Metaworld Chronicles

Shanghai.

As a cultural custom of the People's Liberation Army of the Communist Party, weddings were seldom publicised and never celebrated in public. Even when someone as august as a Regional Secretariat, foremost of the Party's members, welcomed their spouses, the media had been instructed to stay clear with their lumen captures. As a tradition, announcements were modestly pronounced by the national paper, written in the "People's Daily" in a small box, stating that "Wang Citizen married Jin Citizen on this day."

That was how Jun Song, the People's Hero and renowned Dragon Layer, a man Elementally opposed to romantic thoughts, had imagined his union with Ayxin.

Now, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò, Master of the Central Commission for Discipline and Inspection and the man closest to inheriting the chairmanship, stood two feet away, loudly criticising the frugality of the PLA.

"We are not a poor nation anymore." The Secretary-General was almost choking from the emotions running through his voice. "Ah-Jun, you can't do this to your wife. I won't allow it. We haven't used you so much that the Ash has burned away your sensibility! We didn't!"

Jun had a feeling that if Ayxin were here, she would have hissed at the man, and the matter would be done with it. Unfortunately, his wife was asleep. The conception of their child, according to the wisdom of his father-in-law, the all-knowing Yinglong, had exhausted Ayxin mentally, physically, and in "Essence". A Dragon usually borne, then nested their eggs for centuries—but Ayxin had wanted their child to grow with Jun so that they might share, if only for a century or two, the joy she had seen on the Lumen-casters.

The news was shocking to Jun. Not so much as the child itself, but that Ayxin would split her Essence-gift from the Yinglong between herself and the child in her womb to hasten its maturation. Before Huangshan, he had expected to retire in his sixties— but was now provisioned by her ladyship to remain youthful for a century and more.

It was a prospect that immediately made him think of Gwen. His niece had also inadvertently partaken in the blessing of a Mythic, becoming its Vessel, and she would also live far longer than her mortal peers.

The boon in years was to Jun a terrifying prospect. Perhaps in a century or more, only Gwen, himself, Ayxin and a half-dragon child might be around, while their friends and contemporaries might not. For someone bred on the duties of filial piety, to see his parents peacefully pass away was his duty—but to see Hai? Nen? Even the little nephews and nieces grow into old men and women, then waste away with time?

He had to derail the freight train of his thoughts immediately—and focus instead on the present.

The present was the wedding.

It wasn't so much that Jun hadn't given thought to marrying Ayxin. Instead, he was under the impression that he was a son-in-law of the Yinglong and that the Dragon would stipulate the terms. And in terms of men marrying into their spouse's households, the thing to do was to smile and keep silent.

In front of him, Secretary-General Miao had been pacing back and forth excitedly for some time, growing more excited with every chorus of "it must be grand!" and "fit for an Emperor!"

Of course, modern China had no Emperors, and anyone proclaiming so would be sent to the Stasis Chambers to reevaluate their ambitions. However, the Secretary-General saw this as a new opportunity to reach parity with their direct competitors in the Mageocracy, whose nobility has known ties to the Great Red on Carrauntoohil. The alliance had been instrumental in holding back the Wild Hunt, a war band of Elementals inhabiting a Demi-plane to the far north of the isles. What the CCP desired from the Yinglong isn't so nearly taxing—only the guarantee of rain in the nation's largest rice bowl, the Su-Huang region.

"Ayxin would want something private and intimate," Jun protested even as his military-trained body stood to attention. "You know how much she despises crowds."

He paused. "...Retail therapy notwithstanding. I guess Ayxin learned that from someone."

"She is also exceedingly… accommodating to your needs, Ah-Jun," the Secretary-General was firm in his decision. As the man had said during the induction speech to new Grey Ghosts, their bodies were not their own but the country's. Their will was not their own but the state's. "I know what I am asking. I know it might be unreasonable. Our country needs Ayxin to smile for the Lumen-casters, if only for a few hours."

Of that last point, Jun had no doubt.

Like every other nation in the world, their government was being rocked by unforeseen changes, ones with ties, or so the winds whispered, to Gwen.

Within the last six months, the Yellow River's flow had lowered to a level not seen since the mythical droughts of the dynastic era.

Conversely, the entirety of the Qinhai province was awash with floods and landslides, cutting off the Frontier from the PLA and leaving it to the ravages of the Elementals.

In Yulin, a catastrophic earthquake ravaged the Frontier's defences, ushering a deluge of newly homeless Goblinoids like a living landslide from the secluded mountainscape.

The nation's metropolises lived on the edge, fearing for food and the safety of their sons and daughters as drafts drew men by the millions to the Frontiers to alleviate the new threats.

The country needed a hopeful signal, an auspicious one, and there was nothing better than the politicisation of a mythic union not seen since the dynasties of yore. That the marriage was furthermore between a Party faithful, a known hero who had sacrificed his body and health for the good of the masses, was a fairytale of propaganda too good to miss. Jun knew all this because he had already seen the immensely popular picture books of himself and Ayxin.

To have the Central Planning Committee declare that the nation's food security shall remain abundant for the foreseeable future was vital for putting the minds of hundreds of millions of citizens at ease.

"I will personally ensure there will be no interviews, disruptions, or any interruption to your spouse's privacy beyond the single day of public affairs," Miao promised, his voice grim with the determination of the Internal Security Bureau. "Any outlets that break the agreement, even if it's a direct affiliate of the Central Communications Bureau, will cease to exist in short order. You and Ayxin shall have my word on that."

Jun chose not to show his dissatisfaction, knowing he would relent sooner than later. On a personal level, Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò had been good to him and his family, using personal guan-xi to ensure that a soon-retiring Guo Song received his full honours while suffering no repercussions or retributions from the delinquent Party bosses he had gifted Stasis vacations.

For Gwen, the man had also put his foot down when necessary, freeing his niece from the CCP's paranoia and building an amicable trade relationship with her allies in Myanmar.

Lastly, Jun was certain that the privacy they had enjoyed since Hai's wedding would have been impossible were it not for the Miao's constant and gentle reminder of the Party's various public and private appendages to leave the pair well alone.

"I'll speak to her," Jun promised. "And explain the necessity."

"Thank you, Ah-Jun." The Secretary-General gave him a half-salute. "And please reiterate my promise to your spouse that so long as I live, the two of you shall raise your child as you see fit, with no interference from the Party."

Jun could only appear grateful.

Miao extended a hand. "And, of course, we'll take good care of your nephew. Once he's proven a capable administrator, we'll induct him into the Party's inner circles. That young man, mark my words, will have a brilliant future ahead of him.'

"I'll make the case, Secretary-General." Jun shook the man's hand.

"Uncle Miao," the Secretary-General insisted. "When you first came under my wing, you refused to call me that, citing that you were a subordinate. It may very well be that I am now no longer your equal, Ah-Jun, so humour this old man."

"Uncle Miao." Jun shook his head helplessly. "I'll relay the good news. Soon."

"Will you be inviting our newly appointed Imperial Viceroy of the Mageocracy to the wedding?" The old man's smile was crooked.

"I don't dare not to," Jun felt a little uneasy at the thought of Gwen finding out she wasn't invited. "She's quite the personage these days."

"Will you be..." the Secretary-General's smile remained. "Having her as Ayxin's maid?"

Momentarily, Jun recalled his brother's wedding, with his niece in that dress, and the men she left whimpering under her heels. That and Ayxin's Draconic irises turning into twin murder slits if he ever suggested such a thing.

"I wouldn't dare..." he confessed. "Yes. I think it's best if Gwen's a guest of honour. Maybe a state invite. Put her somewhere close, but not as a part of the procession."

"Then, may I make a suggestion?" The Secretary-General's expression remained puzzlingly amused.

"Sir—Uncle Miao, speak your mind."

"The Yinglong—believe it or not, has another Vessel— and it's a foreign girl."

Jun nodded. He knew, and he knew of her connection to Gwen. The pair shared a bond of sometimes sister, sometimes more, though he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Would you mind if... she was the bride's maid? Her Ordo had contacted us to request a visitation permit. And for your best man, how about your nephew? The committee believes this would appease our Viceroy while also having her on the sidelines."

Jun felt his chest constrict. "I don't think we should do that to Mr Wang. Tao is his only son..."

"I meant Percy..."

Jun looked at his Secretary-General. The old man looked back.

"My father..." Jun understood. His father had thin skin when it came to the family. He couldn't ask Gwen to stay, and he couldn't ask this of Jun now.

"Yes, he desired it. The young man needs to show his face, be known to the nation. The wedding is a rare opportunity. Of course, if you are unwilling..."

Jun did not disagree.

It was true what his now-dead comrades in the Grey Ghosts had said. In a Party-organised wedding, the bride and groom were the least important component.

Tianjin.

The witching hour.

Percy Song, the heir to the House of Song, hovered over the crashing waves of the coast, while behind him, the sparkling coastal port painted the rolling city fruit shop bright.

The midnight flight was his ritual, exercised like the Lantern Men of the distant dynasties; only he was a Flaneur from the future.

The lustre of the port, however, was nothing compared to its urban sprawl, home to six million souls.

When he and Mei had visited the city during their rest and relaxation, he was shocked to learn that Shanghai was not the largest port in China. Rather, it was Tianjin that took the crown, possessing a coastal network of docklands and ports that spanned fifth kilometres of deep water, further developed by man-made canals that interconnected the central infrastructure of the city.

Over forty percent of the food that southern China produced was transported to the north through Tianjin—making it the pivotal arterial highway necessary for feeding the fifteen million residents of China's administrative capital, Beijing.

But Percy wasn't just seeing a city.

He had been shocked to learn that a long, long time ago, there existed a China that his history books had erased.

It was a nation called Xia.

A nation that worshipped Kirins.

Looking at the light pollution turning the sky a brilliant azure, Percy struggled to imagine a China ruled by Magical Creatures, each a Mythic, each with their tribe of camp followers providing their Demi-gods with the nourishing power of Faith.

The greatest and most legitimate of these was a proto-Emperor named Shûn, a descendent of the Kirin Tribe.

At first, Percy could not even begin to comprehend the Jade Kirin's visions. His understanding changed when he had finally arrived at the place of its birthright, and the Kirin invited Percy into the miasma of time to part the shrouds of befuddled history.

As he glided over the landscape, his cerebral senses pierced the veils of time, spying on titanic battles between the Mythics. The Kirins, Masters of Humanity, had sought to control the flow of the rivers, damming, guiding, and draining a four-decade flood to carve out a nation for their people.

Their opponents were the tribes who worshipped the Mythics of water, the invasive Dragons of the sea, who desired dominion of the ley-nodes on the mainland. In their contest, mountains toppled, rivers overflowed, entire cities were drowned, and millions of men and animals died, giving rise to intermittent reigns of Undeath.

Nightly, as he and his pendent traced the city's ley-lines, making laps around its Tower, Percy had felt the hot breath of the Kirin's phantasms kiss the interior of his skull, filling his frontal lobe with fantastic visions of power beyond the wildest imaginations of Spellcraft. The voice of his patron was deep and resonant, like the rumbling of the earth itself, injecting its memories of the past directly into Percy, unfiltered and unreserved.

And like a toddler, his eyes slowly growing into focus, Percy saw the world as it was and should have been.

In those days of antiquity, the Kirin tribe, born from these jade-rich seams, was banished from the Prime Material. In their defeat, the hearts of mortal men turned. The Kirin King of Xia, the Shang-Di Gods of northern China, was supplanted by the great, all-encompassing heavens of the Jade Emperor, pronouncing the first "Tian", the kingdom under heaven.

The Han people, as the imperial analects recollected, now only knew themselves as the Descendants of Dragons. Gone were the Kirins, becoming mythology to frighten or delight children, made into belligerent fools or loyal subordinates of the heaven-traversing drakes.

And his sister was one such Vessel of a usurper, He who Heeds in the south: The Yinglong, the lapdog of the Jade Emperor.

She was more than that as well.

A long time ago, when she still wore the pendant in Sydney, his Kirin had saved her life. When his sister had been toyed, played with, and abused by a dark magician, the Kirin had reached out of its amulet to grasp a loose strand of Essence her assailants had neglected.

It was a local land God: an old one called Almudj, an existence akin to the Kirin, born of the Prime Material itself.

From that singular mote of Essence, his sister had begun her transformation, beginning with seducing the land serpent, a being with the mind of an infant but the wrath of a stratospheric tempest. She was a conduit, therefore, of two consciouses, one old, the other scheming, a creature of cunning creatures beyond her ken.

The vision Percy knew to be true, for he had seen Gwen's metamorphosis. And his patron had wholeheartedly displayed the befuddled recollection of his sister's desperation, coming across as flashes of abject terror and mewling submission. That was the Gwen he knew, the true Gwen—not this headstrong stranger walking in her skin, wielding Necromancy.

Percy took a deep, cold breath, allowing the frigid northern air to fill his lungs.

Tianjin was so vast.

To think that all of this and beyond belonged to the Kirin.

Each time the visions faded, Percy would feel a stark sympathy for his patron, whose Core now nourished his ambitions. In his absence, Humanity had carved the mountains and river into the artifice of their own making—but his patron's connection to the land that nourished his kin had remained. All that was required was the return of the rightful king—then the land and its leys would sing to its originator.

And they would nourish him as well.

That was a promise he well-cherished, for the power and influence wielded by the possessor of Tianjin's ley-lines was beyond his youthful comprehension.

What his sister had achieved—her wealth and status—what good was it compared to the city that fed the north of the world's most populous nation?

His nose wrinkled, his spirit soured by the darkness to the northeast.

Even here, with all the distance between Yantai and the blasted peninsula of Pyongyang, he could scent the entropic energies of Undeath.

A calamity was coming. The Jade Kirin was sure of it.

The land trembled in anticipation of the ravages to come.

The Kirin had told him that this was divine will.

After all, with the exile of his people, the Heaven of Shang-Di had been shattered.

Now, the usurpers hold sway.

And mortal men syphon away the land's energies to power lumen bulbs, horse-laughing at the banal comedy displayed upon their lumen casters.

Percy Song, the rising star of the Liberation Army, would also perish here, leaving his dues for his sister, who would recover the pendant and exorcise the Kirin forever at the behest of her Draconic Masters.

For a long while, he had been unable to sleep, and Mei had to send for the Yang's sleeping herbs from home to aid his nightly rest.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, his circumstances had changed as if driven by fate.

His uncle, against all expectations of reality, had impregnated a Dragon.

That Dragon, a true descendent of the Yinglong, possessed the potent blood of the Imperial lines.

According to his patron, Jun's child was collated from Essence and will, put in place by the Yinglong, a phantasmal desire made manifest into reality by the will of a Demi-divine being.

An impossible conception.

An impossible child.

An impossible birth.

The cost in causality, the Kirin had explained, would be dire, hence the calamity to come.

However—what if Percy were to benefit from the trespass of heaven's will? What if, by tapping into the alteration of reality willed by the Yinglong, they could save the city and emerge as its benefactor?

The child, his patron had informed Percy, was a font of Draconic Essence, a Dragon's share of which belonged to the Kirin tribe.

The child in Ayxin's womb was a hundredfold richer than the "Egg" that had held the wayward mote of primordial Essence, a bounty a thousandfold richer than his sister's transformative gift.

One mote!

Just a single mote was all that was needed.

He must find an opportunity to awaken his patron with the borrowed Essence. The Kirin knew not how, when, or if it was possible, but his message had been clear.

Succeed.

Or, like the Kirin tribe, it would be best for Percy to enjoy his remaining weeks with Mei, then send her away, leaving behind an heir for his Grandfather.

Shalkar.

While hairs fell from heads on the east Asian coast, the gaze of Shalkar Al-jadeedah's Pantene(™) perfect protagonist washed over the Barsakelmes low-lands, the largest body of water for hundreds of kilometres.

Before the Fire Sea's emergence, the region was a verdant wetland, an Eden where rolling desert and sandstone plateaus overlooked a vast shallow lake, fed by an unfathomable underground reservoir known far and wide by the Rat-folk as the Jewel Sea.

After the Beast Tide, the lake dried up, becoming parched sand, with only the December rains bringing relief to the temporary watering holes.

Now, in the aftermath of the Fire Sea's retraction, together with the verdant boon of water over the region, Gwen was looking at a vast blue yonder some hundreds of kilometres from edge to edge, swallowing every landmark that had emerged in the three decades since Vynssarion left its imprint across the central continents.

Her present predicament as Lord Viceroy of the region was establishing the water supply to her new city, meaning installing an Elemental Water processing plant on or near the deepest part of the "Jewel Lake".

Her obstacle was imperialism.

The original inhabitants of the Jewel Lake were, without a doubt, the Ix, one of her Rat tribes who took up fishing and aquaculture as a means of living. When the lake shrank to nothing, they were forced to move north, where the Horse Lords enslaved them as the Tasmüyiz.

Since that exodus, almost three decades had passed, and during those dry seasons, other Demi-humans native to the region had thrived in place of the agricultural Rat-kin.

Foremost were creatures capable of evading the Horse Lord's wrath—collectively known as the Kobold Clans of Barsakelmes.

Before today, Gwen had only known of the Clans on paper, for they were seldom seen on the surface. That is until the Dwarves began their spiderweb expansion of the Dyar Morkk underneath Shalkar Al-jadeedah. Before that, there had been no significant conflicts between their interests and the Kobolds.

Now, there was.

A day ago, Garp finally bore through the granite bedrock of the region to come close to the water-rich aquifer core of Barsakelmes. It then turned in disgust, returning to the rich Elemental earth of the open steppes. What was left was for the Dwarven excavation team to set up a Forward Operating Base, preparing the area for the arrival of the Fabricator Engine.

Instead of progress reports, Gwen received news that Kobolds, as a tide, had spilt into the tunnels, overwhelming the Dwarven survey teams. Consequently, four Golems were lost, including their pilots and one Engineseer, now prisoners of the tribesmen.

As expected, a Message device pinged her from the Ambassador's office, and here she was, putting out fires.

Below, the entrance to the "township" of the Kobold Clans was a modest fort, no more than twenty meters in height, cylindrical, with small windows that gave it the impression of a dangerous, clay-coloured pineapple.

Beside her, Golos hovered in his human form, mumbling about the ease by which he could barrel through the fort and make a meteor crater capable of accessing their inner sanctum.

Behind them, Lulan sat on one of her infamous iron slabs, advising about the ease by which she could send down a hail of iron to penetrate the Kobold's inner sanctum.

"You know," Richard, her advisor who decided he needed some air from the paperwork, was critical of their path forward. "… you could probably drop a Maelstrom and crack that thing open so far that we'll be in their inner sanctum before you know it."

"Please do it," the elder of the Ix, a Rat-kin named Jubibi, was having the time of his life with her Mass Flight. The same could be applied to the troop of shivering, flying rats behind him, all hopeful of returning to their occupied burrows.

"Christ, we have a hostage situation," Gwen growled at her followers. "What's wrong with talking to them? They look… cute enough."

Much to her surprise, the Kobolds were not the mangled goblin folk so common to the underground. Instead, these were furred and mammalian, with long, serpentine bodies clad in leather, sporting vicious little faces that resembled the Marbled-Cat ferrets. They reminded her of her cats on old Earth. And she was naturally opposed to the outright oppression of the locals.

According to Ix, their neighbours were hardly innocent. They were merely one of the many mortal foes of the Rat-kin of the Steppes. In times of plenty, granary raids seldom resulted in deaths. In desperate times, they ate the farmers.

With such a history in mind, Gwen lowered herself until she was well within the range of the poisoned implements these Kobolds wielded, something between a crossbow and a stave with rudimentary magic. Stake Darts was what the Dwarves had called them—highly penetrative projectiles made for fighting underground monsters of the Murk rather than the overground creatures, nothing like the man-portable Spellswords used by the Dwarves, but numerous and deadly to the unarmored victim.

"CLAN GANNRK! I AM LORD VICEROY OF NEW SHALKAR! I WISH TO PARLEY WITH YOUR ELDERS!" her Clarion Call boomed over the fort. "I come in pea—"

SPRACK—! A dart pinged off her double-glazed shield.

At any rate, a lucky hit would not penetrate her crowskin unless it aimed for her face—and even so, she doubted the poison would be fatal.

"CEASE YOUR FIRE!" She commanded, her voice stern and without quarter. "WE WISH TO PARLEY!"

SPAK—! SPAK—

SPAK—PING

SPAK— SPAK—Pin-PING—

The bottom of her shield remained clear, for it was Lulan who had blocked the incoming stakes.

"Lulu! Hold!" Gwen stopped the imminent launch of a dozen tungsten projectiles from Elemental Earth, each self-sharpened by the velocity of their pressure-induced launch.

She drifted upward. Lulan followed.

That said, the ammo holds for the Stake Throwers were impressive, with the deterring volley lasting almost half a minute. Each attack chipped away a micron of her pity and sympathy until her brows furrowed un-prettily.

"Calamity! Your Human diplomacy won't work here," Golos' laughter was grating on her nerves. "If you believe they will simply return those stout-men pilots and their priest, you're surely mistaken."

"And you have a better plan?" Gwen indicated to the fort below. "Our foremost priority is to secure the Dwarves. After that…"

"Let me show you how to speak through strength," Golos cracked his neck. "Then, you will know if I can govern your franchise."

As the last words left the Dragon's mouth, his body shifted and transformed, growing elongated and large while radiating so much Dragon Fear that their Rat-kin guides spontaneously suffered a colon cleanse.

Richard strategically moved behind her while Lulan impassively took the brunt of the Wyvern-turned-Dragon's prideful metamorphosis.

The Thunder Dragon's body stretched out, its wings opening like the proverbial butterfly tearing through an Astral cocoon, turning the skies dark as the region's elements reacted to the oppressive presence upon its ley lines. When finally Golo shook out the static discharge from its neck, he was a vision of malevolent dignity.

Besides Gwen, her Planar Ally was almost twenty meters from snout to tail, still possessed of his Wyvern heritage's spiked club. His wings were deep blue, semi-transparent where the membranes stretched over the protrusive shoulder joints. Two forearms, large and muscular, extended from where his wings used to be, each possessed three clawed digits clad in azure. With each breath, the plating on his chest rose and fell, discharging static so that it looked like the Thunder Dragon possessed a living Core of lightning.

A Western Dragon.

An adult "Blue", albeit an immature one.

The Core given by Illaelitharian, unsurprisingly, was not an Asiatic Thunder Dragon.

“Watch—“ Golos descended.

As expected, there were no attacks, only watchful silence as the shit-stained Kobolds stood their ground, dumbstruck by the sight.

Like deer in the path of a slow-flying Fireball, they stared at the Thunder Dragon, unable to move, their expressions one of blank incomprehension.

When he was close enough, Golo craned his neck to magnify his arrogance tenfold.

"INSECTS OF THE EARTH!" The Dragon spoke in the universal tongue of the mortal creatures so that the meaning entered their brains and made itself known. "You filth have my property! Return them to me unharmed and thereby LIVE, or else, ALL SHALL PERISH."