Metaworld Chronicles

Auckland.

Port Fitzroy.

"BY THE SJU DORFRAN—LADS, WE'VE MADE IT ALIVE!"

Gwen's WELCOME TO AUCKLAND banner, and the Mages who stood by the docks, were completely ignored by a deluge of suddenly appearing Dwarves who spilt from the lowered loading bay to kiss the ground, weeping bitter tears of uncontrollable, existential joy.

Taking a sudden interest in their shoes, her company of Mages from the Shard, together with Te Whereowhero and other representatives from Auckland's Factions, collectively ignored the howling public spectacle until Charlene Ravenport emerged, red-faced and looking like she'd been in a long hangover.

"Is Hanmoul somewhere in there?" Gwen asked as they shook hands, hers warm and Charlene's like a sack of bones. Behind Gwen, ten thousand spectators were lined up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Dwarves. Instead, they saw bearded men, or women, drunk off their rocks and bawling, kissing concrete and weeping in Dwarven.

"He's making himself sober." Charlene's expression appeared covered by a cloud. "They drank… the entire way."

"Christ…" Gwen grimaced. "Did you run into trouble? Could the ship defend itself?"

"We fended off the remnants from the Shoal you dispersed, I think," Charlene affirmed her worries. "Curiously, alcohol does not impede the Dwarven capacity for war. In fact, the drunker they became, the more fearless and less seasick they were. It's a physiological miracle."

Ah—seasickness… Gwen suspected that was why the entire ship was sloshed. Somehow, the dis-coordination caused by inebriation likely offset the induced nausea.

"I'll enquire no further. Welcome to Auckland, Charlene. It's good to see you." Gwen embraced her partner Ravenport. Once they parted, her nose wrinkled. "In anticipation, I have prepared accommodations and showers… and fresh food."

"It's amazing, isn't it…" Charlene's face grew slightly brighter and hotter when she heard the word shower. "We have the best Filtration Engines money can buy, and still, the potable water reeked of alcohol. It's the Dwarven Beer, I think. It even soaks into the metal, bonds with it."

Gwen nodded solemnly as the second loading bay opened, noisily falling flat against the dock.

This time, the crowd was properly wowed, for what emerged to crack the concrete was a handsome Golem Engine of immense size, as squat as it was wide, with brilliant spellswords under both fore-limbs, while on a platform held aloft by four crab-legs, an array of foursome artillery swords refracted the light.

"We could have used some of those for sure." Te sighed with appreciation, golf-clapping along with the jubilant crowd. "One of those could fill in for four of ours."

More Golems emerged until the Hammer Guards formed a wedge facing Gwen.

With a hiss, the cockpit popped, revealing the deep-diving helm of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, grandson of Handrek, Captain of the Iron Guards. Following his lead, the other cockpits also opened, revealing many familiar faces, such as the Engineseer Signerlig Bronzeborn, the Runesmiths Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum, as well as the woman responsible for the Fabricator Engine, the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt.

With great ceremony, the group dismounted and met Gwen upon the city's threshold, placing their gauntlets against the Core seated in their chest, which the Tower had to accommodate by fine-tuning their remaining resonance barriers.

"Esteemed guests from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," Gwen spoke in perfect Dwarven. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to our tiny corner of the Himmseg. Captain Hanmoul. Master Yossari. And my very good and honourable friends of the Citadel—Welcome to Auckland!"

The crowd that lined the harbour from one side to the next burst into cheers, throwing hats into the air, an act that confused the Dwarves, for a stout mining helmet from a good height could easily crack a young digger's skull.

But OSHA aside, as the Royal Raven was the only distraction from the endless toil of the future, the passions shown by Auckland's people were far too exuberant. After ten minutes, with the applause, whistles, cheers and "Good on yer, mates!" refusing to cease, Gwen had to escort the Dwarves past the crowd with the help of the local Militia.

As communicated by Charlene, the Dwarves had little interest in Auckland, but they were keen on visiting their local cousins—the Halflings of Hamilton. Though their races were thinly related, the popular myth among Hanmoul's folk was that Halflings were Dwarves who were cut off from Deepholm by some unforeseen tectonic shift a hundred generations ago. Lacking access to a Deepdowner and the Hall of the Ancestors, they evolved on their own into a wholly different breed of Elemental Demi-humans, adapting to the Himmseg by changing their innate magic for overland survival.

As one of the rare groups of Dwarves to come into contact with the Halflings of Hamilton in the last century, Hamoul's people were interested in exports. In particular, they wanted to know if their cousin race had developed better food stock capable of thriving in the Murk, with higher yields than the legumes and fungi the Citadel cultivated in the tunnels. That and Yossari would gift Hamilton a marker beacon, useful in an uncertain future where the Dyar Morkk re-opened.

"I'll leave the handover to you and Aria." Reading her friend's desire for refreshments, Gwen held Charlene's hand to affirm her continued support for the Ravenport. "Rest up. Once we return, Hanmoul's folk will need their drinks."

"I'll leave it to Aria." Charlene allowed her hand to be held, affirming their working relationship and continued cooperation. "My organs almost atrophied trying to be polite with their invitations to drink. We Dust Mages and our constitution—but you know how that is. One more thing. Are our supplies ready?"

"Yes, it's ready." Gwen parted from her partner. There was a special pleasure in working with competence, and both of them knew it. "We can sail in three days. Once the Dwarves return."

"Lovely. I'll see you in the Tower then?"

"Aye," Gwen affirmed her friend's anticipations. "Don't forget, you have dinner with the Paladin and the Tower Master tonight. And the Faction dinner is tomorrow. Then we're off."

"You'll introduce me to the Apprentice of the Scarlet Sorceress? Won't you?" Charlene smiled. "I've heard a lot about Sydney's future War Mage."

"Of course." Gwen smiled, even knowing that Charlene likely thought of Yue as a useful cog in the Mageocracy's gears; her gesture was something to appreciate. "Take it easy for a few days. Don't say I didn't warn you, but there's soon to be five thousand kilometres of quaffing between Mt Erebus and us."

Hamilton.

Evening.

After drinking their Halfling cousins under the barn house table, the proud Dwarves of the Red Citadel's promised encounter with their Himmegg cousins concluded with many incidents—but no fatalities.

One such happening involved Sydney's famed "Little Scarlet", who, in her excited, inebriated state, got into an argument with Thulgig Flinthide about the firepower-firepower-FIREPOWER of an Engineseer tuned Spellsword versus a traditional Fire Mage's maximised magics.

A spontaneous contest then broke out, presided by the Halfling's impassioned Headman, which resulted in the loss of an enormous warehouse when the stowed goods a hundred meters away spontaneously combusted.

Once that was under control, the drinking moved to another section of the pastoral municipality, where Lulan fell into a berserker rage after being taunted by "Rori" Vildrenbrandt, cousin to Hanmoul, that Gwen would be safer if nestled within a custom Golem Suit, then Matryoshka-dolled into a Golem Engine, than being protected by a lassie with "twigs for arms". Without the aid of alcohol, Gwen was sure Lulan would have held her tongue—but one swig of the Firewater was enough to activate some terrible talent within her, giving her skin an oxide-like sheen of rust.

To prove that she could best any Golem Engine, she challenged Hanmoul's Cousin. Rori promptly materialised her suit and an intermediate armour from her Storage Ring, and the two duked it out in the middle of the new dining area, unshielded by any Walls of Force.

The second barn was soon lost among cheers and laughter and much quaffing, with Lulan emerging the winner when she managed to drive a Sonic Blade between the leg-joints of the Golem while surviving a gut-punch to the side that left her bruised and bent but smiling wickedly.

After that, Gwen decided it was best the Dwarves leave Hamilton before they burn it to the ground and that any future visits should be in small delegations.

She left the mayor of Hamilton, Ruari Littlefoot, with a generous promise to rebuild the lost infrastructure, then asked Hanmoul to gather his Iron Guards, leaving only Yossari and a squad of Honour Guards to finalise trade with the Halflings.

Upon their return, when the new day dawned, she found Charlene bedridden with ill health from overwork. Though seemingly counter-intuitive, she left her partner with a generous bottle of infused Maotai to improve her delicate constitution, then returned to the docks to oversee final preparations.

At the harbour, she was joined by Aria, who asked Gwen if she would like to address her Shadow Mages.

"My what?" was Gwen's immediate reaction—until her Dwarf-addled brain informed her these were the "help" promised by the House of M, or more precisely, by Ruxin.

Immediately moving to meet her "troops" on the ship's deck, she felt a slight chill upon seeing her new allies. The leader of the Shadow Flight was a middle-aged woman with a jaded, thousand-yard stare called Astha, with no last name to speak of and no expression.

"Seven—would be my preferred title." Her new employee informed her. "And these are Sixteen, Eight, Twenty-Nine, Seventy-Two…"

Numbers for which Gwen later gleaned from Astha, to be their assigned number while undergoing the trials, intended as such so that their "user" won't form attachments. In Manipur, home of the Shadows, only a small portion of candidates can join the austere group, with the competition being a Hunger Games celebrated by the local lords. Against expectation, selected families were very proud of those who survived, and entire Clans built the foundations of their lives upon it.

Of the fifteen odd Mages sent to her, "Seven" was close to the prowess of a Magister, while the rest were Senior Mages or at the tiers of Frontier Maguses capable of hybrid magic. What made them special was that the principle Flight was entirely composed of Smoke Mages specialising in stealth. Comparatively, their second Magus Flight was more balanced in their specialities, while the final Flight consisted of support, with a Diviner, Abjurer, an Enchanter and two Healers.

"I would like to roster you all under my company, the IoDNC," Gwen announced after speaking at length to each member and learning their names and call signs. "You will be paid the same wage as a Mage in the Shard. You will be given time off, and Danger Pay during operations."

"We do not need payment," Astha protested without emotion. "Tell us to die for you, and we shall."

"Nonsense." Gwen sighed after a few more minutes of futile back and forth. After glancing at her ticking Message Device, she realised the futility of further debate. "Whatever Ruxin says, you're now my employees, and you now have rights. That's an order."

"Understood." Astha glanced at her kin. Looking at the younger Mages, Gwen hoped she had spied a secret relief of sorts and that the others weren't simply reacting to Astha's mental command to please their eccentric mistress.

"Here's some money." Gwen passed over a Storage Ring. "Go into the city, buy whatever food and drink you fancy. Eat at a restaurant. Go to a park and relax. See how the folk here do things. Come back before tomorrow morning. Oh, and buy something warm, for Ruxin's sake, if not mine. We're going to the Seat of Frost. You're dressed for the tropics."

Astha's face finally seemed to crack. As suspected, monk shawls used to wrap the shoulders and left to trail the floors were NOT the right garb for the southern cold. Charlene had cold-weather magical garments on board, but Astha wasn't one to ask for equipment.

"Go now," Gwen commanded, wondering if Richard could talk some sense into these esoteric warriors. "Auckland may not have too much to offer right now, but by God, we have a wealth of seafood.."

On the promised third day since the arrival of the Royal Raven, the city of Auckland turned out to see its saviour and destructor leave.

Te Wherowhero had originally requested a parade. However, Gwen wasn't sure her pride could survive the event of a whole city turning out to throw rotten vegetables at the woman who took them to heaven, then hell, then heaven, then the uncertainty of a decade of rebuilding.

What she did appreciate was the time the city's stakeholders had taken to meet her at the docklands. From the Middle Faction, the Tower Master made a rare appearance to shake her hand and offer her METRO the corresponding front page photos. The Greys also had sent Magisters who did not completely loath her guts or had recovered enough of their opinions to at least bow and simper in public. The Militants, unsurprisingly, took the opportunity to hail her as one of their own, heaped her with praise, and then promised hot air should she return.

Her most sentimental moment came when finally, she had to say goodbye to Yue and Whetu. For many months and a long-long while, she and her old friend had bonded again over Mermen Purges and seafood, enjoying one another's near-constant company. Comparatively, though her friendship with the gentle giant had grown cool, she knew well why the young man had kept his distance, asking only that time would make the Abjurer more mellow to his PTSD over her taming of Nyrlesvinyr.

Leaving Yue's bombastic, hot-bodied embrace behind, Gwen inwardly sighed.

Her friend would continue a familiar life in Auckland, returning later to Sydney for promotion to more senior roles in Gunther's expanding Militia.

But she was once more off to be a stranger in a strange land.

By the late morning, the inspections were done, and Aria and her crew had embarked or were returning to London via the ISTC. Richard had done his due diligence with Astha, becoming a trusted companion to the Shadow Mages of Manipur after acting as their tour guide. Comparatively, Petra had spent her days snubbing the young nobles who came with Charlene, rebuking their advances by confining herself to the ship's Enchantments.

When finally, at noon, the "face" of each stakeholder party separated, Gwen swallowed the slow simmering sentiment eating away at her chest, then waved goodbye at the folk who had worked with her for what had felt like a small, microcosmic lifetime.

Kalimantan.

Samarinda.

Bambang, head Foreman of his canoe, was in the process of gaining a new "religion".

For untold millennia, his tribe of Humanity who had survived the paradise island's shores had ascribed to a simple narrative—that everything belonged to their God King, the fabled Bali aka Balli—Dewa Cawu. Unlike their distant neighbours in Singapore, theirs were a life of endless agrarian toil, producing food they rarely ate, gifting every joule of energy from their sun-beaten bodies to their lord and master, a true friend of the Dragon Bedawangiwiwi.

For the tired men and women of Bambang's fertile basin, their lives were the hard-won prize of their lord and saviour. Legend had it that aeons ago, the Rakshasa, preservers of the Elemental world, had sought to turn Samarinda into a sea of fire. To gain help, the original Dewa Cawu sought aid from the great volcanic Land God, the Magma Drake Bedawangiwiwi, a greedy and untamed being of hunger and lust. Being an intelligent and wise ruler, Dewa Cawu observed the Dragon for many years, coming to know its preference for a rare delicacy—beautiful young girls, especially virgins.

Cawu then approached Bedawangiwiwi with an offer it could not refuse—that he would give the Dragon a hundred virgin daughters of his tribe for the monster's patronage and promise that he would keep the Rakshasa at bay, allowing Samarinda to prosper.

After much blood, toil, and a vow of blood and magma, an agreement was made.

And thus, for hundreds of years, the simple folk of Samarinda had sent their young men into the fields and their prettiest daughters into the palace of Dewa Cawu to serve as the king's adopted children, Bambang's included.

And every decade, on the first hint of the monsoonal season, Dewa Cawu would take his troop of flower-wrapped young women up the hill, watched by their tearful loved ones, so that Bedawangiwiwi would be appeased.

This season, however, an unwitting change had come to an unchanging land.

In February, a great deluge of water had swept Bambang's home, bringing unimaginable misery.

In March, the arrival of Undead Fishmen had polluted the estuaries and ruined the harvest.

In April, the plague which had come with the flood and the Undead had brought an already stricken city to its knees.

Throughout the months, their Dewa had promised salvation—but their bamboo-city could not gather enough healthy young women for his pilgrimage.

Then, uninvited strangers had sailed up the river in a metal city-raft.

Strangers who refused to yield to their Dewa Cawu.

Strangers speaking the trader's tongue, with unfamiliar titles like the Dragon Slayers of St George.

Bambang was not a stranger to foreigners, for their Dewa Cawu often sold his slaves to the dark-skinned Sea Captains who came to bid for crew and supplies at the city's markets. These men were frightful fellows with uncouth manners and insatiable appetites for the city's simple fisher folk. They harassed fishers' wives, carelessly murdered the young men who defended their kin and seemed to pay respect only to the Dewa and his royal Mages.

Thus, the fishing folk of Samarinda were greatly surprised when the Dewa's war skiffs failed to stop the entry of these new foreigners with their enormous foreign ships. They became yet more confused when, after landing, fair-skinned Mages with hair the colour of sunbeams emerged, clad in blue or red or white robes and resplendent amour, to deploy not weapons of war but tents with large red crosses.

Healing Stations, the foreigners called them.

And they were free.

"Free"—the very word made no sense to the simple fisher folk of Samarinda, whose lives were not free even in the simplest sense of the word. Their bodies were not theirs, nor their homes, nor their children.

Yet, without demanding barter, these foreigners incanted sorcery with the warm light of the morning sun, banished illness from the stricken, and brought new vitality to the sallow cheeks of their stricken kin.

On the first day, barely a hundred attended the tents.

On the second, a thousand souls received new benedictions.

By the first moon cycle, half the city had felt the blessing of the "Ordo", and the local street artisans had sold countless wooden idols of their newly minted Pantang Mayag, the fair-haired Goddess residing within the cross-marked, canvas walls, Dewa Elvia.

By the second moon cycle, Dewa Cawu's palace had been all but abandoned by the people, with the city now operating to and from the giant pavilions set up by the foreign folk.

And so it was that finally, on the first day of July, their erstwhile Dewa Cawu's patience had run short—heralding the cataclysmic arrival of his true friend, Bedawangiwiwi.

Like a rolling lava burst, great Bedawangiwiwi had descended the mountain, its bullish neck as thick as its waist, its eight-limbs dripping ash and sulphur, its fish-like tail sweeping aside giant like charred tinder. Down the hills, the great beast slid, a living engine of ultra-violence, transmuting Bambang's family's huts into smouldering coal as it made its way through the abrupt chaos.

From their pavillions, fair-skinned Mages with their crimson cloaks had emerged, their cloaks as red as the setting sun on a hot summer's eve, painting the shallow sea the hue of blood.

Presently, safe in his hiding place behind the pallets of metal-tinned supplies, Bambang heard his new employers speak in the tongue of the traders, their tones cool and unimpressed.

"So that's the Dragon. An ancient Magma Basilisk, and not even an intelligent one at that, "the tall one who spoke had his hand on the pommel of the largest sword Bambang had ever seen, an implement almost as tall as the man's shoulder, slung on reinforced, brass-bound straps from his waist. "There's as much Draconic Essence in that thing as a fist-sized newt from the Ying-long's mountain."

"I know it isn't the promised Naga, Mathias, but it is a good accolade for your Knight Companion, don't you think?" The second Knight, whose shield-crest wore a large "X" over a cross in embossed gold, comforted the first.

"You warmongers always say that." The blonder of the knights glanced in Bambang's direction as he spoke.

Bambang instantly transformed into a part of the inanimate drapes covering the supply crates.

"Foreman," the ash-blonde Knight called Mathias and addressed him directly. "It's a bit late to run, so stay here where it's safe. Don't come crawling to Elvia later when we're inundated with the injured."

Bambang nodded furiously.

By now, more knights had sauntered forth from their stations, each bearing spellswords with markings from their "Ordo".

When the Goddess finally emerged, Bambang felt a sign of sudden and inexplicable courage fill his heart. There was an aura about the fair-haired Cleric, something like an invisible halo, immaterial and yet, so substantial that Bambang felt its weight on his Astral Soul.

Unconsciously, his hand slipped toward the idol hanging from his chest, with its rough-hew cutout of her likeness. There was a warmth from the still-green wood, dispelling fear and doubt and filling him with indescribable optimism.

A hope that was oppressed only by the stench of rotten egg-sulphur from Bedawangiwiwi, who was now only a few hundred meters away.

With the knights who emerged, an older man with the look of a scholar made his presence known.

"Elvia," the old man in the regal red robes spoke with a tone of kindness, like a grandfather revealing his child at the Dewa's ceremonies, not knowing that the smiling Dewa was far worse than any Rakshasa. "You may begin."

"Yes, Seneschal Ashburn." The Goddess did not step into the air but instead dropped to one knee. With a flip of her hand, she produced a golden implement inscribed with a rune Bambang could not recognise. At the same time, what looked like a trio of bells began to trail incense smoke, shrouding her petite figure.

Next, she began a prayer.

Strangely, with his hand on the idol, Bambang understood her words.

"O Living Lord

We art thy unworthy lambs

I ask to be their shepherd

To carry a shield of faith

And bear the sword of your words

O, Gracious Lord.

Allow me the praise to be

Thy Minister of Chastisement

That in our victory

Your name be sung…"

The idol in Bambang's hand grew so unbearably hot that, for a moment, he wondered if the young sapling wood might burst into flame.

Then, just as the rampaging Bedawangiwiwi reached the bottom of the valley, the semi-circle of Knights drew their blades.

"BY THE NAZARENE'S WILL!" The resounding echo from the Goddess' knights filled the valley like a thunderclap.

Bambang's Goddess gave the final word. "MURDER FIEND—BE CONDEMNED!"

The air distorted overhead. Something akin to an enormous glowing cross began to manifest from the havens—from thin air—materialising from nothing, causing no elemental ripple.

A shield? A barrier to halt the charge of Bedawangiwiwi? Bambang's heart was caught in his throat, a faithful hope reciprocated by the hundreds of thousands of his fellow fisher folk in the valley, a captive audience to their doom or salvation.

Soundlessly, as a spontaneously manifesting shooting star, the sky-scraper stake descended, moving to intercept the incoming body of the smouldering eight-legged magma flow. Just before it struck, Bedawangiwiwi moved its torso just so—and managed to avoid the pin-point of the stabbing implement.

Had the Goddess' protectors misjudged? Bambang's doubt stung him like a wasp and filled him with shame.

"GUARRRRRAWK—?!" As if in mockery of Bambang's lack of faith, a howl of agonised surprise escaped from the monstrously-legged viper, loud enough to shake the valley.

The cross had continued its penetration into the earth until its left arm caught the creature by the mid-section, driving the monster deep into the ground until Bedawangiwiwi was wholly pinned. The force of the impact was such that an eruption of magma—or whatever an ancient Elemental had for body fluids, splattered in every direction, creating such a heat wave that buildings near the impact burst into brilliant flames.

Try as it might, even tearing its charcoal scales and cracking bone, Bedawangiwiwi managed only to extricate a single limb.

"Kiki!" came a call to arms from Bambang's Goddess, her voice far colder than Bambang had heard. At her bidding, a thousand tendrils suddenly erupted from where Bedawangiwiwi had fallen, each as thick as a sail ship's riggings. And like riggings, these prehensile tentacle-ropes threw themselves into a frenzy, then snared the sizzling Bedawangiwiwi like a carp in a hemp net.

"GUWWWAARRK—!" The tempestuous Bedawangiwiwi roared, transforming the ground into magma to loosen its bindings. Its aura flickered as some latent, innate ability triggered, transmuting the closest ropes to stone—only for the stone to crack and new vines to form within split seconds. Still, thanks to the momentary loss of tension, it slipped one foot free—pulled itself up by the claw of another—then—

"SEN-SEN!" The Goddess glowed like the golden sunrise, her aura so rich with intangible energy that the air began to drip with resplendent dew.

From Bedawangiwiwi's blindspot—a fact made possible because of the creature's blind panic, a Goliath grew from the ground, a faceless humanoid that looked to be comprised of knotted old ropes and roots.

A Rakshasa of the Man-eating Potato? Bambang's mind flashed to those terrifying moments when he had to hide from the men-eating Mandrakes. Just when he thought the tree would punch Bedawangiwiwi into submission, a dozen and more tendrils split from the root-man, joining the floral vines already enmeshing the Basilisk.

"Proceed, Knight Companion." The ash-haired old Mage's confidence cooled Bambang's panic. "Three is the number of your trials. Make haste to complete your last. Let it not suffer, lest more innocents are caught the Dewa's immorality."

"Yes, Seneschal. Sen-sen! Kiki!" Bambang's Goddess nodded adorably, her face as grim as it was heart-achingly beautiful. A few seconds later, following the opening of what sounded like a benediction of compassion, her aura grew momentarily solid.

Nearer Bedawangiwiwi, the Goliath released arresting tendrils the likeness of golden ropes of molten metal, but these did not burn the Basilisk,

Instead, the creature's injury began to mend.

Bambang's eyes grew wide. Were these foreign Mages hoping to tame the Rakshasa like their Dewa? Did this mean that his people would soon have a new master?

Bedawangiwiwi, like Bambang, grew confused by the warmth suffusing its body. It even ceased its struggles to gauge what its opponents had in mind.

Bambang held his breath and waited, one hand clutching the idol of the Goddess.

Not far, the knights who had stood guard shifted into battle stances.

"Guwrr—GWARARRK?!" As the arresting golden cross began to dematerialise, Bedawangiwiwi's aura of magma grew suddenly unstable. The golden ropes, which had held it immobile, were suddenly sinking into the scales of its flesh.

Bambang quickly rubbed the ashen dust from his clouded eyes. It wasn't that the ropes were biting into the creature—but that the beast was rapidly enlarging! It was expanding unnaturally, like a frog that the village's naughty children had cruelly bloated with a pump.

And like those unfortunate amphibians, even as the creature grew increasingly confused by its fate, its flesh continued to engorge, cracking its previously impervious armour of shale-like scales, making it once sleek and predatory figure so rotund that its eight legs could no longer properly catch the ground.

With a guttural howl, a part of it began to shift—for Bedawangiwiwi could change its shape when it willed—but the golden energy infusing its body seemed to ignore the commands from the monster's body.

Now in a renewed panic, Bedawangiwiwi began to roll and thrash, becoming comical as the tragedy of its ballooning belly continued.

"KNIGHTS! LOCK BARRIERS!" came the command from the ashen-haired old scribe, his voice rolling across the valley as lowering thunder. "CONJUGATION OF FAITH!"

The different uniformed Knights moved in as one, manifesting a multi-shield array that formed a semi-dome over the top of the mewling stone lizard. Below the creature, molten magma was oozing from every orifice on the Basilisk, forcing it to gag and cough. Its burning eyes glowed so vividly in pain that they resembled a pair of mercury beads in clay kilns.

Then—as anticipated, something gave from within the Basilisk's body. As the root-Goliath and the floral vines dimmed, a stream of bright orange magma, mixed with what looked like flesh and offal, jetted from Bedawangiwiwi's flank. After the initial spurt, the pressure release quickened like the pressurised deluge from a newly opened dam.

A dozen breaths later, even as Bedawangiwiwi's orbs rolled into its skull, the stream continued, turning a whole portion of the shielded arena into a magma pool with an explosive gust of sulphur and heat—one thankfully impeded by the Mage Knights' efforts.

Bambang wasn't sure if he had breathed the whole while, though he was aware of the idol in his hands pulsing with warmth.

When he recovered, Bedawangiwiwi's inert body had cooled, transforming from magma into brilliant boulders that, when cracked, would consist of priceless Dragon Glass.

The semi-circle of Knights sheathed their swords as though they had practised the rite a thousand times.

"Check the surroundings for survivors, bring them to the triage tents," Senechal Ashburn commanded the others. After a pause, the man stepped beside the Goddess. "Elvia, do you have enough Faith to continue your work at the clinic?"

"I do," the Goddess exhaled, tired but in high spirits. "Please don't turn anyone away."

"You're as tireless as always." The man appeared to study her. "Well done on your third trial, child, though none of us had doubted your faith."

"Thank you, Seneschal." The Goddess bowed her head. One of the knights, the ash-blonde, reached her side. "To have found so much support from the Ordos… Mathias and I could not have prayed for more compassion from better members of the Mageocracy."

"You still speak as if we are not Companion and Commander." The old man, incredibly, laid a hand on the Goddess' head, then patted her in the same way Bambang would comfort a crying fisherwoman's lost child. "Don't push yourself so hard. When we reach Tianjin… you will have our support. The Ordo isn't what it used to be in the epoch of Victoriana, but the CCP and a corrupted Mythic—we can still chastise."

"It's not the Mythic that worries us, Seneschal." the Goddess' smile was as sweet as it was disquieting. "In this Brave New World, we must ensure there will never be another Elizabeth Sobel."

"Brave New World?" the old man shook his head as he seemed to ponder the worlds, seemingly enjoying how the sound rolled off the tongue. "Another one of her Gwenisms?"

"She's full of them." The Goddess' laughter was like pealing bells on a clear cold morning.

"The cost will be high…" the old man's melancholy was palpable. "You may yet pay the dearest of prices. And if you survive, her hatred shall be a fate worse than a clean death. As your elder, I must question your wisdom in exercising your passion. Her pride and misjudgement is, after all, not your cross to bear."

"Seneschal.. are our Ordo not the Poor Soldiers of Christ?" The Goddess appeared unyielding in her conviction. "Isn't dying for others' sins our motto?"

The old scholar laughed, shaking his head as he did so. "You're worldly, child, too wise for one so young and sheltered. Had the Yinglong's famed Divinations seeded those words? Or are they your own?"

The Goddess said nothing, but her eyes seemed to drift toward the sky as her mood grew reticent. With a finger placed on the golden broach that fastened her cloak, she spoke as though to someone far and distant. "There will be an end. And I know there will be agony—but for her goodness to remain, Seneschal—I shall be glad of another death."