Metaworld Chronicles

New Shalkar.

The Barsakelmes low-lands.

After the Blue Dragon's thunder, there was silence.

Not true silence, but the tinnitus calm that followed the wake of absolute chaos and destruction, a lull born from shock when nothing more could be broken.

Despite her Dragon's "wisdom", Gwen's brows twitched.

She did not like the direction their negotiations were barrelling toward but intrinsically understood that politics on the Steppes were a one-way track of escalating violence.

The Dwarves would have words about the "property" business— but that's assuming the hostages emerged alive to complain. If their Engineseer and pilots did not...

In the womb of her Astral Body, Caliban purred.

Outside, while Golos loomed large, the world awaited the Kobold Clan's answer with bated breath.

Her internal metronome swayed from left to right.

Gwen counted about ten more seconds before Golos began to draw breath, puffing out his chest so that the scales under his neck and between his collarbones grew sapphire bright with cascading energy.

"Golos, hold." She halted the Dragon Breath by touching the Dragon's wing tip. "Ten more seconds…"

The world resumed its waiting.

God knows she wanted to give the Kobolds a chance.

At the count of eighteen, a sleek-furred figure wearing robes, looking like a Shaman, spilt from the iron-wrought gate to prostrate at the looming shadow of the Blue Dragon.

"O LORD of the vast blue sky—!" Came a voice that was half-yelp, half meow. "Clan Gannrk greets your greatness with every—GARRROK—"

"SSEJINW—!"

The left side of Gwen's face grew suddenly brilliant from the fusion reaction plasma pouring from her Planar Ally. The Draconic admonition delivered by Golos was a bright, retina-searing beam of lurid lightning that drew a line from the bottom of the fort to the top, exploding a section of its masonry while erasing the speaker from the Prime Material.

Before Gwen could react, the electrified door fell inward, no longer being supported by its melted hinges. As the heavy, red-hot metal fell, more screams came from inside the Kobold fort, punctuated with curses and cries of dismay.

"BRING ME MY PROPERTY—!" Golos demanded once more. "NOW!"

Gwen wasn't sure if the Dragon's threats worked, only that the survivors scrambled inside.

When another ten seconds passed, and no Kobold made themselves seen, Golos was ready to reduce the fort to molten slag.

"Gogo!" Gwen intervened, this time applying her will to the command. The Dragon was here to dominate, but she needed her Dwarves alive, even if it meant blunting Golos' ego.

The Dragon growled, straining against her mental admonishment.

"Clan Gannrk!" Her voice tunnelled into the fort like Garp. "The displeasure of the Azure Godling can be held back only so long— release our Dwarven friends, else there won't be a hovel left!"

This time, the holdup was worthwhile.

The shapes exiting the smoking hole were stout and bearded, although bruised and stripped of their precious armour. Of the four Golems lost, one was a precious Fabricator-Excavator—between the pilots and its operators, the total tally was a sacred score. Seven Dwarves, Gwen had been told, and she counted each emerging head with growing relief until there wasn't.

Six.

SIX fucking Dwarves.

Thankfully, their Engineseer Greybeard was among that number, but the outcome did not bold well for the weight of the decisions that now bore down on her shoulders.

"Ariel." She conjured her Kirin.

"EE—EE!" Her Kirin somersaulted through the air, landing upon the slagged battlements beside the Dwarves' ragged cheers.

Demanding that Golos remained in place, she hovered closer until she landed beside her creature, who stood with its torso against the entrance in case a sneaking Kobold attempted to spike her from the shadows.

"Gentle brothers," she spoke in high Dwarven, bowing her head toward the Greybeard. "I see that you have not enjoyed Clan Gannark's hospitality. If I may enquire, where is your seventh?"

The Dwarves, as expected, appeared ashamed by the question. Their culture had nothing against being taken prisoner—but losing a junior and their ancestral armour was a deep grudge to bear.

"Our youngest… refused to un-don his Golem plates," the Greybeard's jaws were clenched. "He fought… killed one of the Kobold guards. They staked him until he bled out, his armour was torn apart, and he returned to the ancestors."

Gwen fought the desire to pinch her brows with each revelation.

"Where is his body?" She asked finally, throwing her internal levers into contingency mode. "That we may return his flesh of stone to the Ancestors."

"Within their citadel," one of the Golem pilots gruffly answered, then mumbled, "I have the layout memorised," under his breath.

The pilots, Gwen noted, were bruised and wounded, though the Iron Guards, selected for their grit and stamina, healed fast and had little patience for pain. The removal of their armours, she understood, would have left scars on their psyche as deep as the canals excavated by the Fabricator Engine. In their overtly rational minds, the survivors had allowed such a disgrace because they were not officially in conflict with the Kobolds. That and their Greybeard wasn't a Deepdowner and could therefore value life over honour.

"They're keeping his Ancestor's Golem Plates as a trophy," another said between bruised lips. "We knew we would be rescued… but Torkirk was too young, too hot-headed…"

Gwen exhaled a deeply disturbed breath of repressed air.

As expected, Magister Murphy's Law was in full force.

She had to be responsible here.

But responsible to whom?

Her allies here in Shalkar?

Her foes who would impede her city?

Or altruism?

"I will ensorcel all of you with flight," she said after considering her next steps. "Ariel here will guide your path toward our FOB."

The Dwarves expected a good answer from her, but the patience she wished to afford her foes was not a display Gwen wished the Dwarves to know.

The Greybeard waited for her to continue.

"You have my word, venerable Greybeard. I shall recover your looted armours, the tools, AND the Golem parts. Every recoverable component shall be returned to the Craftmen's Guild."

Her thoughts guided her audience toward the entrance to the underground warrens.

"An attack of this magnitude cannot be by accident or on a whim. It was premeditated and planned. If the Kobolds are merciful on themselves, I will extract the leader responsible, and your Ambassador may decide what to do with him."

The atmosphere softened.

"A wide judgement," the Greybeard concurred. "Clan Nodstromme shall repay this debt one day, Regent Song."

Gwen did not refute the Engineseer's claim of yet another Debt of Haj-Zül. Instead, she materialised healing potions for each of them.

"I shall return Torkirk's blessed Core to the Ancestor's Halls, regardless of the costs," she declared. "Please advise the Ambassador that I shall return shortly…"

She glanced at Golos, who drifted closer, making his purpose known.

The Greybeard wrung his beard. "We await your arrival at the base, Regent."

With the Engineseer's permission, Gwen drew the Sigils for the rune of Mass Flight, imprinting her sorcery on each of the stout Earthen men. As non-Mages, they would have little control over their "Flight", which was why Ariel, through its command of Elemental Air, would see that they smoothly made it home with minimal trauma from navigating the Himsegg.

"EE—EE!" Ariel lifted off, not unlike a single Rodolph with a string of six Santas.

She watched the men drift across the horizon.

The ordeal had taken a good ten minutes. Yet, there had been no response from the culprits.

Thud! With the sound of crumbling stones, Golos landed behind her, dislodging a cascade of loose shale and mortar.

Lulan alighted as silently as a bobcat. Besides her, Richard drifted into being with the help of Lea.

"Shall we?" The Dragon licked his enormous, tooth-lined upper jaw. "I could eat."

Gwen regarded the entrance once more.

Futile as her chances of a resolution, she felt obligated to make one last attempt. After that, they would resolve matters in the only language of the Steppes.

"Elders of Clan Gannrk," she threw her voice into the gaping earthen orifice through her mastery of Illusion. "I offer your people a chance for repentance. Here are the conditions given by me, the Regent of the Mageocracy. FIRSTLY, deliver the Kobold Chief responsible for the assault on our tunnels. SECONDLY, collect and return all looted Golems components, including our men's armour. THIRDLY, bring me the remains of the young Dwarf you murdered, and I shall temper my mercy."

Holding the eager Golos at bay, she afforded the Kobold Clan five more generous minutes of life.

No reply came, nor Kobolds.

"I think…" Lulan, sensing tremors with her Affinity for Elemental Earth, met her eyes with great expectations for the violence to come. "They've fled deeper into their warrens. These will be well fortified, I imagine, by their best warriors. I do not believe we should delay further, for we do not know how speedily their main population may evacuate nor how far."

"Gwen," Richard cleared his throat. "...Regent, I do believe our usurpers of Clan Ix's domains have made a conscious choice. Not a good choice, mind you, but we should respect their… free will."

Somewhere above, Gwen could imagine the still-hovering forms of Jubibi and his kin nodding furiously.

Her temples throbbed.

Conflict, when it came to hearth and home, was inevitable. It was drama as old as antiquity, a cascading history of human strife harkening from a primordial Terra when Dragons still vied for ley-line nodes to nourish their beings.

Civilisation had changed the terms of engagement, but the crux of the matter had remained immutable since the dawn of Humanity and all the species that preceded it. Maybe that was why the Elves were so revered. They had their home. They remained within its confines, nurtured it, and expanded its spaces when needed through the infinite possibilities of the World Tree.

Meanwhile, here they were, the mortal races, children on an island, bickering over the conch, setting fire to each other's camps, worshipping rotting pig heads.

When she finally allowed her shoulders to sag, a quarter of an hour had passed since the Dwarves departed.

Without warning, her aura changed, drinking in the light of midday.

"Caliban."

The space around Gwen violently rippled as her Familiar emerged, fresh from its long slumber within her mind womb, fattened by the dire bodies of foes who had feasted upon the world, only to serve as her Caliban's feed.

Lulan took a step backwards, as did her cousin.

Golos took off, his wings beating the air. Below, a monstrous form birthed itself, squeezing through a sieve to negate the fabric between the Planes.

A coalescing fog emerged, vaguely humanoid but hunched and hungering, so uncanny that even Gwen felt a distinct wariness for Caliban's new likeness.

The dark, Void-rich fog condensed, its acidic vapour taking shape with every passing second. As Caliban inexpertly collected itself, the viscous goo dripping from its solidifying form sizzled the sandstone pavement, making deep, weeping trenches of bubbling silica.

The result, though incomplete, was vaguely humanoid enough to be called feminine. However, Gwen knew its simulacrum nature was because Caliban fed off the psychic energies of her deep psyche.

"Shaa…" The fog shifted, its final shell metamorphosing as it moved.

Gwen guided her Familiar with her mind until its exterior finally settled into place.

Caliban stood a head shorter than herself in its docile form, with a silhouette that could have been mistaken for a malicious midnight Sufina. Its body was congealed ferrofluid, though each micro-movement seemed to displace motes of Void matter, intermingled with Negative Energy, from its being.

"Strewth," Richard remarked beside her. "I infinitely prefer Cali's Spider Form. At least that made sense."

"Shaa—!" The Familiar purred, its faceless mien warping to reveal a depthless, jagged orifice.

"Caliban," Gwen raised a tender, un-gauntleted hand. "Are you hungry?"

Tendrils, forming from the immaterial into thick ropes of slime, wrapped themselves against her digits. Another distended from the Void-mist to lick her face.

Gwen allowed the gesture, stroking the tentacles as they withdrew.

The vague, featureless face nodded.

The newly reborn Caliban understood her words and intentions. That fact alone had infinitely renewed the fascination of her London compatriots.

A month before, Magister Brown consulted the rarest Bestiaries in Cambridge to ascertain what might have caused Caliban's change.

The scholar had suggested that a formidable Death Knight was serving as the Necromancer's guardian, a monster sutured together from the parts of Magical Creatures into a chimaera Core. In war, at least one always served as the sword and shield of the offending Lich, the supreme leader of a Cabal, a nasty, malicious creature tied to the soul of its deathless Master.

This particular "Death Knight" had been a resident of the Negative Energy Plane.

Ergo, her fellow Magisters pointed their wands at the possibility of a Nightwalker.

Also known as Death Stalkers.

Apex hunters that haunt the Negative Energy Plane.

The Major General of an Undead Legion.

The conjecture made sense—Nightwalkers were siege breakers, ancient allies of the eternal night that existed only to consume the light of the living. They possessed powerful auras of undeath that bolstered the Undead minions of the Lich and his Necromancers. When fully fed, the calamity-tier giants could grow taller than three storeys. They leapt into the armies of the living without trepidation, shedding necrotic shadows and driving allies into frenzies of undeath until nothing alive was left to feast upon.

Against a World Tree—there would be no better final hand to play than a Nightwalker, a parasitic being that grew stronger with each assault until the Elves committed enough resources to finally extinguish its Core—a cost so great as to wound the tree for centuries.

But Caliban was no Nightwalker, at least not yet.

For one, her Cali was having enormous trouble condensing its' loose strands of Void energies, making it more akin to a toddler with tremendous strengths it could not control.

Her monster needed nourishment and practice to grow—and here lay both.

"Caliban," she informed her scarcely corporeal Familiar, running a gauntleted hand down the back of her creature, her fingers dancing over the bumpy ridges of a spine. Acutely, she shared Caliban's hunger as it drooled through the flooring.

"Prune the fort," Gwen gave the command with a hardened heart. "Feast."

Her Familiar opened its non-existent mouth.

"SHAAAAAAA—"

It was like a horrid hymn of undeath filled every inch of the fort's cathedral tunnels.

Richard and Lulan's mana shields sprang into place while Golos growled, shielding itself with a leathery wing.

As an obscene arrow loosened from a taut bowstring, Caliban shot into the tunnel's darkness, skittering on all fours, clawing at the wall's sides to accelerate its downward spiral. As it descended, the wail continued as an unceasing shriek emerging from breathless organs. It was a wail of extinction, a paralytic, panic-inducing song of undeath distinctly possessed by upper-tier Undead.

The party from New Shalkar listened to the siren song of Caliban's newfound ability as the sound grew thankfully distant.

"That—" Richard unstoppered two bolts of water from his ears. "—is God damned terrifying."

SHAAAAAAAA—

Lulan nodded in complete agreement, her shoulder-cropped hair bobbing to and fro. "I wouldn't want to fight Caliban…"

SHAAAAA—

"I prefer the Screamer…" Golos delivered his sincere opinion with great solemnity. "better than the snake."

SHAA—

Finally, the howling grew faint.

The party regarded one another.

"Is he…" Richard pointed at the hole. "Or she… gone?"

"No. Alive and securing a beachhead." Gwens spoke while looking into the middle distance; both eyes glazed with Link Sight from her Familiar. "Did you know it can shed little Calibans now?"

"It sheds… Calibans?" Richard raised both brows. "Like birthing them as she… it goes?"

"It's a peculiarity of the Nightwalker form," Gwen explained. "They're just Hydras, although I am currently the battery empowering Caliban's ability. On the plus side, the fingerling Calibans are highly necrotic, and the Aura of Desolation I am empowering through Cali empowered them to frenzy."

"Do we go in?" Lulan drifted closer to the entrance, from which the unending Shaa— could still be heard. "Caliban doesn't need support?"

"It's a field test." Gwen could feel the warmth infusing her icy fingers as the feedback from Caliban began. The Kobolds could fight many things—but a Nightwalker, even the mimicry of one, was beyond their ken. Steadying herself, she walked to the edge of the fort's battlement, then sat in the lotus pose. "Dick, call me if something happens. While Caliban continues the labour, I shall be… overseeing its education."

Richard wove the Water Barriers into place.

Lulan extracted her swords, then drifted into formation.

The screams of Caliban's victims echoed in her mind while silhouettes of fleeing victims filled her vision.

"Oi, what about me?" Golos' thundering voice washed over them, sounding both hurt and cheated. "This was my idea! The prize… the prize was mine—!"

Shalkar Al-jadeedah.

The Dwarven contingent had already gathered in the courtyard before the Regent of the new city even arrived.

When she appeared over the newly erected walls, all but the Greybeards made the close-fisted Sign of the Ancestor's Cog to welcome their regional administrator.

Gwen landed on shale pavement with a click of her crow skin heels, rasping the metal like a nail on sheet metal. With a wave of her hand here and there, she materialised the Golem components piecemeal, allowing them to land in resonating thunks and clanks.

Once done, she deposited the Deep Plates of the Golem pilots: re-looted from the shared treasury of the Kobold Clans.

Finally, in front of the white-bearded Ambassador, she cradled the immobile body of Torkirk Thrumkrik, a little mangled and bruised all over but still in a single piece.

"Stone Lord Yossock Axenhoff, I return your kin to the Ancestors," Gwen bowed her head deeply. "We are truly sorry for the loss."

"We thank you for returning our friends and cousins." The Ambassador received the rag-doll carcass with both arms, then rested it reverently on a levitating ceremonial slab. A metallic keening followed, shrouding the body in a thin metal layer. "Torkirk, his dishonour is avenged?"

"I have pacified the region," Gwen spoke without displaying any overt emotions. "Clan Ix will bring its warriors to occupy the fort in the next few weeks. The area is now safe to continue with the construction. Lord Golos has also volunteered to remain in the area for a few days to feed... to oversee the clean-up operation."

"Then we are well satisfied," the Stone Lord sent the floating tomb slab adrift before turning his attention back toward her. "For Torkirk's Clan and kin, all of Bavaria's craftsmen brotherhood thanks you."

"It was my duty," Gwen did not shy away from the crushing handshakes the Dwarves used as a form of trust and confidence. "My only fear is that the incident will not remain… isolated."

"Those who seek fortune in the Murk know its dangers," Axenhoff gave her a grin of acknowledgement. "The Clans are not strangers to such necessities, Regent."

"That's not very OSHA…" Gwen remarked, falling back to some light-hearted private comedy to blur the heavy toll of what had transgressed. "I think, Ambassador… that it's time we sat down and discussed risk management. I know there will be dangers—but let's walk in the dark with our eyes wide open. If you open the Murk to us, the Rat-kin are more than capable of fielding Purge teams, especially if supported by Golem units."

The Ambassador stroked his beard, but then his gaze wandered.

Their discussion was interrupted by the return of Lulan, whose facial control was not made for poker playing.

"Lulu?" Gwen nodded at the Ambassador before separating herself. "I can see something's up. What's the news?"

The Sword Mage shyly drew closer before leaning against her ear.

"Master-aunty… er… requests your presence at her wedding." The student of Ryxi whispered. "An official message just arrived, with an official invitation from the CCP to follow within the week. You've been asked to represent the Mageocracy, Regent, at the Wedding of Jun Song and Mistress Ayxin in Shanghai."

Tianjin.

China.

"They want ME to be their best man?" The voice of Percy Song, astounded by the Message from the device attached to his wrist, quivered as a plucked zither string.

While his grandfather's voice continued to drone, Percy looked to the blue yonder beyond the windows, his chest expanding with such rapturous joy that he could barely control the desire to lift the Kirin pendant from his chest and toast the heavens.

Not far, Mei laughed at his theatrics, chortling so violently she almost spat out the breakfast congee she was nursing.

Percy smiled back, though internally, he scoffed at her ignorance. How could his fiancee even begin to understand his ecstasy?

He—Percy Song—was to be in Uncle Song and Aunt Axyin's bridal party, not his sister!

What a fortunate opportunity! What a heaven-blessed fruit to be plucked! If this was not the divine will of some higher, unseen power from the Kirin tribe, Percy knew not what else to say. His father's wedding had catapulted his sister into the orbit of influence and infamy—and his uncle's wedding will perform no less for Percy Song!

"You are agreeable?" The gruff voice of his grandfather sounded happier than his usual judgemental self. Percy empathised with Guo's barely disguised joy, for his good son was finally getting married, and there was a new grandchild to add to the family roster. A literal Dragon-child, an heir to the Yinglong and, thus, the nation's longevity.

All that, and most importantly, a threat to the centrality of Percy's career and his future trajectory!

"I'LL DO IT! I agree! Thank you, Yeye!" Percy affirmed his involvement with all the sincerity he could muster.

It wasn't all good news.

"… There will also be another in attendance— a woman called Elvia Lindholm, a Vessel of the Yinglong. I did not wish you to be paired with her. As you know, there is no doubt your sister will attend, this time as a guest of the Party. To pair you with Miss Lindholm would be a calamity...."

Percy looked at Mei.

The girl looked back expectantly.

Percy smiled. Of course, his fiancee would contribute to his future.

"Yeye, I would be overjoyed if Mei could partner with me as a maid. I would choose no one else as a partner to care for Aunty Ayxin."

His fiancee blossomed like a flower at his declaration.

As for Elvia Lindholm, a vision of loveliness was all Percy recalled. The girl, Elvia, had been his sister's friend—though she had never visited their home. He had seen her occasionally in those rare instances of his sister's attendance. The girl-child possessed a beauty that made the heart sore—though Percy hated the sanctimonious altruism Elvia seemed to exude.

At the same time, he recalled the tale of her unlikely ascension, that his obsessed sister had foolishly introduced the western Cleric to the Yinglong to share her favour, and that the Dragon had taken a liking to the blonde. The Party had considered the act a cardinal sin, an affront against its interests, and were it not for his grandfather and the efforts of Secretary-General Miao, his sister would have never left the country intact.

Either way, a Vessel of the Yinglong rightfully deserved a place at the banquet—for it wasn't as though Ayxin had girlfriends to serve as her bridesmaids.

From behind, Mei embraced him. Her body was warm and soft, and the mounds of her sumptuous flesh pressing against his back made his smile even wider.

There was a great danger in Lindholm's unexpected invitation—though Percy understood very well that an opportunity to be alone with a fatigued Ayxin could not and would not rise again.

"When will the wedding take place?"

"During November," his grandfather replied. "There will be a week-long national celebration during the Mid-Autumn Festival. The wedding will take place on the night of the full moon…"

A schedule that made perfect sense to Percy.

The Mid-Autumn Festival was known for its mooncakes, poetry competitions, coinciding with the national harvests. There wasn't another time as auspicious and filled with good cheer as the season mulberry trees turned to flame.

"The main wedding will take place in Hangzhou, and we will hold a flowing water banquet for all the Party faithful." His grandfather continued. "We shall be expecting you and Mei?"

"I'll be there! I'll do everything I can to make it perfect!" Percy's feelings were wholly genuine. He still had several weeks to prepare matters here in Nanjing. All the Kirin Amulet needed was a moment to approach his aunty—all the better if, as the rumours said, she was constantly tired and sleeping from the exertion of childbearing. Of that certainty, Percy knew a little more than his family members, for he alone understood that Ayxin was weaving the Essence from the Yinglong into that bundle of improbability in her womb.

And if Uncle Jun were to be away with a rare guest… such as his sister…

And if his sister could be preoccupied with her blonde…

And if he could be trusted to look after Aunty Ayxin for only a few interrupted moments…

"Hahaha..." His grandfather allowed an uncharacteristic display of emotions. "Good lad!"

"Hahahaha…" Percy couldn't help but laugh as well.

The Kirin pendant on his chest pulsed warmly.

His patron was laughing too.

"Oh—Percy..." Mei giggled beside him, tittering innocently at the prospect of being presented as his fiancee to the public.

Percy knew he must now hasten his plans in Tianjin—for when the moon grows round, both bane and boon will calamitously collide!

The Yellow Sea.

Lei-bup, the High Priest of She who Devours, ran a clawed finger up and down the numerous lesions scarring his torso.

He lounged on a throne of coral-wreathed bones—though he was not its possessor. As he had professed, the divan was not his seat of power, for the crown surely belonged to the Pale Priestess of the Great Devourer herself.

Presently, his Shoal was housed in the interior of a fledgling Leviathan, one they had rescued from the unhappy fate of being devoured by the aberrant Shoals of rot and decay. The battle was costly—though Lei-bup was glad to acquire a comrade in arms who was both shelter and siege engine.

A mermaid gently directed his hand from his flaking scales, then continued to apply the salve made by his court apothecary. The constant agony of the self-devouring flesh beneath his silken robes was a reminder of the Priestess' blessing, urging Lei-bup to continue to gather up comrades and to lead the Great Shoal Forward with humility.

"Comrade High Priest..." A Turtle-kin, one of his many advisors, presented the reports from their outer Shoal. "The Deathless Shaols are on the move. They have left the sheltered coves of the domain of undeath and are marauding toward the Human city."

Lei-bup furrowed his fishy brows. Fishes don't blink, though his eyes flashed with a dark intelligence.

"A rising tide?"

"They grow through forage, yes," the Turtle-kin stroked his chin beard, a prized symbol of his wisdom. Rapping three armoured fingers against his shell, his advisor made the final calculations. "There are six Shoals in all, converging into a Great Shoal. Our adversaries are marching for war—though we are not its objective."

"An assault on what then?" Lei-bup growled. Since that strange ripple that had shaken the seven seas some month ago, strange occurrences plagued the deep like scale rot.

Monstrosities of the Elemental Plane of Water, such as Oonerie, their rescue Leviathan, inexplicitly roamed the Prime Material, not knowing why or how they had left the abode of infinite water.

At the same time, since their first appearance a dozen moon cycles ago, the Undead Shoals had grown into an obscene, tentacled Kraken, pushing back the Seven Kingdoms' domains and erasing entire underwater citadels from existence.

The events had driven Lei-bup's Shoal into roaming the shallower depth of the Yellow Sea, always avoiding the northern depth, where the Undead grew ever more numerous. More urgently, the Shoal was short on supplies from the shore, namely their dwindling pallets of SPAM, used to induct new members into the priesthood of the Pale Priestess.

The pragmatic part of Lei-bup dreaded the prospect of becoming the leader of the only living Shoal soon to grace the Yellow Sea's once-rich domain.

Yet, a part of Lei-bup informed him that perhaps, this was the precise purpose of his being—why he, of all the fishes in the sea, had been chosen by the Pale Priestess.

"So... not an assault on the mainland. Not yet... currently, I see it as an amassment," the Turtle-kin answered Lei-bup. "Shall we move the Shoal?"

Lei-bup considered his purpose.

"No. Comrade Secretary." Lei-bup shifted his burdened body. He felt much older than his actual age, even with the aid of his Faith and the precious elixirs from the various guests of his Shoal. To kiss the appendage of a God of the Void... was to be changed forever. "We wait and see what these desecrators are up to. If they indeed instigate chaos... then we shall use this opening to raid the shipping lanes of Tianjin—"

His hands made two balled fists.

"—And liberate their cache of holy SPAM!"

London.

The Imperial College.

Slylth Alexander Morden, his patience at wit's end, snatched the paper from his host's hand. For the past few weeks, he had been teaching, preaching, and living life to the utmost boredom a Red Dragon could imagine. Anymore, and he was seriously weighing the possibility of burning down a portion of the city.

Very quickly, his eyes scanned the invitation.

"Mid-November?" He looked up, his scarlet orbs flashing. "I must wait until November before I can enter the Shalkar Protectorate?"

"Our colleagues at Oxbridge were very particular about Magister Song's schedule." Magister Clyde's fatigued countenance informed Slylth that there was no more recourse and that this was the best the London Imperial College could manage. "Nonetheless, we have secured the permission. Will you attend, Master Morden?"

Against his nature and instinct, Slylth controlled the better half of his existence.

"Push it forward," he demanded of the weary Magister in front of him. "Offer them something! Tell them— I'll personally teach the girl the craft she needs! Just... no more! No more of this damned lull in London!"