Metaworld Chronicles

Auckland.

On a cold morning in early May, the most remote Frontier on the furthermost end of Humanity's antipodean outpost saw its first true assault from the South Sea Shoal.

In future textbooks, scholars would ascertain that the attack must have been the original plan of Nyrlesvinyr, the ninth scion to He who slumbers in the Crown of Corals, the ageless Miommiriorthyr, since the siege's inception.

For those living in the present, it was the day Auckland learned a stern lesson on "Longitudinal Defence against Shoals".

The notion that a Shaol could "surprise attack" was absurd. Nyrlesvinyr's Shoal was at least six kilometres, easily visible on the surface. Every move it made was monitored by the Divination Stations and their staff of tired but dedicated Diviners.

What had caused Paladin Te Wherowhero to be struck unaware, therefore, was the endless repetition of the attacks, the mind-numbing casualties the Mer suffered, and the consequent complacency.

Almost a month and a half had passed since the Shoal began to amass on the coast. Auckland had called in every available favour, including Tower Master Shultz of Sydney. As a result, the city received the aid of both Yue Bai, Apprentice to the Scarlet Sorceress, and her contemporary, the infamous devouring War Mage.

After the early victories of Magister Gwen Song, Auckland was joined by the future Master of Arms of the Tower of London, Thomas Benedict Holland, who had arrived to tame a Steam Spirit.

With the unexpected influx of manpower and the balance of power momentarily restored by Gwen Song's auditing of the Grey Faction, the situation appeared positively rosy for Auckland. For the first time since the original Coral Sea War, Auckland's provisions were bursting at the seams with Wands, body armour, mana cartridges, food and medical supplies. The only essential defence components they were missing were Golems and upper-tier Mages, though, with Gwen Song on call and a Lord of Exeter visiting, few felt apprehensive for the future.

The high morale, combined with a month of ceaseless victories, had drugged the city's Militia with hopeful optimism that bellied the reality of their precarious position. The city's leadership had again turned from yet another assault to feud among themselves, perceiving the Shoal as an enormous, near-inexhaustible harvest of HDMs and Creature Cores that must be fully tapped before the war was over and the status quo of peace was restored.

Therefore, when the assault began, six-tenth of the Militia were on reserve or were convalescing within the city. Furthermore, the once-grim defenders had lost the razor-edged mindset of perishing with the foe, their wits blunted by the propaganda of victory. The mood swing was an important distinction, for men willing to fight to the end could hold back a Shoal for a long time—while a company and its commanders who hope to survive would only lose ground.

Ground which, for a month and more, Auckland did not think it could close.

When the sirens blared their death-wail and the Shielding Stations thrummed with palpable agony, the Tower knew immediately that the fate of the city had taken a mortal turn.

The giant Manta beasts from the South Sea, no longer gliding under the water but leaping through the air, sailed as suicide barges to crash upon the beach or flap just far enough to flatten the trenches. The collective sacrifice of their ruptured Cores was enough to overheat the Resonance shielding, spilling ten-thousand hard-shelled, multi-limbed Mer to slither from the pocket-folds of the Manta's folded flesh.

The remaining defenders had instantly taken to their positions. Nonetheless, as a shimmering battle tide of fins and scales, the Mer swarmed the Greater Barrier island of Aotea, breaking upon the Shielding Stations on the peak of the island's volcanic mass.

The Tower responded as well as it could, incinerating enormous, house-sized blocks of HDMs as it hovered into range, pulsing with disruptive resonance. With the aid of the Tower's lower amplifiers, a hundred Evokers and Transmuters rained down hyper-tier spellfire onto the moving molasses of shell and scale, painting the northern section of the island swarths of cobalt and vermillion.

For an hour stretched into what seemed like an eternity, the Tower watched the tide invade like the growth of stubborn slime into a tidal pool.

And then the ground grew fangs.

Without discrimination, near the nodes used by the Maguses to apportion men and supplies to the front lines, the volcanically formed igneous strata turned to mush and mud, changing solid slate into sucking quicksand.

Those caught by panic and surprise became swallowed immediately as a bristle-clad worm emerged, falling feet-first into a tooth vortex where six pairs of mandibles laid in wait. As the soft bodies of the men struck the enormous mouth, the snap-jaws did not close—instead, dozens of tiny tendrils, each tipped with corrosive motes of penetrative fangs, pierced their steel body plates as easily as slivers of molten lead through linen snow.

For the unlucky survivors, the erupting flames from the worm's hairy exterior turned out not to be fire, but poisonous bristles tipped with toxins strong enough to impair Draconids. Against these, a gentle brush was enough to shatter a Mage's barrier, while the most minute of prickles was enough to turn an NoM militiaman into an instant pustule of eruptive slime.

Worse still, parallel reports of flaming bristle worms the size and length of inter-city trains had spontaneously erupted in every node of Auckland's perimeter defences, paralysing the command centre with the sudden ferocity of the Shoal's simultaneous assault.

"Where's Magister Song?" the Paladin's demands tore through the Tower's command centre like a whip at the ashen-faced Grey Faction Maguses. "I'll personally strangle the lot of you if she's delayed because of your antics!"

"You accuse us of air!" came a protest without confidence, for the Greys knew as well as anyone else in the amphitheatre that they had lodged objections, bribed officials, and moved nothing short of heaven and earth to keep the Auditor of Auckland on ice in Sydney.

"Then where is she now?" The Paladin's Ta Moko glowed the same vivid blue as the Bristle Worms wreaking havoc within the lumen projector's clairvoyance.

"She should be teleporting through within the hour," an aide reported. "We're still priming the ISTC Relay."

There was a pause.

"That is...Magus Kuznetsova is priming the ISTC Relay."

"The platform was NOT primed for Sydney?" The Paladin's scowl could have stopped hearts. "Who is responsible for this lack of preparation?"

"Magus Lane and Billywort." The sweat-drenched aide glanced at his indignant Grey Faction managers. "They were readying the ISTC relay for Lord Thomas of Holland's trip to Melbourne."

"How convenient for you shonky bastards—" Paladin Te's tone grew dangerously low. With an indignant digit, he pointed at one of the displays. "Does that look like a man on route to Melbourne?"

"Te. Spare your wrath for the Shoal," the voice that answered the Paladin came from the door. Turning their heads, the council saw Wa Mātaatua, the presiding Magister of the Militant, still trailing embers of Elemental Fire from his tattoos. Behind the man were two Flights of Mage fresh from the fight, including the unmistakable figure of Yue Bai, covered from arm to chin with her unique ashen Ta Moko. "What else needs to be said? Even our guest from the Shard is fighting the Shoal, and here, our brothers from the Greys are abetting the foe."

"Be wary of your words, Mātaatua!" The protest from the Greys rose several decibels. "Are you foolish enough to believe Lord Holland's generosity will last the war?"

"I don't know about that—" the retort, to their surprise, came from the young Asian woman next to the Magister. "What I do know is that you're all bark. But you know what? This bitch bites. If the city falls because of Gwennie's delay, all of you will fight to the death. I guarantee it by the reputation of my Master, Alesia De Botton. I'll hunt down anyone in your damned Faction above the rank of Senior Mage who dares to be absent from the final beachhead at Rangitoto."

The threat was so unorthodox that, for a moment, there was only silence in the amphitheatre war room.

For reasons known to all, none doubted the young woman's promise.

"Enough!" Te Wherowhero's bark brought an end to the barbed exchange. "Mills, Henry, retrieve Lane and Billywort. Send them to the front lines and tell them to stay there until the Shoal is turned. Mātaatua, how fares your Combat Flights?"

"Minor injuries. We're licking our wounds and recovering our mana, so we'll be back in the fight soon."

"Good. Then you take sectors six and eight, where that Thunder Wyvern has taken roost. Minimise casualties until Magister Song can assess the situation and decide if her strategic-class Conjuration should be deployed. Waitiki, Marama, Smith, take your Greys and reinforce sectors one to five. Keep those Barrier Engines running, preserve the Shielding Stations, or else."

"Yes, Paladin." The Greys hastily made their exit.

"He means or die trying!" The voice of Yue Bai chided the retreating figures doing their best to ignore her.

After an exaggerated horse laugh, Mātaatua left for the Flight Deck, taking Alesia's matchless Apprentice along to avoid miscommunication with the Wyvern.

"How's the Tower Master holding up?" Te turned to his aide with a sigh. "Tell her I'll be leaving with Whetu's team for the Barrier Islands. Until Magister Song arrives, I'll hold the Shoal at Aotea."

"Master Hildenbrandt says her spell fatigue is being maintained," the junior administrator replied after examining the logs on his Divination slate. "That and we have another two months of nominal operating power, sixteen days at full combat capacity. Is that going to be enough, Sir?"

"Not without committing Magister Song." The Paladin of Auckland studied the war map with its illusion-empowered blips. Without Gwen Song, Auckland's core focus would have shifted toward a general evacuation of the city into the inland regions held by Halflings. Their home would fall—but it could also be rebuilt if Auckland preserved its personnel.

For a brief moment, Te recalled the lumen-recording he had seen of Magister Song's Planar Ally erasing the peninsular of Triffidus from existence.

Should they come to that...

Auckland and the Shoal would be reduced to blank slates, resetting the power balance in the region. If that came to pass, would the Seven Kingdoms raise an even larger Shoal? Or, would the loss of so many mouths leave enough of a resource vacuum to calm the Mermen for a decade or more, as proven by Kilroy's victory in the Coral Sea War?

Auckland.

Port Jackson Shielding Station.

The Jackson station was one of two relays of Auckland, a concrete fortress of Abjuration that withstood everything from natural disasters to Mer-made catastrophes. Together with the headland of Pahi and the interceding Barrier Islands, the twin stations formed the "gate" into Auckland's sheltered bay waters, where the city's maritime fleets had fled into the city's coves and sounds.

Presently, Thomas Benedict Holland hovered over Jackson. Opposite, his contemporaries, a duck from Emmanuel's and a Thunder Wyvern lighting up the trenches with liquid lightning, oversaw Pahi.

In truth, Thomas wasn't supposed to be here. He did not trust his newly acquired Dragon Turtle Spirit to butt heads with its superior brethren, and his orders had been to tame the Spirit—then immediately leave Auckland.

But Thomas had stayed.

Within his field of vision, he saw millions of skittering limbs crawling over the Shielding Station's pyramidal, obsidian facade, attempting to crack the fortress to get at the flesh militiamen within. Thus far, the Glyph-enhanced exterior held, striking up cobalt sparks that numbed the assailants' limbs.

The localised Walls of Force were a marvel of Spellcraft engineering—but they were also ancient, inefficient, and ravenous for resources.

It took him a few minutes to exorcise the footsoldiers, conjuring a Maximised Maelstrom with the aid of an implement, drawing upon the new strength of his Steam Spirit to cascade the rolling banks of boiling death across the unsuspecting Mer.

To the cheers of the militiamen, red-shelled seafood peeled like ripe persimmons from the Shielding Station, exploding as they fell, cooked so thoroughly that the slightest impact catalysed pressurised gasses to erupt from the Mer's blue blood.

Next, Thomas and his aides traversed northward to the edge of the sea, where fresh Mer clambered over the steaming bodies with a grim determination.

Nearer the water, an array of spine-throwing Mer that resembled prehistoric frog-men slathered with muck and mud blew themselves up like bell-blows—then launched toward Thomas a hailstorm of barbed spears.

"Force Carapace!" Thomas manifested the spell before the spines came close enough to hurt. Six barriers, three in an open array and three closer to his body, glimmered as a freshly blooming flower of force.

The spines haplessly pinged away from the first layer while wayward and luckier projectiles were stifled by the second or warded away by his bodyguards.

"Transmute Force!" Thomas transformed the geometric shields with a simple invocation, then sent the newly formed battering balls to ram the slick swarms of Fishmen scrambling for land.

To the Mermen's confusion, the geometric spheres were hardly deadly. Each orb seemed to possess nought but air. Unfortunately, as the rough decahedrons sat among the thrashing bodies, something within seemed to build, catalysing an alarming crinkle as cracks fissured across its surface.

Thomas' grin grew cruel. "Steam Blast!"

Those closest to the explosions didn't even have time to scream as the force-shards shattered, shredding through their mortal bodies with the astrophysical energy of solidified, meta-magical force. The initial blast threw the closest Mer-soldiers a hundred meters into the air, sundered limbs from ligaments, or snapped the heavy upper bodies of the fish-headed varmints in twain.

From the epicentres, concentric rings of scalding steam washed over the survivors, superheating their mucus so that even if they didn't perish, they steamed and stamped, screaming as insane children as body fluids cooked the life from their searing innards.

"Lord Holland!" A warning came from his minders. Not far—though far enough for Holland to have at least a dozen options, a giant Manta was making one of its suicide rushes toward the Shielding Station.

Thomas spent a few seconds watching the thing launch from the sea, pondering the best way to minimise the creature's threat while conserving his mana.

His choice manifested as a "Wedge of Force", an invisible pane barring the way of the incoming Manta.

Fifty.

Twenty.

Ten meters...

Thomas fortified his Astral Body.

With both his Abjurer and Transporter by his side, Thomas focused his whole being on maintaining the shape of his transmuted Walls of Force.

THWACK–!

Never had anyone imagined that tearing flesh could make so sick a sound.

Still, the gash that suddenly appeared on the Manta's underside was enough to rupture organs and spill its guts. Unlike in its ocean home, there was no way for the Manta to steer itself with only the pressure of forcibly commissioned Elemental Air.

A few seconds after the impact, Thomas felt something salty hit the back of his throat.

When he spat out the offending taste, the spittle was bright red.

"Hmm…" He swallowed the urge to cough uncontrollably, as that would be ungentlemanly. "My new Spirit has room to grow."

"You've had it for less than twenty-four hours, Sir," his Abjurer reminded him. "Even for someone of your talent, it would take at least a year before the virtues of Draconic bloodlines may be manifested—"

Before his bodyguard could finish, the beach behind them split in twain, revealing the hideous form of an enormous worm slithering toward the Shielding Barrier. Despite its size, the creature moved like a hasted serpent, swimming across the abandoned trenches with ease, its bright blue bristles flaring with Elemental Ooze, leaving caustic excretions in its wake.

Thomas felt the resolve of his Spirit shrink. Their present foe wasn't just from the same familial tree of Essences but sat on a thicker bower closer to the root.

"And now, my disobedience is at an end," Thomas quietened the shivering Astral form of Zitusphyr, whose moniker of "Zippy" he had decided to keep. To the English noblemen, a turtle called "Zippy" had just the right amount of twisted, nonsensical humour to tickle his particular fancies.

As for the Shield Station—either the girl would get here in time, or she would not. His duty as the Lord of Exeter was to his assigned demesne and its properties, not to a Commonwealth Frontier little more than a resource outpost. That the heir of an ancient house was here, taking pressure off the local Militia, was enough to set tongues wagging in London.

Anymore fighting outside protocol that risked the resources of the gentry without consent from the House of Lords would tarnish the reputation of House Holland, itself the vanguard of these very traditions.

Tapping into the rest of his mana reserves, Thomas decided he would be wilful for another ten-to-fifteen minutes.

Two more spell-crafted Maelstrom with a Delay operant, followed by a half-kilometre semi-circle of Wall of Steam, was enough to secure Port Jackson from the mundane foe.

As for the Draconic Worm—he was content with gifting Auckland's Mages a memorial monument.

"Lord Holland." Thomas' Abjurer casually moved between the spell-casting Lord and the rapidly approaching worm. "I believe even Magister Song should be appreciative of our efforts here. I will now ask Magus Gilbert to activate the Teleportation Circle."

"Agreed. I should be on my way back," Thomas spoke between his spells. "God knows what Poins will make of this."

A few seconds later, their bodies grew immaterial, leaving the baffled Militiamen in the Port Jackson bunker to gawk in confusion and horror at the now-coiling Draconic Bristle Worm, barely able to comprehend why they had descended inexplicably from heaven to hell.

The atmosphere in the Sky Tower's ISTC relay was akin to a sulphuric flue on Ringatoto as the Devourer of Shenyang descended on the platform. When the burning embers of Conjuration faded, a single figure moved amongst the rigid statues of guilty men and women to greet her.

"Pats." Gwen breathed out as her cousin approached. Petra Kuznetsova crossed the floor with the grace of a dancer. Her white lab coat was stained a hue of rainbows by the quasi-magical ingredients used to retune the ISTC platform. "Is everything okay? How's the city?"

"The outer shielding has gone to nahui, blyat!" Petra clicked her tongue as she swore. "Gwen—I mean, Magister Song, accept my apologies. I didn't think these fools would decouple the Divination Array's preset Mandala to delay your arrival."

"Why the hell would anyone do that?" Gwen scanned the room, knowing that some of the staff here were responsible. She was furious not at them, knowing that "grunts" had no choice but to follow their superior's orders. As for those superiors… her eyes grew dark with Void. "Who was in charge?"

"I am. Paladin Te has put our erstwhile Enchanters to use on the Front," Petra informed her before Gwen's mood further soured. "He promised the trash would be recycled."

"Magister Song! Thank Māui, you're here." Their conversation was interrupted by Auckland's sheepish locals, who finally dared to inform her of the Tower Master's orders. "The Shoal has broken through the Barrier Islands and is currently assaulting the Shielding Stations at Pahi and Jackson! We're taking significant losses among the NoMs and the rank and file Mages."

Nodding, Gwen took a second to reinvigorate her Empathic Links. Not too far, she could sense Dede and Gogo on the northernmost headland of Auckland's interior bay, battling another Draconid that was only a little weaker than Golos. Considering what Gunther had told her, she guessed the thing to be the promised appendage-avatar of Nyrlesvinyr.

If she wanted to implement Gunther's advice, she would have to hurry. With Nyrlesvinyr wholly unaware of her delayed arrival, she had the perfect opportunity to test the superiority of Almudj's Essence.

"Take us to the deck," Gwen gave the command. "We leave immediately."

At the outer ring, on the far side of the combat deck, she met the figure of Thomas Benedict Holland with his Mage Flight. The young Duke wore a white-and-navy bomber jacket reinforced with bulging attachments she assumed to be portable arrays for various enhancement magics. His men wore similarly themed outfits belonging to the Royal Air Force, though theirs were a drab mustard. Seeing the grime and slime splattered all over, they looked to have seen plenty of action.

"Pats, how're your fatigue levels?" Gwen walked toward them while the others followed. "Can you join us? I've got a plan, but it's risky. We'll need Resist Elements, Protection against Poison, and Restoration if any of us gets swiped by those bristles. And Extended Haste for the whole party."

"Aye. I'll buff Salamander Skin and Water Form if needed," Richard added. "Both will impact mobility, though. We'll observe the worm first-hand before we commit."

Petra kept up beside Richard and Lulan. "You're planning to wrangle those Draconic worms?"

"Aye." Gwen nodded. "According to Brother-in-craft, they're clones of the Elemental Prince called Nyrlesvinyr. If we don't destroy one in its entirety, it'll simply regenerate and keep on rampaging. If we cut one in half or into smaller segments, they'll become miniature Nyrlesvinyr-clones. Until its Essence runs dry, there's no stopping it."

Petra's intelligent blue orbs grew flustered. "Maybe Caliban can use his Wyrm form and slurp it up like a stubborn noodle?"

"There's that." Gwen held her cousin's advice in reserve. However, even if Nyrlesvinyr's clones were paralysed, swallowing one wholesale would take too long, inadvertently indulging its duplicates. "Thankfully, we'll be trying a more efficient method. One that should inspire Nyrlesvinyr to be careful where to stick her tongues."

Petra paused for only a dozen steps before she looked up with a face full of expectation. "Are you hoping to recreate the Balefire phenomenon? Or perhaps tame the appendage like with Garp?"

"The former," Gwen informed her cousin. "I don't think taming a living part of a fully-conscious Elemental Prince with a Draconic lineage is possible."

Continuing forward, she raised a hand to hail the incoming Lord Holland.

"Magister Song! Fashionably late!" Thomas hollered as he approached. "I am sorry to leave you a mess, my dear, but against this Nyrlesvinyr of yours, Zippy simply wasn't having it."

The two of them briefly exchanged nods. "How's Jackson?" Gwen asked.

"All three nodes await your arrival with bated breath," the Lord left her with a hopeful euphemism, then passed her. "The Barrier Islands more than the others. As you know, there's no stopping a determined worm."

"Acknowledge. Thank you, Lord Holland." Gwen half-bowed while Petra explained Thomas' summation of the present combat conditions. "Will you be returning to London now?"

"No. I still have a Northern Expedition to lead!" Thomas reminded her with a twinkle in his eye. "To think that we'll soon be worlds apart fills me with longing. Nonetheless, assuming we both survive our ordeals, I'll see you at Christmas Mass at King's or perhaps at Lady Aston's afterparty. Promise?"

"I promise. Live long and prosper, Thomas." Gwen gave the man a cryptic sign of good faith to ward away his flag-raising promise of pudding by Christmas. "Don't die in the cold, Milord Holland—We've still got accounts to balance!"

The exchange passed, and the smiling Steam Mage instantly evaporated from Gwen's mind.

Now, she had worms to wrangle, risks to take, and an exceedingly primordial Essence to flaunt.

Aotea.

"Living Punamu!" The roar of hollering invocation could barely be heard over the crash of trashing Mermen overruling the already disorderly retreat. At Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga's behest, an expanding wall of jade-green Punamu erupted from the earth in jagged crests, forming the open ground into an instant maze. Any Mermen unfortunate enough to be caught within the sharp-edged barriers soon found themselves trapped by an ever-moving vice, exhausting their muscular energy against the tectonic momentum of Mineral mana spilling from the Quasi-Elemental Plane.

Though effective, the impact of Whetu's offensive Abjuration was short-lived. As a newly minted Magus, he lacked the vast mana stores of his seniors to maintain the exhaustive spell, meaning he had to make a choice between size and duration, of which he chose the prior.

As soon as the punamu crumbled, the disabled Mermen were overrun by fresh ones clambering for space.

Unlike Whetu's earlier experience, the mass slaughter did not diminish their assailants' morale. This time, a Draconic overseer sat in the rear, driving the waves of fish and crab-headed Mer inland, whipping them into a frothing frenzy with its concentric waves of Dragon Fear.

Would my Punamu hold against the Dragon Worm? Whetu knew to ponder was futile. There were forty Mages here on Barrier Island, and each Mage he and Te's Flights managed to save would add weight to Auckland's continued existence.

On the right flank, Paladin Te had already activated his signature spell, raising from the earth a Punamu idol twice the size and ten times the weight of a Centurion MKI man-operated Golem Engine. With one swipe of its arms, a dozen Mer turned to mush, sending a deadly spray of shell and carapace toward their allies like a Spellsword's Shrapnel Blast.

With the tide so close, it was now his turn.

Invoking the Spirits of the old Maori ancestors, Whetu activated the latent Ta Moko tattooed on his body. For several days now, the runic scripts had been soaking up mana from his Astral Soul, and now he called upon them to fuel his next spells.

"Rongo! Cover me!" Whetu gave the command. "I'll bring up my guardian. Then we make for the Teleportation Circles!"

Ringo's Ta Moko burned bright blue as the man compelled a Tidal Surge from the watery mana in the atmosphere. Having survived Wellington, Whetu's old IIUC teammate had become savvier and deadlier.

Though the surge split to avoid Whetu, it drove the Mer back even as they swam against the white rush of blue-green water.

Ten seconds later, the Punamu Abjurer invoked the lesser parallel of his Paladin's spell.

"Guardian Totem!" Whetu's Clan magic was exhaustive and allowed no missteps when used by a novice such as himself. The instant he felt his mana run dry, he tapped into another Ta Moko, then swiftly injected himself with a mana potion.

The combination was enough to provide the mana necessary for a temporarily conjured Earthen Spirit to take command of the mass of Punamu spilling from the Mineral Plane, roughly forming the matt emerald into the shape of a bipedal colossus.

With only the sound of mass meeting mass, the totem idol moved forward, battering away Mer through the power of raw, unstoppable physics. Even against a King Crab Mer who could render apart concrete and steel, the weight of the Abjuration-conjured avatar was enough to drive the beast six feet into the earth, first swatting it against the cracked asphalt, then stepping on its hunched back to catalyse a sudden ejaculation of blue-white ichor from every orifice.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Rongo continued to sweep aside Mermen from the flanks as the Mages fled the general chaos. Whetu willed his Boots of Flying to drive him backwards, gliding gracefully over the sodden earth. A part of him wanted to tear the magical implements from his feet and gift them to the fleeing defenders of the now-ravaged Shielding Station. Still, the Tower Master's Apprentice knew better than anyone that a dead Abjurer was the worst fate the retreat could face.

As for the NoM Militia, somewhere still in that hell of frolicking mass of teeth and claws…

Not even Paladin Te, a man famous for his sympathies, could spare the compassion necessary to secure their non-magical brethren. It was a reality that filled Whetu with intolerable guilt and helplessness.

Ding! A Message spell bloomed beside Whetu's ear.

"Paladin?" Whetu kept his calm. "Your orders?"

"Reinforcements are on route." Paladin Te's voice was a mixture of relief and annoyance. Relief that help had finally arrived, but also frustrated and angered by the unnecessary delay. "Look to the west! Stay out of her way— SHIT!"

The Message was cut short.

Whetu rose into the air, flanked by his Flight.

A Dragon Worm, one with bristles the likeness of living fire, had entangled Te's Punamu Idol. Even with all the mana the Paladin fed into his autonomous guardian, its exterior rapidly eroded, and cracks were forming all over its enormous green body. A conjured idol of that size would have cost the Paladin most of his mana—and the expectation was twenty-four hours of operation, more if the Paladin could rest. For the Totem Spirit to be disabled soon into the fight would have dire consequences for the battle's longitudinal tally.

"Rush for the southern beach!" Te gave the command. "I'll take that thing with me!"

Before the Paladin even began to finish, his idol started to run, pumping its stumpy legs with uncharacteristic haste. In its path, Mermen were stomped into fishpaste while its waving arm continued to carve out an open swarth of seafood carnage.

Whetu erected several more barriers while counting the seconds.

On the count of sixty, the idol erupted.

For a Mineral Mage's avatar, the sound of erupting crystals was dull, lacking the pyroclastic fantasy of Fire casters. Instead, what made up for light and sound was the glacial force of the kinetic energies unleashed, aided by the mass and weight of inevitable displacement.

The Idol splintered—as did the Dragon Worm, which was torn segment-from segment, leaving behind a mess of buried sinew and shattered carapace.

Ancestors. Had Uncle Te done it? Whetu's hope felt as fragile as a sheet of clear Punamu without the reinforcing honeycomb lattice. That was the best Paladin Te could manage without direct interference from the Tower, for the Tower's mana reserves must be preserved. So long as the Tower hovered, Auckland possessed an un-assailable Shielding Station. Even if every ground station were to fail, they could still evacuate the city's thousands of magic users and rebuild.

A half-minute later, Whetu had his answer.

The recovering Dragon Worm slithered through the carpet of Punamu, its inner flesh seemingly formed of a multitude of smaller creepy-crawling things from the deep. Within a minute, its flesh stitched anew, and it was making a beeline for Whetu's Totem Idol.

Unlike Paladin Te, Whetu did not possess the means to destabilise the Spirit within the idol. Once the worm finished his abjuring avatar…

Whetu turned to his exhausted charges, the survivors from the shattered station.

They were still minutes from the beachhead with the Teleportation Circles. In a few moments, sacrifices would have to be made.

SCHWING—! A shrill whine of mental sliced his dilemma in twain.

A strangely familiar orison sung by thrumming steel resounded overhead. A split-second later, a slab of gleaming metal struck the still-damaged carapace of the Bristle Worm, penetrating it just behind the head with its multitudes of beady, malicious eyes, pinning the indignant creature to the floor.

SCHWING—!

SCHWING—! SCHWING—!

More followed, stabbing with incredible precision, turning the twenty-meter worm into an instant specimen.

Undeterred, the worm began to thrash.

"EE—!"

CRACK! A green bolt of electricity, channelled through the instantly red-hot lightning rods, was enough to teach it momentary calm.

In the same instance, a sanity-splitting "SHAA—!" tore through the fabric of space and time, landing just behind the head, gripping both maw and torso with hands akin to a woman's delicate digits.

Caliban! Whetu felt the tension drain from his chest like puss from a swollen abscess. Their reinforcements were here, and it was none other than a woman specialising in wrangling dragons.

Incredibly, the worm's labours could not overcome the Big Bird's death-grip, nor could its bristles penetrate past the dark, ink-like feathers covering its lower body. With another "SHAA—!" Caliban opened its enormous tri-petal maw, then frenched the worm head-first.

Elsewhere, the Mer's advance had ground to a halt.

Appearing above, darkening the landscape, was the radiant visage of Gwen's Thunder Wyvern, emitting a thick haze of invisible Dragon Fear, preventing the lesser Mer from attacking or fleeing.

Below, the air crackled with excess mana as the monsters fought, spraying salted mud in every direction. The worm was now headless, but it still tore itself from the confines of the steel sword pins to wrap its bristle-clad body against the bird, hoping to squeeze from it whatever life the fiend might possess in its unholy torso. Within seconds, the Big Bird wore a shroud of envenomed, corrosive bristles, appearing comically as a faceless bird wearing a too-long scarf.

Gwen—no, the Devourer of Shenyang, then materialised behind the pair.

Whetu wasn't sure why his friend would risk mortal injury, but Gwen did just that. Dimension Dooring into place, the Void sorceress launched a dozen Void Bolts against the Dragon Worm's rear, clearing the carapace of bristles and exposing the crystalline prawn flesh.

"Lulu!" Her command was a clarion call to action.

SCHWING—!

Six enormous, distended skewers penetrated Caliban and the worm, keeping the confused mass in one place. With the likeness of a thieving cat, Gwen then landed on the still quivering "tail".

The sorceress began an invocation.

Inexplicably, Whetu felt his hairs stand on end.

He recognised but could not identify the spell Gwen now used—but knew well the gut-wrenching, soul-shivering reflux of Negative Energy polluting the very existence of the world. Was this a new Void Magic? His mind banished his optimistic ignorance at once. No—he knew the type of magic well. He had suffered from it during the IIUC. Additionally, a few of his elders possessed the right to practice the old ways, the ancient Faith Magic of the Clans, using it to venerate the ancestors and commune with the past.

Gwen's spell was unequivocally Necromancy.

And not just any type, but the usurping kind, the worst of the worst. Inspirations for the anecdotes of woe the Purge Teams studied in the Tower, spells that enriched the host at the existential cost of the victim.

Within seconds, the Devourer's nursed invocation manifested, kindling her dominant hand with ethereal flames, the very same that ignited the skull sockets of Soul Wraiths.

Beneath her, the Dragon Worm must have sensed something as well, for its main body now exerted every inch of force against Caliban, who seemed perfectly content with its ceaseless parrying of the strangling worm's best efforts, laughing with soundless sadism.

In one smooth movement, the Void Sorceress stamped the spell onto the Dragon Worm's mutton-jade flesh.

Whetu felt his Astral Soul shiver.

The worm grew limp on the skewers.

Then suddenly, it freed itself, dancing like an insane living whip, bouncing from Caliban, sending its assailants to scatter in every direction. From its movements, Whetu was certain the creature appeared on fire—only there were no flames, neither tenebrous and inky or electric and cobalt. As though a hysterical musical note dancing over invisible staves, the Dragon Worm leapt into the air, made delirious pirouettes, fought the air itself, and then death-rolled against an invisible foe.

His intended retreat, or what was left of it, seemed no longer a priority.

All the Flights responsible now watched the Shoal's leading combat unit perform an existential tango of anthropomorphic agony, dancing a solo quadrille, coiling, twisting, contorting itself into abstract pretzels.

A minute.

Two minutes.

When finally a third, eternal minute passed, the Dragon Worm collapsed from exhaustion, then sat there as a docile, confused mass. Milky ichor bled from every crack and gash, it wasn't dead, but it wasn't regenerating either.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Whetu's surviving idol approached the Dragon Worm.

He kicked it.

The creature did nothing, not even when his idol picked up the worm by the mid-section and lifted it from the floor. Curiously, the bristles appeared to have lost all potency, becoming so inert that they failed to penetrate even Whetu's Punamu.

"GHWARRRRRGH—!" The thunder rolling overhead announced the descent of the Thunder Wyvern and, as such, the routing of the surviving Shoal that once threatened to overrun the island.

With the carefulness of a blooming Maori flower, Whetu hovered closer to the Devourer of Shenyang. His Paladin had taken over reorganising the Mages, freeing up Whetu to satiate the death-desiring curiosity threatening his continued sanity.

"Is it over?" he asked as he came close. In Gwen's ink-clad crow-skin with its claw-tipped boots, her second-skin dripping with Void, his old teammate appeared more monster than a woman. "That was sweet-as Gwen, but what did you do to it?"

Whetu's companion studied the unenthused worm in the Punamu giant's hands, now completely flaccid, murmuring to herself.

"Gwen?"

The girl looked up, her face as heart-achingly beautiful as he recalled, her paleness accentuated by the jet-hued battle suit.

"Was that... Necromancy?" Whetu asked for confirmation.

"Not by the Tower's definition," Gwen explained, her face aglow with the thrill of a successful hunt. "That was... the experimental application of Sanctioned… sorcery, as for why Nyrlesvinyr decided to do that..."

The recently minted Magister pursed her lips.

She drew his eyes to the northern shoreline, where something very large and exceedingly rocky angrily rose from the shallows.

Following her eyes toward the hovering landmass radiating menace, Whetu wished he had forgotten what he saw and focused on retreating.

"Besides," Gwen decided to answer after all. "It's not the spell that's culpable—but the practical application of Stranger Danger."