the Adjudicator awaiting her acknowledgement. "If I may ask, good Sir, where's Magus Holland?"

The hawk-nosed Adjudicator's eyes locked onto Caliban.

"Cali?" Gwen turned to her Familiar.

The rapidly regenerating Caliban gave her a look only a half-cooked sausage regrowing its sheep-intestine exterior could manage.

"EE—EE!" Ariel protested loudly, pawing the air and stomping its feet. "EE—!"

"SHAA—!"

"EE—EE—!"

Gwen's eyes widened. "HE DID WHAT?"

According to the impression from Ariel, the very brave and very decisive Poins knew instantly that he was in a world of hurt, at which point he realised there was only ONE place where he could shelter from utter annihilation.

"CALI!" Gwen shrieked despite herself. "Spit it out!"

"SHAA—" Her creature refused to comply, or rather, its faceless mien was very expressive in insisting it had nothing in its maw.

"God damn it," Gwen growled at her Familiar. "Cali— not now! Spit it out! We need him alive! What if you get sick?"

"SHAA—" Caliban shook its head indignantly.

Before Gwen could compel the creature with her will, a part of Caliban's healed flesh began to bulge. Poins then thankfully erupted from her Familiar's side and rolled onto the floor with the unpleasant pop of a suddenly rupturing pimple. The impromptu birth made Gwen wince, for the man was covered in Void-tinged slime, and were it for his full-cover armour, there would certainly be a layer of Poins that would remain mingled with her dearest Caliban.

"Milord Poins." She gritted her teeth. "Are you..."

Before she or the crowd could comment, the man leapt onto his feet and made a fighting stance. The Exeter was even halfway through a nasty sounding invocation when a female Adjudicator materialised in front of Edward Poins with a disapproving glare and a Wand of Nullification in hand that would focus the anti-magic Mandala's power where she willed.

Invariably, the crowd's excited low rumble now grew from a quiet thrum to a thundering roar, then to shrieks and howls.

Upon seeing the newly materialised Adjudicator, Poins popped his helmet and shrunk the thing behind his sweat-soaked hair to protest his loss. Meanwhile, Gwen could only feel supremely impressed by the man's quick thinking. To hid in Caliban—it was the same thing she had done to the Elder Sand Wyrm, only she had minutes of foresight and planning, while Poins had a fraction of a second. To dive with complete confidence into a creature composed of Void was a feat that no average Mage, even an experienced one, could begin to entertain.

For this reason alone, Gwen felt enough respect for Poins to gift him the mercy of dignity.

"No, Master Poins, withdraw now and accept your loss. I shall not ask twice."

Whoever spoke had both power, authority and very little patience.

"The victory is yours, Magus Song." The platinum-haired woman turned to her. From her bearing and a vague impression of her face, Gwen could guess that she must be Magister Yvonne Jerribeth, the Master of the Arena. "Even if Master Poins should defeat you now, I will not certify his victory. You have won. That result is both unequivocal and final."

"Thank you." Gwen gave the woman a curt nod, then offered her hand to Poins, who stared at her extended digits as though they were Caliban's beckoning, phallic tendrils.

Several more seconds passed before the man could restore the full extent of his faculties, after which he moved with the grace of a struck Golem to take her palm and shake.

"You… tried to kill me," Poins intimated, his voice low and private. "I concede, but tell me—was it Thomas who put you up to this?"

Gwen's smile froze, more so from confusion than from shock. Had Caliban's interior driven the man insane? Or had Ariel's shock therapy reduced his IQ to the lower double digits? Whatever the case, with the crystalline eyes of the Lumen-casters gazing upon her, Gwen felt it best to ignore the man altogether and to stay away from this particular Exeter in all future interactions.

"You're alive, so I certainly wasn't trying." She smiled back with a snarky glint of her pearly teeth. "Had I truly wished it, you'd be trying to find your way out from the Quasi-Plane of Caliban's gullet."

"I see," Poins answered cryptically, his face inexplicably relaxing. "Thank you for the honesty, Magus Song."

"Sure." Gwen withdrew her hand, then gestured to the podium. "Shall we?"

"My brother will take care of that." Poins gave her one last look, his gaze as hungry as it was wary. "Enjoy your victory, Magus Song. So long as you continue to refuse the Militant Faction, I am sure we'll meet again under less happy circumstances."

"Then I very much look forward to my future profits." Gwen parried with ease, then turned on her heels to join Magister Jerribeth, who concluded the post-match shit-talk by giving Poins a curt nod.

She and the chief referee then rose into the air until they were surrounded by spectators on all sides, leaving Poins' lonely self to retreat to the Exeter's sidelines. When she looked down at her opponent, she felt suddenly struck by a strange sadness, for the Hollands had already withdrawn, leaving only a token House Guards to receive Edward Poins.

Was this the intra-politics of these supersized families? Gwen wondered, hoping that she and her companions would never amount to such bitter bickerings, no matter her success.

Closer to the grandstands, a platform was readied for the victors, where she reconvened with the mummified Jean-Paul, whose body and dignity was held in place by Aiden Rothwell's Faith Magic, and Charlene Ravenport, whose eyes glanced more than once at the faces behind the panes. Perhaps a little mockingly, John Williams, the NoM pilot, was behind them, cheering on Gwen with big, hyperbolic waves of his hands.

Her match, unfortunately, had no crystalline cup nor a platinum trophy to act as its proverbial cherry on top. Yet, Gwen felt as though she was levitating as the crowd undulated with their praises of "Magus Song!" and "Mistress of the Dogs!", together with a subset of spectators howling "Ariel!" and "Cali—Cali—Cali—"

Was Evee watching the show? She wondered as she gingerly exchanged hugs with the men, then clasped Charlene's hand.

Together, the girls raised their hands to the air, drawing another round of resounding cheers that would be broadcasted around the Mageocracy and its second-tier capitals.

"As this isn't the International Duelling Competition, there isn't a speech prepared," the regal-looking Magister Jerribeth explained. She waited until the girls separated, then shook each of their hands as the officiating proprietor of the All England.

Glancing at the side of the now absent Exeters, she gave a disapproving shake of her head, then returned her attention to the girls.

"Just as well—" The Magister sighed. "Your competitors have chosen a dignified and quiet withdrawal, so it's now up to you. Please address your ardent fans, Magus Song and Milady Ravenport."

In the distance, hovering Lumen-recorders focused on the girls.

"I had complete faith in Gwen," Charlene gave the screen a rare grin, flashing her teeth and her steely grey eyes, showing the world that not all members of House Ravenport were born stern. "And that faith has been tested and proven sound. In my capacity as a Ravenport, I believe our partnership will continue to blossom for many years yet."

The Senior Adjudicator gave an approving nod, then waited on Gwen to deliver her piece.

Gwen took a deep breath.

The defeat of the Exeters was something she could not have imagined a year and a half ago. Yet, here she was, standing on a podium while the Nobles fled with their pinions between their legs.

Reflexively, she wanted to thank her Master, who even now slept the eternal sleep in Sufina's abode, not to mention Alesia and Gunther. She also desired to credit her Babulya, Uncle Jun, Yeye, Richard, Petra and Opa, whose contributions were instrumental to where she stood today.

She very much wanted, a little cheekily, to say hello to Percy to embarrass him on an international level.

Then there were her mentors and seniors in England, her dearest Lady of Ely, her team of tutors, Magister Brown, and the men and women who made her progress in Void-craft possible.

A tiny part of her even entertained the idea of embarrassing Dickie with a wink and a thank you to pay him back for the fright and fear.

But to express such sentimentalities now would be a troubling confession, one that would give away her connections and those who were close to her. Instead, she had an image to maintain and a portfolio to cultivate; with the victory here, she would be freed from the desirous eyes of London's high society, transforming herself into their equal, whether they admitted it or otherwise.

Thereby, she knew well what to say at a junction as crucial as this.

"Thank you, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed her head before turning again toward the crowd and the audience with a similar show of humility, drawing coos of affirmation. "All I can say now—"

Gwen raised her voice by a dozen decibels.

"—Is that the Isle of Dogs will issue new Ordinary Shares in the coming weeks for Phase IV of our development! Be you NoM, Mage, Magus or Magister, join us today on the Isle as we rebuild London for a better, brighter future! Don't miss this opportunity because it won't come again, at least until our next project!"

Understandably, the crowd broke into new waves of hysterical cheering, not unlike a ravenous beast biting the bait out of jaw-clenching reflex. For ones invested in the isle, the Mages were likely overjoyed that their stocks and properties would see a sudden growth spurt. As for the NoMs associated with the IoD, they had little idea what Gwen spoke of but understood that somewhere therein was the implication for more jobs, better employment, and open opportunities.

Besides her, Magister Jerribeth stared at her with a dumbfounded expression of disbelief.

When the crowd's baying did not cease for another thirty seconds, Gwen turned to her companions with an awkward smirk. "Maybe I should have gone for a more traditional conclusion?"

To her shock, it was Charlene who launched herself in the most un-Ravenport manner imaginable, closing the space between them until she embraced Gwen in a big hug with her spindly arms, then affected a smile that could only belong to a psychedelic purple cat from a Demi-Plane.

"I wager you just doubled our earnings this quarter!" Charlene's inspirited voice chimed with the jingle-jangle of HDMs. Ravenport's daughter looked toward Gwen, then to the cameras, the toward her again before she spoke once more. "Thank you, Gwen. I know we're mutual beneficiaries, but still, I wanted you to know that I fully appreciate what you've done for me. I struggle to think another aspirant would again manage a debut with so much... freedom."

Shocked at her partner's sudden display of sisterly affection, Gwen felt a little smothered by the unusual intimacy. Yet, when the young woman parted from her a few seconds later and resumed her usual, stoic self, she savoured the lingering scent of soft lilac blossoms.

"Do you have anything else to say, Magus Song?" Magister Jerribeth gave a slight cough, her undisguised aggravation as cold as her frozen smile at the antics of Gwen and her upstart kin. "The All England is a busy venue, you understand, and there's much to clean and prepare."

"Then we shall take our leave, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed toward the venue's visitors once more, as did her fellow compatriots.

As they descended to the sound of shattering applause, Gwen hovered backwards to address each of her companions in turn. "Alright, guys and dolls—Are you ready?"

"Ready for the future?" Charlene joked, her mind likely already thinking of her quarterly financial report for the Norfolk Fund.

"For what?" Jean-Paul was his usual clueless self.

Gwen nodded toward Ser Rothwell, who she hoped did not subscribe to a Vow of Alcoholic Temperance. She also nodded toward their new camp follower, the somewhat desperate looking John Williams, for she had questions for the man that only he could answer.

"For the after-party, of course." Gwen flashed her Storage Ring, feeling with complete certainty that there could only be one way to conclude their day. "Tonight! Unlimited Essence-Maotai! We drink until we drop! Or burst! Or until Jean-Paul regrows his hair!"