Metaworld Chronicles

October was heating up for the folk of Oxbridge's Academic Board, whose august members possessed three opinions on the matter of "Magister Gwen Song" and her rise to prominence.

The first was the working crew of academics responsible for the university's certification examination, honest in their opinion that Provisional Magister Song had demonstrated ample ability to bring prosperity to a small dominion.

The second faction had ties to the IoDNC's balance sheets and demanded to know if any other Magisterial candidate had accrued as much credit as Magister Gwen Song. Their argument held that Gwen was the one who motivated the report, "A Hypothesis on Elemental Flux on regional Climates, Change and its Consequences," an achievement enough to elevate her title to that of provisional Meisterhood. They likewise pointed out that Magister Song was already the author of no less than twenty-seven papers on Void Magic, co-authored by Magister Maxwell Brown of Emmanuel's College and others in Peterhouse. Her Author Citation Index: cited the pro-Gwen faction, matched scholars like Meister Petrie Higgs, responsible for the Conjuration formulae employed in the spatial magic that enabled Humanity's partnership with Dwarven low-ways. For that reason, there was no sense that Oxbridge should gift Gwen a mere Black Gown and not the Scarlet Sash, signalling one whose contributions outstripped her contemporaries.

The final faction opposed awarding provisional Magister Song anything other than the non-hooded Magus Gown for basic graduation. In their eyes, the young War Mage was just that—a loose canon. She was not an academic. She did not contribute personally to the human body knowledge of Spellcraft, and her recent achievements were more suited to civil service than academia. Even if the girl was capable of a plethora of sorcery, her craft was taught or inherited rather than discovered. Ergo, a Meisterhood was absurd, and a Magisterhood was already the limit of the committee's greatest allowances.

Additionally, the conservatives complained loudly—the girl had missed her welcoming party and its impromptu viva voce. The entire panel had awaited her arrival, hoping to hear from the horses' mouth its defence of the events presented by Maxwell Brown on her behalf, only to be left out in the cold. Worse still, a rumour even had it that she had spent the night at an abbey in Battle with the Ordo Bath! Such zealot-like behaviour was the antithesis of Oxbridge's academic and pragmatic-minded modernity. If the girl wanted to dabble in Faith Magic, let her join an Ordo. Then, the academic circles could wash their hands clean of her corruptive, money-grubbing influence and return to business as usual.

The debate was well-argued until the point of Gwen's economic clout, framed as the "stink of HDMs that wreath her like a crown..." was brought up for the third time.

At this point, a member of the audience, Lady Grey, the Marchioness of Ely, reminded the genteel committee that she remained Cambridge's largest landlord and was also a major shareholder of Magister Song's IoDNC. She informed them that the forgiving rent on Cambridge's enormous grounds was a rude subject for a refined audience. That and she was not pleased by the politics involved in confirming her protègè. With the voice of a stern nanny, she informed the grumpy men that no Magisterial confirmation may be impromptu and that all merit, in the eyes of the university, is apolitical. She did not wish to impact their decision, though the county's outgoings had been increasing of late.

After that, even without a body being present, Magister Gwen Song's provisional confirmation concluded with a supermajority.

What was left to confirm was the official confirmation itself and the candidate's final biometrics, for her Mastery of the different schools of magic would determine the number of silks she wore over her all-blacks, such as azure for Conjuration, crimson for Evocation, Tyrian for Transmutation, and so on.

At any rate, what had been a stunt remained just that—for the girl had already missed the June graduation ceremony, and her moment of publicity would have to wait until the middle of '07, even if Gwen were to assume official duties on the morrow.

Indifferent to the board's turmoil, the soon-to-be officialised Magister Song was far too busy to worry about the misguided politics of a college.

Once Gwen had recharged her sanity, she returned to the Isle of Dogs to oversee the paperwork taxing Eric Walken's sanity. Thankfully, the lion's share of her catch-up labour required her signature rather than judgement, a formality Walken had left for her to shoulder, possibly out of spite. Concurrently, she concluded an interview with the METRO, giving Lorenzo the rest of her lumen captures Richard and Petra had taken of the refugees around the various places she had visited, delivering stern remarks for the troubles to come. After that, she checked in on her Dwarven allies, most of whom had now returned home via the fully functional Dyar Morkk transit station below the Isle of Dogs, now overseen by "Station Master" Hanmoul.

As far as Gwen could discern, the station was the sort of Brutalist engineering marvel seen only in old-world fantasy epics. Separated into three sectors and almost twenty levels, the ant city "node" connected London's ley-lines with that of re-activated Dwarven Low-ways throughout Wales and Scotland, creating a series of Pocket Planes that compressed space. To travel from London to Merthyr Tydfil in Wales was four hours by crow-flight and almost seven hours by land transit. Now, twenty minutes was all it took for a "Low-way Tram" to navigate the same distance. While the process remained incomparable to Teleportation, the core premise of the Dyar Morkk was the ease of transporting heavy materials without additional cost in mana—an arcane secret Humanity had yet to unlock.

For this reason, the "Dwarven Subway Station" conjoining Canary Wharf and the London Underground was undoubtedly the most important infrastructural addition to London since its original transit routes were constructed.

As a result, employment at all levels on the Isle of Dogs had grown almost ten-fold, as had the land price of the surrounding suburbs, as well as the interest expressed by the Mageocracy and its allies' corporations in establishing a base of operations on the Isle.

Quite literally, what had begun as a farm and a slag swamp only years ago, was now the most sort-after commercial real estate in recent years.

All who had initially invested in the Isle of Dog, or were given principle shares during its inception, were now speechless. Some, such as the Marchioness of Ely and the American Lady Astor, cooly accepted that their wealth had increased by degrees and margins that were generational in scale. Early investors like Richard Huang, who had been paid in shares and salary, now looked into purchasing manors in Knightsbridge or Mayfair—areas with unexpected vacancies thanks to the troubles of the Militant nobilities' finances. Others, such as the Isle's initial Mage employees, could repay their tuition ten times over. Even the humble NoM folk who had opted for limited shares from the Isle's first phase offering were now poised to hold enough capital to make a Senior Magus weep—a dangerous circumstance for those untethered to power.

Conversely, three days after her arrival, the architect of London's wealth left the city to finally grace herself in front of Oxbridge's Magisterial panel, who had burning questions on their plate to serve her. Like a choir, her proctors' inquiries boomed across the vaulted ceilings in the great hall of Peterhouse.

"Do you mean that… it is by your connection to… the Elder One… that you hypothesised the climate changes brought about by the Elementals?"

Their questions were ones which Maxwell Brown, her lecturer, co-author and ally, had already answered over and over without satisfaction—the question of why a Frontier sorceress knew of Climate Change when all the Queen's Mages and Magisters could not construct a whole picture. After all, all of Gwen's predictions came true. The Fire Sea was an experiment of sorts in changing the climate of the Caspian. The assault on the poles was an extension of the same principle—now ratified by Zordiam's Legions. The Elves had been blindsided by the prospect of what Spectre was willing to sacrifice to accomplish—and in their limited success, the world was now thrown into an inexplicable, unpredictable chaos, making it ripe for subversive anarchy.

Again, all of this was predicted by a Frontier sorceress with only a few years of university education.

Even if Meister Engela Bekker had proposed the outcome, the pioneering Eugenicist would have still been scrutinised by her peers.

Yet, an un-titled Gwen Song had delivered a ludicrous warning—

Then, a bank-breaking military Expedition had set sail for the North Pole.

Then somehow, House Ravenport funded yet another Expedition for the South Pole.

AND THEN—both had returned with the news that INDEED, there was Elemental interference in the Axis Mundi and that what could be fixed had been repaired. But still, the lax security would precipitate a tough decade of global chaos.

If one could trace Gwen's involvement throughout the events, they would have thought that perhaps, Magister Gwen Song was a member of Delphi's Oracles. Even the Oracle herself, a known prophetess, had not come to nearly foresee as much detail as a twenty-something Void Mage from Sydney.

Hence, many were curious to know even the vaguest answers from their soon-to-be-minted Magister.

To her credit, Gwen had already prepared several misdirections to rationalise her otherworldly insight: from the works of old Magisters and Meister who had studied the Axis Mundi to citing the unconfirmed labours of her Master, Henry Kilroy, to finally heaping credit on Almudj the Rainbow Mythic.

Though stern, the session was not intended to pry—nor coerce. In all likelihood, the sitting Magisters knew her form-fitting ankle-length jeggings were on fire—not that it mattered. According to Brown, her confirmation was all but concluded, and the process was merely a formality.

As pragmatic men, the panel accepted the casualty of truth for the gift of her service. Thereby, she and the committee danced the quadrille until the questions were exhausted, and the final lines of her service to the Greater Good of Humanity were customarily asked.

"Do you, candidate Gwen Song, concur that your advancement of Spellcraft shall benefit Humanity in the years of your service as a Sanctioned Magister of the Commonwealth Mageocracy?"

As a tradition, the basic expectation was that a candidate would uphold Humanity's interests in a just and moral manner. The open nature of the question was deliberate, as both qualities were malleable and highly contextual.

"I shall," the soon-to-be ratified Magister Gwen Song verified her best intentions. "I shall always endeavour to achieve the greater good, that all parties may profit from cooperation."

The committee murmured their agreement. "There is one more addition. What shall be your coda to your juniors, Magister Song?"

The final formality was for the books. Over the centuries, many Magisters have left timeless mottos recited by subsequent generations. Brown had forewarned Gwen that such a flair would be added to her records at Cambridge and that though inconsequential, it should be done with style. Considering that her Magisterhood was based upon the proof of the necessity of intervention in matters of the Axis Mundi, Gwen had only one particular phrase in mind—one as arrogant as it was truthful.

“Quod Erat Demonstrandum.” Her reply must have raised every brow in the theatre.

Her Magisters in question nodded their agreement. QED, the conclusion of the Polar incident was as she had predicted, and so was the rapidly evolving matter of the refugees and the disruption of the Mageocracy's economic framework of colonial Frontiers and first-tier cities.

After her hour-long viva, Gwen was escorted by Magister Brown back to Peterhouse's working section, where her spectrometric reading was to take place.

For the common Magus or Magister in a lesser institution, the readings would have been presented to the committee as a measure of their worthiness. For a Magister graduate from Oxbridge, achievements were deemed worthier than mere prowess in magic, as candidates with meaningful research were rarer than Battle Mages. Conversely, Gwen was an odd egg within Cambridge's walls. She was an import and a Combat Mage more fitting for the alumni of London Imperial, whose graduates were well noted for possessing some of the highest combat prowess in the Mageocracy.

Thereby, as the scion of Kilroy and a War Mage of the Shard, her true biometrics was a subject of classification, known only to the highest members of the military order and the Tower.

When the door to the familiar lab slid open soundlessly, she was greeted by the pleasant face of Gracie Hillbrook.

"QUACK!" Before Gwen could react, a massive yellow-billed face instantly snuggled up to her and wrapped its enormous neck around her waist, transforming her into a Carnival float-girl.

"Dede!" Gwen kissed the duck on the bill. "My, you've grown smaller! Did you learn a new trick?"

"Quack!" The duck made its intentions known.

"Alright—alright!" Gwen slathered a palmful of Essence down the duck's reciprocating bill, then conjured forth a happy Ariel, who began running circles around the colourful drake.

After several bouts of "Quack!" and "EE—EE!" The Familiar and duck were ushered from the laboratory into Peterhouse's gardens.

Finally, Gwen was able to address her friend of two years.

"Magister Song!" Gracie clutched her data pad while wearing an expression of a star-struck rock fan. "Y-you're finally back!"

"Gracie! My goodness… you look…" Gwen could not help but feel a warm gush of gladness infuse her mana conduits, for it had taken her several seconds to ascertain that, indeed, this was the same Void Mage. "Amazing! And don't you start! It's Gwen to you, Magus Hillbrook!"

When Gwen had left, Gracie was nearing the breaking point of her Affinity for Conjuration to use the Conjure Familiar spell to find herself something akin to Caliban or Jean-Paul's Umzokwe. She had left the girl plenty of Essence-infused Maotai as backup, and Brown was acting as the overseer of his and Gwen's great experiment to "stabilise" the health of a growing Void Mage. Still, Gracie had appeared like a lost cousin to The Addams Family, both ghastly in her complexion and dour in her introverted fatalism.

Now, the girl was the most hale she had ever seen, with rosy cheeks adorning a woman the bloom of her college days.

"It's all thanks to you." Gracie curtsied at first, then stopped and bowed. "We found a suitable Familiar for me! I can source my vitality now, Gwen. Thank you so much."

"Quod Erat Demonstrandum." Brown chuckled. "I did promise that reconstitution was possible with your Master's Method, the very same he did for Sobel and yourself. So, what do you think, Magister Song? Pleased with your research? I did submit the papers with you and me as principal authors."

Gwen couldn't help but walk a circle around the white-robed Gracie. After her depression at sea, Gracie's happiness was amazing news that delivered a jolt of Radiance to dispel her lightless months in the Antarctic.

"There's no biting fish yet—" Her former tutor spoke again after she and Gracie burned a few minutes to catch up. "But we are expecting others like Gracie shortly. Once we stabilise Gracie's condition in a longitudinal sense, I suspect the universities of the central continent will grow desperate, that and I wouldn't put it past Meister Bekker to possess another stock of students like Jean-Paul, only without JP's luck."

What Brown meant, Gwen knew well, was something she had entirely overlooked for Gracie's sake, the use of Soul Tap on her peers to save them from themselves, enslaving their Astral Souls to gift them a portion of vitality via Sympathetic Soul-Link. In Brown's research, the breaking point of Void-vitality equilibrium could not be reached without explicit design. All naturally occurring Void Mages would invariably perish unless they possess a high Affinity for Conjuration from birth. Even so, they must achieve a sufficient tier to use the Conjure Familiar spell. Then, they must cycle through Familiars until a suitable creature could be farmed or found, with the caveat that each instance a new Familiar was conjured or abandoned, the caster suffered enough feedback to self-destruct.

Gracie's new best friend, the girl had summoned, was a Void-subtype Gastropoda dubbed the "Abyssal Conch", something between a land snail and a carrion crawler. The Familiar was purchased at the Grey Faction's Auction thanks to Lady Astor's many-talented tentacles. And Gracie was lucky enough to find compatibility with the creature, who felt enough Affinity to fall into her service.

Thus far, the Void-slime-secreting snail was the size of a house cat. It fed ravenously on high-vitality ingredients and was principally a nocturnal hunter that silently "grazed" on prey by oozing paralysing digestive juices over its sleeping victims. As per her usual greeting, Gwen gave the creature a helping boost by sharing some of her Essence, making its owner shudder and flush a healthy scarlet.

Gwen wanted Caliban to meet its cousin and see if the two might build a friendship, but her Familiar remained unattentive. Even conjured, Cali presented itself as an inert black mass.

A few minutes later, with Gracie's aide, Gwen stood dutifully in her gown and channelled her various Schools of Magic into the sterile instruments. At the same time, Brown made his recordings known, reading them out once for himself and again for Gracie to punch into the records.

"Evocation… 6.99."

"Conjuration… 6.99."

“Transmutation…5.99.”

The already silent room grew quieter somehow.

"Your Affinity is better than mine by a tier," Brown read the scripts, looked up at Gwen with an awkward grimace, and then read the white slips again. "Just how much did you fight over the six months?"

"There was a small continent of Undead Mermen." Gwen did not wish to recollect her six months too vividly. Less pleasant memories were best kept buried if she cared about her mental health. "Did you read the report?"

"Three Month inland, two months breaking through the blockade?" Brown nodded. "Daily fighting?"

"We fought like Dwarves. Sometimes up to sixty or more hours." Gwen felt her chest grow cold as muscle memories reflexively re-lived those moments. "The Undead Kraken took us a month, one tentacle at a time. Luring it out, fighting its Shoal, thinning its vanguards, flank guards, royal guards, strewth, give me a live Kraken any day. Thank God it couldn't regenerate well enough to keep fighting or was intelligent enough to abandon its post."

"And that it had no Lich to support or command it," Brown reminded Gwen of her world-famous achievement. "What a stroke of genius it was to use Caliban on the Ziggurat."

"It was. As for the aftermath..." Gwen made a genuine gagging motion. "You cannot believe the smell. It seeps into everything. Even now, I am sure there are residue strands of Necrotic mana in my Astral Soul. You know, I burned everything replaceable that I took with me on the expedition."

"Of course," Brown continued. "Abjuration… 5.22."

"Wow." Gracie's fingers were white with tension. "Gwen, you're amazing."

"Divination… 2.50."

"Illusion… 4.01."

"Enchantment… 4.45."

"Gwen.. you're a bonafide Omni-Mage!" If Gracie's pupils could glow, they would have lit up like Faith relics.

"I am relieved your other magics remain within the realm of mortals," Magister Brown joked. "In that combination, however, I am not sure if you're still Human, Gwen."

"I feel… Human," Gwen assured them.

"Well, we'll know if your ears start to elongate." Brown made sure to glance at her ears, making Gwen conscious enough to touch them. "And your… other Affinity, the one gifted by your unusual diet—"

Gwen's ears perked up.

"Do you wish to know?"

"What's not to like?" Gwen shrugged. "At this point, I am invested."

"6.99." Brown read out the number. "I shall refrain from commenting on your private relationship with your Master's designs, so let's move on. Now… your Affinity for the Elements. Let's see—"

The machine quickly spat out a new script as if equally eager to move on.

"Lightning is at 7.99… inclusive of Ariel's current supplementation, its reading… is 8.54. A bit on the low side."

"Yes. That's less than I imagined." To the horror of the examiners, Gwen had the gall to complain.

"You need to advance your Kirin's purity," Brown noted her dissatisfaction. "Higher order Cores, perhaps import a few from your Draconic connections?"

Gwen quickly thought of Golos' gift from the Frost Wyrm, then dismissed it promptly lest she grew tempted to take a friend's existential prospect to evolve her pet. "How about Caliban?"

"Assuming its dormancy does not impact its Affinity boost…" Brown pulled the script through his fingers. "Ah, there it is—6.33 for your base Affinity, and Caliban is adding… my God… a whopping 1.3—for a total of 7.63. That's an ENORMOUS growth, Gwen. Since your Lightning is already there, you should know that the difference between tier 6 and 7 are magnitudes apart."

Gwen exhaled. With Caliban in its current state, she had suspected that there would be significant growth on the part of her partner. After all, the Necromancy Cabal was the single largest "feast" Caliban had the pleasure of imbibing.

"We'll have to run tests… a lot of tests…" Brown appeared like a giddy child on Boxing Day. "And finally… yes, I did suspect this. Your VMI, young Magister, is now registering over 500. Five hundred and three, to be precise. Congratulations, Gwen. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, you are now counted within the top ten percentile of all Magisters in the Mageocracy. How does that make you feel?"

"Good?" Gwen answered from the changing room, switching back to her jean-blouse combo. Her clothes, one of her remaining innocent passions, were now a year out of date and potentially polluted. When she had the opportunity again, she would have to take Petra, Lulan and Gracie to raid Harrods for the latest and the greatest. Arguably, a woman of largesse like herself could take the ISTC down to Le Bon Marché Rive Gauche in Paris, though having Military Police escort her shopping spree was excessive even for Magister Song.

"Would you wish to know why your readings are ending with .99?" Brown asked when she emerged, one hand dexterously tying her voluminous hair and the other browsing through a spare data slate held with a Mage Hand.

"I do." She had wondered about that.

"You lack the Spellcraft to push past the meniscus of Affinity growth." Brown tapped the top of the data slate. "Are we on the same page?"

"My spells are too simple to facilitate a breakthrough?"

Brown raised his hands to make the sign for six. "At its most complex, you've got Maelstrom and Blade Barrier for Evocation. You have no spells at the sixth tier for Conjuration beyond Planar Ally. What of Transmutation? The highest order of spells you've mastered is Sympathetic Life-Link at the fourth tier. Your... Necromancy is ironically doing better than five other Schools of Magic thanks to Soul Fire..."

"I see…"

"It's a little incredible and also insulting to know that you're knocking on the door of the Seventh-Tier, and you don't have a single Seventh-tier spell." Brown pinched the bridge of his nose, then extended a hand to count by the fingers as if labelling fruits for a toddler. "Elemental Eruption, Dimensional Jaunt, Force Cage, Prismatic Spray, Elemental Avatar, Adaptation, the options are almost limitless. Between your three principal Schools of Magic, I can scarcely imagine what the future holds."

"I see…" Gwen gulped. "Keep in mind my Affinity is a condition, not a natural talent. Let's take it slow. I don't envy a misfire or mana feedback from the seventh tier."

"Fine. Even so, new spells like Elemental Examiner and Hellfire Scorcher at the upper sixth tier would augment your current firepower against the type of foes you regularly challenge." Brown shook his head. "Yes, I know, the spells beyond the sixth tier are rare, of course, and expensive, but so are you."

"Yes," Gwen conceded that her tutor was right. "I need new spells. And more lessons."

"That you do." Brown sighed. "This brings up our next problem. The world is burning as we speak—according to you. Do you have time for more lessons? "

Gwen sighed as well. "No."

Brown looked her up and down, then cocked his head. "Then we must maximise your time before you're sent off on another assignment. Evocation, Transmutation and Conjuration, hmm—say, have you ever heard of Morden's Blade?"

Gwen nodded. She had not only heard of the spell but had seen it employed first-hand by none other than her Master's wife.

"Considering your lack of specialised giant slaying spells, I would look toward Scotland and see if you can solicit the spell from the Greyhawk Citadels of Suilven. For the foes you had faced—Dragon Turtles and whatnot, there's nothing more efficient than a non-strategic Tier 7 slaying spell. Unfortunately, those Fomorian-slaying Scotsmen are not very friendly toward us, considering their stance on independence—"

Morden… It was still a moment of wonder to Gwen that The Bloom herself had confided in her of her Master's true origin as the direct descendent of Archmage Morden. According to the ageless Hvítálfar, the current IMS, or Imperial Magic System, was born from Henry forcibly donating his grandfather's legacy to the Mageocracy, erecting its Towers and instructing its future generations. If a scion of Kilroy was to approach the scions of Morden to ask for Signature magic…

Gwen drew a deep, uncertain breath.

She wanted the spell that Sobel used and had lamented its absence in her Master's treasure trove of Necromancy notes. To swing the same blade to cut down Elizabeth's Spectre allies and gut her plans from chest to groin...would be sublime. Nothing short o that could absolve the limitless misery she had been forced to witness—forced to triage.

In that case, what was the harm if she wished to purchase a copy of a spell her Master would have one day taught?

At best… she deeply suspected there wouldn't be a discount. At worst... what could Henry's family do other than deny her?