The next day, Gwen made preparations for her quest to find Elvia.

Her morning began with Lady Loftus at high tea, demonstrating the full extent of her appetite, and a woeful understanding of etiquette. The Marchioness, however, assured Gwen that her undisguised manners had a purity to them which she had not seen for years. After so much pretension, the Marchioness mused, she had lost the ability to tell whether anyone genuinely enjoyed eating.

Through three tiers of cakes and ices, the Head Mistress and Matron of Peterhouse prescribed Gwen's developments for the months ahead.

First and foremost, upon her return to Cambridge, she would commence her studies under Peterhouse's Senior Tutors, one for each of her Schools of Magic. Unlike Spell-orientated lectures at other universities, institutions with the clout of Oxbridge emphasised individual ability. An Acolyte, therefore, attended lectures given by instructors based on their goals and interests. Concurrently, the college organised seminaries for students with similar expertise to share and engage in research. Then, once an Acolyte settled on a particular course of knowledge, they underwent individual research.

And this was where Cambridge shone. For Gwen, "Supervision" provided the opportunity to explore her Schools of Magic in a theoretical sense, allowing her to examine each strength and weakness freely. In her case, personal tuition allowed the delivery of specialist knowledge at the instance in which she required it. For the semester of Lent, the Lady of Ely prescribed ten hours of supervision and twelve hours of seminars, in addition to any lectures she wished to attend. During the Easter Term, her training would favour practicals over theory. Then, finally, she would sit for a Magus-tier examination, and pending results, Michaelmas term would commence.

On a side note, Lady Loftus had responded with good grace to her capitalist ventures, particularly her explanation of the "Centurion" and "Legion" projects. What she desired in London, Gwen explained, was a base of operations where she could lay down roots, eventually importing a completed system from either Sydney or Yangon. Though sceptical, Lady Loftus professed that she would not oppose Gwen's nouveau rich crassness. High society was full of snobs, the Lady explained, but few could resist the crystal's call.

To show her support, and out of "grotesque" curiosity, the Lady Loftus offered Gwen a leasehold near the heart of London for her "Office". If Gwen could demonstrate a result that paralleled the "pie in the sky" she professed, then the Lady would consider backing her "Centurion" project.

The last of their conversation pertained to less pleasant prospects. As a part of tuition, Gwen had to participate in experiments and research which will contribute to Cambridge's understanding of Void Magic. The study would be carried out by the university's Magisters, drawing on the works of Magister Wen, slated to arrive with Petra post-Lent.

Concurrently, should Gwen allow the relevant researchers access to her Essence, the university would repay her by obtaining demi-human instructors. When Gwen mentioned that Ayxin had warned against investigating "Draconic-Essence," the Lady asked if her mysterious rainbow "patron" had forbidden the genuine employment of its blessing.

"No," Gwen had confessed— but wasn't sure if her answer could pass the pub test. Almudj, after all, did not care in the slightest. But to allow others to study Almudj? Was this a form of betrayal? What would the serpent think, if it did indeed have an opinion?

When she compared notes with Richard, Dick's schedule at King's was less about filling deficits in Spellcraft theory and more about revising missed coursework. Already, two upper-tier Magisters had expressed interest in helping him synergise new spells with Lea and in pushing his Conjuration to new heights.

Walken as well had left a note saying he had arrived— but was now missing in action. If anything, she hoped her mentor survived his wife's wrath. A woman's scorn was a terrible thing, indeed.

Finally, there was her fourth and most immediate concern, one that made Lady Loftus raise a critical brow— Evee. When Gwen again relayed her worries regarding Ystradfellte to her Head Mistress, the wisened Lady appeared exasperated. When Gwen insisted, the Lady relented, not wanting to end the year on bad terms.

"If you must know... Ystradfellte refers to the Demi-human lands south of the Red Mount— 'Rjoth zana indu', the Dwarves call it, 'The Peak of Red Stone'. Every winter solstice, the Crimson Peak fights its twin, the Crimson Peak, for dominance of the valley."

"I am so sorry," Gwen had to apologise for her confusion. "Could you clarify? I don't know anything about the area, other than that I should be there for my friend. The mountain is fighting itself?"

"It's alright." Lady Loftus was as kind as she was compassionate.

Her new mentor then explained that the region was richly blessed by the Elemental Plane of Earth, abundant in rare deposits. Every solar year, when the stars aligned, crystals as well as magical flora and fauna sprouted from the valley, inciting prospectors to try their luck.

As for the Crimson Peak "s", the name was a trick of history. On the west end of The Peak of Red Stone laid the Dwarven Fortress City of "Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth", or the Iron Citadel. When the early Saxons first encountered, then befriended the Dwarves, the Demi-humans claimed the land around a summit they called "Crimson Peak".

Opposite the Iron Citadel was a challenger to the claim, a depthless warren of Redcaps, Gobs, and Goblins ruled by Trolls. When inevitably, conflict broke out, the Trolls claimed that the Dwarves and their Human compatriots encroached on their homeland— also called "Crimson Peak".

Confused, the old cartographers, lacking the means to fly over the region, assumed that both the Dwarves and the Trolls lived on the same peak.

Instead, the two "Races" lived on opposing summits, separated by a good fifty kilometres. During the Beast Tide of '71, the Dwarves sealed their city, leaving their human "allies" to fend off the discharge of some hundred-thousand salivating, frenzied green-skins charging down the mount.

As a result, tensions with the Dwarves remain high to this day, especially as the Grey Faction had set up an industrial township at Merthyr Tydfil. As far as both sides where concerned, the town encroached on both Troll and Dwarven land, but remained discrete enough to be ignored by the warring demi-human factions.

"Why haven't we wiped out the er… Demi-humans?" Gwen asked. If this were China, the PLA would have planted a flag over their corpses.

"Vargan Giantbreaker is the third cousin to the wife of Deep King Madgrat Dragonhammer of Bavaria." Lady Loftus shrugged. "If they— why are you laughing?"

Gwen collapsed. The names were too funny. Was this a high fantasy novel? Thankfully, as it turns out, the names weren't literal. It just that Dwarven runes were bloody hard to translate and highly dependent on history and context which Humans lacked. To draw a comparison, biblical allusions like "Mathew" "Jean" "Adam" sounded like animal noises to a Dwarf.

"And what's this talk of regicide? I can see that the orient is NOT a good influence, Gwen. What the communists did to their poor Emperor…"

"My grandfather said it was the Japanese who—"

"I did say Orientals, dear." Lady Loftus patted Gwen's hand. "Don't you worry. There are no communists in London. Maggie uprooted the last of the socialists in her final term of government."

And that was when Gwen recalled that out of credits, currencies, Dragons and telecommunication, it was only toward Gwen's desire to employ NoMs as counter-balance against Mages that Lady Loftus had found wanting. Simply put, the very idea that an assembly of NoMs could hold a team of Mages responsible for flouting the law was, in her words, "morbid."

For Gwen, the integration of a tertiary NoM workforce with complete loyalty to the company that uplifted them from poverty was essential. To trust Mages, especially London's Mages, to not skim from the company's coffers, or to sell the company's secrets, was nigh-impossible. As Gunther had said, writing a Geas into an employment contract with an NoM manager was unethical, but not uncommon. So long as both parties consented, the Tower wasn't going to interfere, and even if they did, they wouldn't raise a ruckus over an NoM. To force Geas upon employees who were Mages, comparatively, was sure to turn heads.

When in turn, Gwen had asked what if they paid the NoMs well enough to engender loyalty, Gunther told her not to be so naive, and that only a Geas would thwart the bulk of magical-espionage.

Thus, with the blessing of her House Matron, a head full of warnings, and an unyielding spirit of adventure, Gwen hovered over Cambridge, taking in the vista. In her old world, a brochure once said that it was only from the sky that a traveller truly appreciated the scale of the university, and Gwen wholeheartedly agreed.

Cambridge was, simply put, expansive. From the enormously generous central courtyard of King's College, the university spiralled outwards, with St Catherines, Corpus Cristi, Queens and the massive estate of Pembroke to the south. To the east sat Sidney Sussex, Christ's and Emmanuel's, famous for its pond and its highly articulate ducks. To the north, Trinity and Magdalene marked the map. To the east of the River Cam, open fields dotted the landscape, enveloping the much younger Newnham, Wolfson, and Robinson campuses, the newest addition to Cambridge.

What Gwen also struggled to believe was that almost all leaseholds, discounting King's and Trinity, belonged to their benefactor, the Marchioness of Ely. From Cambridgeshire to Ely to Peterborough, Gwen could fly wherever she wished. No Provost or Mayor, Gwen imagined, fancied having their landlord breathing down their neck.

And that was the reason why the nobility, in her opinion, was stagnant. In Gwen's eyes, their wealth was built on land leases. Every generation, a lord added to their holdings. Twenty generations on, they owned the works. As gentry, they prided themselves not on productivity but passive income. Gwen snorted. How could that compare to human industry?

But now was not the time pull teeth from the gentry's mouths.

First, came Elvia.

For her quest, Gwen had initially been given a piece of unwelcome baggage. Since Richard was tied up with King's and wasn't a local in any case, she had been assigned a grudging Ollie as a guide to Ystradfellte.

By mid-morning, Ollie was shocked to discover that Gwen intended to fly the whole way, for he lacked an Unlimited Flight Licence.

Unfortunately for the Praelector, Gwen was in no mind to delay her meeting, and so left the poor man pinning her Message Device while she— privileged by House Shultz, Loftus and Ravenport, blasted off into the blue yonder.

"See you in Merthyr Tydfil! Just take the bus!"

"COME BACK!" Ollie's voice echoed through the courtyard. "THERE ARE NO BUSSES TO SOUTHERN WALES!"

Mathias Christopher Rothwell belonged to the Honourable and Ancient Order of St Michael, the Knight Protectors of Britannia.

All members of St Michaels hailed from one blue-blooded family or another. These rare youths, lauded for their ability but lacking in inheritance, were given a second chance in the Order, prestigious enough to be of use, but far divorced from ascension to be ambitious.

They were taught from induction that chivalry, honour and faith made them different and unique. And they believed it. Thanks to mass-entertainment, the visage of a Knight in shining Mage Armour coming to the rescue of a dame were etched into the psyche of the public. Over the decades, new Knight Aspirants began to believe in their hype, coming to internalise the mythos, personify their servitude with holistic devotion.

During martial demonstrations, it was these orders, from the magnificent Most Noble Order of the Garter, the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, of the Bath, of St Michael, of St George, and the more recent Order of the Commonwealth, that captured the popular imagination.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

A Mage-Knight was, therefore, an extraordinary existence.

Though an upper-tier War Mage was arguably far more critical than a Knight, there were significant distinctions, made more so specialised by the function of each Ordo.

The Knights of the Garter, the most prestigious of the six Ordo Britannia, were directly tied to the Crown, counting only twenty-four individuals among their number. Their principal role was to act swiftly and decisively against all threats to the royal family. In times of crisis, each member was a Knight-Commander capable of leading the Empire's forces.

Comparatively, Mathias' Ordo Sancti Michael was an active troop consisting of an indefinite number of individuals serving as protectors and guardians. In particular, the Order's members serviced London's Great Hospitals and Colleges, providing a much-needed militant arm to the scholastic endeavours of London's elites.

Mathias had initially wanted to join the Order of St George, famous for their Dragon-slaying. His talents, unfortunately, had Awoken with a principle emphasis on Abjuration. When by the age of fourteen, he showed ability in Transmutation, his future as a Knight Protector became immutable.

Mathias was disappointed but not deterred. He knew from an early age that Knighthood was his only path to glory. As the fourth son of a branch-House, he was so far from the Rothwell line of inheritance that should he become the legal successor; there may not be a House Rothwell left for him to rule.

But Mathias remained driven.

"Don't believe in the Chain of Being." His landless mother had cradled her golden boy against her bosoms. "Believe in yourself."

And so, with the Rothwell blood and all its potential brimming in his veins, Mathias excelled. He sparred daily against his seniors; he trained until he coughed blood. He volunteered for thankless, dangerous missions without batting an eye. When finally the time came for his induction, he was given the rank of Knight at the tender age of nineteen, one of the youngest in the Order's history.

Then on the Michaelmas of his twenty-second summer, his most beloved cousin, the heir to House Rothwell, brought Mathias to her home. There, she introduced him to Elvia Lindholm, a Frontier refugee.

At first, Mathias had mistaken the flaxen-haired angel for a high-noble. Having escorted dozens of healers, he exactly knew what talent the girl possessed from the intensity of her Positive Energy. When the girl with the big blue eyes curtsied, Mathias could hardly believe that here, he was in the presence of a Spirit Healer. That was why once Emily explained what she wanted of him, Mathias had knelt to pledge his undying support without batting an eye.

To be Emily's Knight had been Mathias' dream, though that dream was a will-o'-the-wisp. But a foreign noble? An orphaned Baroness? That, Mathias was confident— he could bring under his wing.

In truth, Lindholm made an excellent Cleric. She wasn't the best chant in the Tome, but she was dedicated to her craft. The girl cared for patients, no matter how lowly, and she did not shy away from the blood and guts of the battlefield. She was selflessly loving and effortlessly garnered Faith from her patients. Her Spirit, Kiki, was also a prized Alraune, and a juvenile Spirit at that. With her Healer's aura, baby-face and curly blonde hair, Mathias could understand why Emily felt smitten by the Australian import.

Still, a commoner was a commoner.

But commoners had their uses.

For instance, if Elvia died under his watch, there were no penalties beyond a strike against his rank. Emily would be upset, but even she couldn't influence the Order of St Michael to act against him. Of course, Mathias would do his utmost to protect Elvia. He had, after all, sworn an Oath, and in agreement with his credo, his pledge was soul-binding. Until he was near-death, Elvia would remain safe.

But what Mathias could do was to take full advantage of the girl's expendability.

When serving with the masses, a healer was a member of an adventuring company. The dangers they faced were real, and death and injury happened as a matter of fact. Should Mathias be in the service of a genuine Viscountess from Royal Alfred's, he would not dream of putting his ward in danger. Everyone knew that a competent team of Knight Protector and Spirit Healer fought in the heat of battle. But the reality was that "noble" healers spent their time at the triage tent and damned those who couldn't survive the transit delay.

The hypocrisy of such an act was something Mathias always hated.
And in conversing with Elvia, the malleable little girl also expressed her desire to save as many lives as possible.

For this, Mathias was thankful.
Saving lives and fighting monsters. What was not to like?

"Cure Moderate Wounds!" Not far from Mathias, Elvia's flaxen hair, even bundled up tightly in a bun, was speckled with blood. "Kiki! Help me with the arrow!"

Not far from Mathias, Elvia commanded Kiki to worm her way into the gut of a Transmuter who had taken a barbed and poisoned arrow to the intestines, sucking up the shit and blood. Had Mathias and Elvia not been present, the chances of the poor sod arriving then surviving triage, even with a Healing Potion, were slim.

_Ping!_

Mathias' reflexive mana shield deflected a sniper's arrow aimed at Elvia's neck.

"Eagle's Vision!" The Knight frowned, searching for the source of the sneak attack.

All around the duo, chaos reigned. Across a snow-blanked valley, snail trails of human and Demi-human activity had speckled the linen landscape crimson with ultra-violence. Here and there, parties of questing Mages flung spells against the bands of Redcaps dashing across the snow. Nearer to the valley's entrance, Gobs erupted from the tunnels and dragged prospectors down into the dark.

Unlike the pitched battles taking place across the saddle of the Crimson Peaks, the skirmish in Ystradfellte was a mess of NoMs, Mage prospectors, and adventurers.

On the side of the humans, thousands of hard-hatted crystal miners drawn to the region's yearly bloom of "Red Ore" fled from the mineral fields. Mathias did not fault the men nor their greed, for he too was engaged in a desperate bid for a better future. For a prospector, surviving meant that, potentially, they walked away with hundreds of HDMs, enough to buy land and retire to the country.

For the Mages, the swarming miners drew the Redcaps, Gobs, and the occasional Mountain or Frost Troll from the peak. Instead of venturing into no man's land, it was safer to defend the fleeing miners, get paid for protection, then harvest the Demi-humans for ingredients. The trouble then, was that as more Mages and miners showed up in Ystradfellte, more monsters poured from the mount.

As the Winter Solstice approached, the numbers snowballed. An avalanche of entrepreneurs rolled into Merthyr Tydfil, inundating the taverns, erecting whorehouses, opening butcheries and magical workshops. The locals, seedy, uncouth, and charging high-prices and dicing on who would return and who would not— demanded government regulation. The Tower obliged. Without it, the town would transform into a hive of low-born villainy.

Mathias' quest, therefore, was truly a thankless task, one that only individuals as poverty-stricken as Elvia could stomach.

In the distance, some two hundred meters away, Mathias saw their attacker. It was a Redcap Hob. A rare evolved Goblin of sorts, as tall as a man but three times as strong and ten times as hale. In his hand, the beast held a blacken yew-bow. On its back, a half-quiver of barbed arrows remained.

Mathias drew his wand.

The official moniker of a Knight's patented wand was "Spellblade", a part of a Knight's official arsenal of magical items. As warriors trained in close-quarter-combat, their wand was a device forged from Dwarven Runesteel and made to magnify Affinity. Rare and exclusive, Spellblades were forged for their owners by Dwarven craftsmen on a commission basis, then awarded to the individual Knight during their induction ceremony. Each had a name, and Mathias' was "Dawnstar", after his hero, the "Morning Star" Gunther Shultz, the saviour of Sydney and now its Master.

"O Christ, our Saviour, I am thy mace, thy implement of Chastisement." While Mathias gathered his will, motes of Radiance, intermingled with Faith, sheathed his blade in retina-searing brightness. With his Eagle-Eye, he marked the Hob.

"Irradiance!"

The Hob turned, suddenly aware that the snow all around him began to glow. When he turned to flee, the halo followed, centred on the creature's back.

"HILF!" the Hob cried.

Its skin, scaly and warty and rusty like old blood, began to smoke.

"GARRRGH!" The creature ran into a mob of Redcaps. Its kin howled in amazement, hooting and kicking the rolling Hob, trying to put out the fire— then, without warning, the green-skinned assembly burst into incandescent flames.

"ARRRRRRGH—" Two dozen flaming torches spread through the surroundings, crashing through the polluted, mud-churned snow, setting others alight.

Tzzzz—

Mathias pressed the tip of his blade into the snow, allowing the metal to cool. As a Radiant Mage, his rare element fortified many of the Order's Faith-fuelled Magic, and his Spellblade multiplied the effect.

"Sir Mathias!"
"Thank you, Sir Mathias!"
"Praise St Michael!"

With the backline of the Redcaps disrupted, the Mages and the Miners burst into a clamouring cheer.

"SIR MATHIAS!" the cry that now addressed him was the recovered Transmuter. The sod had been the parties' scout before he took an arrow to the gut. "There's a troop of Trolls coming this way! Led by a Rock Troll, big, burly bastard, built like a hill. It's tier 6— no, tier 7 at least!"

"I see." Mathias sheathed his wand. "Trolls regenerate. Is there not a Fire or Magma Mage among you?"

"Sorry." A young woman raised her hand. "I am only tier 4, Sir. Its resistance is much too high."

"Do what you must. Either way, I must stand by my oath to protect my Healer." Mathias flashed the blushing woman a winsome grin. "That said, I'll not let such a foul creature roam uncontested, you can be sure of it!"

"Alright lads, back to the fray!" an Abjurer yelled, gesturing toward the new wave of Redcaps trudging through the snow. "Sir Mathias is behind us!"

"Thank you, Sir Mathias, Lady Elvia." The Transmuter grovelled, snow and mud dripping from his cloak.

"Thank you for saving Thomas." His companion, the woman, bowed to Elvia. "We will make donations to your order and spread the word of your generosity."

Elvia waved the duo away with a smile. Mathias watched as the Healer's petite chest rose and fell, her cheeks ruddy with exertion. He could tell that she was suffering from spell fatigue. Mana-wise, Elvia should be fine. Wales, with its criss-crossing ley-lines, demi-human races and places of power, was immersed with power. If Elvia had time to meditate, her meagre VMI should replenish within the hour.

"HEALER! WE NEED A HEALER!" A group of miners emerged from the crest of a hill. Even in the snow, during the day, Mathias glowed like a beacon.

Mathias directed the wounded miner toward Elvia. Something had chewed off the man's right foot, likely a Gob digger. With every meter made by the Levitating Disk, a pint of crimson painted the crunching snow.

Elvia fell to her knees immediately.

"Kiki, tranq him, I need a tourniquet on that leg."

"Kiki! Ki!"

Kiki had been trained well. With one tendril, the Alraune injected a dose of dew into the man's stomach, instantly sending the prospector into a stupor. With another tendril, the Alraune lifted the man's leg, then stopped his bleeding by wrapping around his calves, cutting the blood flow.

"That has to go." Elvia performed a quick head to toe, then looked toward Mathias. NoMs cannot afford Regeneration or Regrowth spells. "Mattie, lend me a hand."

"At once, milady." Mathias raised his Spellsword. "Radiant Blade!"

A line of Radiance sliced the miner below the knee without so much as a hiss. The crushed leg came off, the wound fully cauterised.

"Heal Minor Wounds!" Elvia tended to the man's leg. "Faithful Restoration!"

The man's breathing slowed, his hands still tightly clutching a sack of crystals close to his chest. Mathias' lips twitched.

"Take him back to town and tell Matron Nadia I sent you," Elvia huffed, wiping sweat from her brow. She desperately needed to meditate.

"Thank you!"
"Thank you so much!"

"Don't thank me." Elvia pointed to the crest of her school: a stylised golden nightingale on a white shield adorned with three blue stripes. With a word, she conjured water to wash her hands. Her Healers' robes were immune to dust and grime, but even so, it looked bedraggled after dealing with so many victims.

Mathias likewise Prestidigitated the grime from his coat. On his shoulder, set against a spell-warded pauldron, gleamed an engraving of the Archangel Michael, sword raised, defending the unseen Mary from Lucifer. Below the enamelled image, the words "Auspicum Melioris Aevi" was etched in untarnished mithril. Against the snow, he looked resplendent in his Saxon-blue mantle in satin, handsome in crimson taffeta.

In the distance, a Troll bellowed.

"HEALER! IS MISS ELVIA STILL HERE?" a scream came over the hill.

Mathias huffed, watching his breath turn to mist.
Today was a good day.

Like a wandering comet, Gwen blasted past the rolling hills of southern Wales, her Shen-teī suit slicing the air. Where "New South Wales" was bushland from horizon to horizon, the English countryside had left no turf un-farmed. As far as two hours from Cambridgeshire, a stream of hamlets, villages and farmhouses ran the length of well-paved roads.

Flying in the country had its boon as well. Far from industry, Gwen did not have to worry about Knights encircling the capital challenging lone fliers with no business taking to the air. Flying alone, however, was an exceedingly dull affair. As with flights on planes, once the vista grew repetitive, one's thoughts wandered, then filled with ebullient Evees.

Two hundred meters from the ground and scattering the creatures below, she began to sing.

_"I got some Crystals in my pocket (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _I got my licence in my hand (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _Getting down to Merthyr Tydfil (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _to see my cleric in a band (Dudoodududoooo—)_

_Evee, Evee— Evee put your wand down_
 _Evee, Evee, Evee— put your wand down!_

_She's got the talent of a healer (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _She's working for the queen (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _She cures Moderate Wounds (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _to think she's only nineteen (Dudoodududoooo—)_

_Oh, little Healer, you're so scared—_
 _you hardly make a sound—_
 _Just listen to Cali's singing, Shaa! Shaa! Shaa—_

_Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_
 _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang down_

Feeling inspired, Gwen began another verse.

_I'll meet you at the Mountain (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _and there I'll take you by your hand (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _I crossed an ocean just to see you (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _Time to make amends (Dudoodududoooo—)_

_Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_
 _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang down_

_I left behind Ollie, (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _I hope he doesn't mind (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _I'll meet him in the valley (Dudoodududoooo—)_
 _First I'll make sure you're alright (Dudoodududoooo—)_

_Oh, little Healer, you're so scared—_
 _you hardly make a sound—_
 _Just listen to Cali's singing, Shaa! Shaa! Shaa—_

_Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_
 _Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_
 _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang dooooooooown—"_

She couldn't remember the exact lyrics, but that was alright.
Given another two hours, and Evee would be in her sights.

Giddy with anticipation, Gwen stopped to check the map.
Admittedly, it can't be too hard to find a big red hill, can it?
If so, why did the landscape look different?


Gwen smacked her lips, realising that this time, it wasn't her cartographic skills that failed her, but the difference between British and Australia seasons. In Australia, where the coldest temperature was five degrees Celcius, the seasons were recurrent. In England, every three months meant a whole new landscape.

From the looks of it, she was near Cotswold, meaning the tiny township she could see in the distance must be Gloucester, and the river running out of the city must be the Severn. Past Gloucester, all the fairness of the gentle country disappeared. Instead, woods both tall and depthless, combined with rolling hills and jutting mounds, stretched from horizon to the sea. It was little wonder the air was so dense with mana.

"Alright, so if I fly straight..."

She checked the compass built into her armour, then mapped her trajectory against the silhouette of a mountain in the distance. At worst, she would hit the ocean, if so, there was only one mountain to the north-east.

"Alright! Let's roll!"

Thunder rumbled across the cloudless sky, its passage marked by a streak of vibrant cobalt.

Two hours later, Gwen rechecked the map.

She finally understood why the English like to say "to make a mountain out of a molehill". Thankfully, she was in the right place, or at least, the right molehill— except the Red Peak wasn't a peak, and it wasn't red either.

First of all, seeing as it was winter, the whole bloody thing was white, and where the rocks were without snow, the stones were igneous and dark.

Secondly, she was now an uninvited spectator to the jolly grand melee carrying on below, full of howls, explosions, shouts and shrieking spells.

On one side were the green-skins— a whole lot of them. More Gobs than she had ever seen, all of which were wearing these adorable little red hats, but carrying giant bows, axes, and other medieval armaments. In and among the multitude, she could see Rock Trolls built like brick shit-houses, also wearing Santa hats.

From the east, or west, or whatever, she had no idea, stood lines of Dwarves in stocky Golem Armour, backed by a pair of towering, insectile Iron Golems.

The Dwarven infantry stood about the height of a man and just as wide. Squarish and stout, their armour consisted of sloped and geometric plates that interlocked, giving an art-deco aesthetic. Each battlesuit had a "hump" where a miniature mana-engine roared, articulating the whirling mechanism hidden within. For armaments, the Golem-plated soldiers sported a Spellhammer of runic crystal on one arm, while in the other, Gwen swore she saw a chainsaw.

The full-sized Golem units were smaller than the "Dusties" used by the PLA, about two storeys tall. These looked like sloped boxes mounted on four legs, with two protruding artillery hammer-wands mounted up top, two to the side, and two more limbs donning melee implements. Etched from the cockpit to its digger-clawed toes in runic scripts, white-hot jets of unburnt mana spewed from the rear exhaust channels, polluting the snow.

Presently, pressured by the swarm, the Dwarves were performing an orderly retreat.

"Fuck me, Peter Jackson, eat your heart out," Gwen muttered to herself. The beast tide of green-skinned creatures outnumbered the Dwarves by a degree of ten to one, but the Dwarves held their line steady with sweeping gouts of fire and lightning from their heavy infantry, aided by artillery from the crawling Golems.

Ding! An uninvited Message blossomed beside her ear. When flying, it was always wise to keep one's channels open.

"Oi, Lass! what unit yer from?" a gruff voice called out. "Yer support from London? The Forge Master said yer wouldn't kom."

The speaker was speaking in Dwarven, meaning Gwen had only her Master's Ioun Stone to translate a language that may as well be two drunk Scotts throat-singing.

"L-London Tower? Belay that," Gwen replied, thinking of a viable reason she should wander into a mass melee other than she got lost. "I am a… tourist."

"A WOT?"

"I am sight-seeing," Gwen said politely. "My apologies, I am looking for Merthyr Tydfil."

"Well, if ya looking for the home of boot-licking, crystal-steal knaves, then ya came to the wrong spot, lass. Ya know were ter go?— ONE MOMENT—"

The sound of explosions in the Message was concurrently met with the leading Golem letting rip its side-mounted Spellhammers, setting off what appeared to be two jets of thigh-thick Scorching Ray.

"I wish I did." Gwen silently whistled when at least one Rock Troll knelt over. "So, can you point me in the right direction?"

"Look fer the lake two klicks south-south-east, ya should find a Troll mound, then go five klicks south til ya hit the Taf Fawr, the town's at the widest part," the operator replied. "Go on, get. This place ain't safe for a lone lass."

"I have no idea what you just—"

A splatter of corrosive meat smashed up against the speaker's Golem unit. Not far, with an earth-shattering howl, a once-dormant Rock Troll, its form bulging with infused power, covered the distance in a dozen strides, batting away the infantry like a man swatting gnats.

"— WOT in the Deep King's name?! ARRRGHK—!"

With a clang, the veritable engine of meat and muscle ran head-first into the towering Golem, tearing at the plates that protected the cockpit. Caught by surprise, the quickly-recovering Dwarves around the Golem stabbed lances of enchanted fire into the Troll, though the war-mad creature took no heed of its dire injuries.

A second Golem turned its turret toward the first and doused its companion in arcane-fire. The Rock Troll howled, sheets of skin melting off its back. Its limbs, however, persisted in tearing her guide's Golem apart.

"Jesus." Gwen winced. "Are you alright? Need a hand?"

"DOES IT LUK LIKE AIM ALRIGHT? YA COG WITH A TOOTH LOOSE?! FURK! The bugger's breeched me cabin! Rockhammer! Get this green arse off me Golem! "

Gwen's fingers itched.
Are Dwarves our allies? She tried her best to recollected Lady Grey's words. The answer was, "The best allies— until the mines run dry."

Not wanting to see the friendly Dwarves turned into a feast for Trolls, Gwen frantically dialled her new boss. Until she could dangle a foot into the local geopolitical pond, she had to be careful. Knowing the precarious balance of power, who knew what could happen if she tipped it the wrong way?

_Ding! Ding!_

"Gwen!" The Marchioness of Ely was surprised to hear back from her protégé so soon. "What's the matter? Did you find the girl?"

"Ma'am!" Gwen wasted no time in explaining the situation below. "I am somewhere near Merthyr Tydfil. There's a battle near Red Peak, and the Trolls and Goblins are pushing the Dwarves back. The Trolls have a Hag, meaning the Dwarves are in deep shit. Permission to help?"

"I see. And why would you want to help Dwarves?"

Gwen blinked. What sort of question was that? "The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

"Good. You may do what you think is right," her Mistress advised. "In the future, there's no need to verify such trivial decisions. What matters is the consequence, not the intent. You had argued that we shouldn't restrict your freedom. Now's your chance to make a mark, make good use of that liberty you so desired."

Gwen circulated her Essence. "I understand. Thank you, Ma'am."

"Take your time, dear." The Marchioness sounded amused. "Fair warning though, if you accidentally Consume an important Dwarf, Dickie's office will hear no end of it."

Right, Gwen ended the call. To help, or not to help; that was the question.

By now, the second Golem had successfully eviscerated the Rock Troll using a mechanised drill. Even lacking its innards, the Troll's body continued its assault, persisting until it lost strength. Gwen's eyes followed the line of green blood trailing across the snow. With her Essence-infused pupils scanning the battlelines, she just managed to spot the bone-clad headdress of a Troll Hag.

"Shrakloomar ulaguth!" The Hag bellowed, shrouding the surviving horde with red mist. The dead and dying Redcaps exhausted their struggling at once, while the still-living creatures erupted into jubilant shouts. Where the temporary death of the Rock Troll had doused their fervour, now the swarm appeared doubly motivated, crashing across the linen snow like a green tide.

_Tink! Tink! Tink!_

Gwen's mana barrier deflected half-a-dozen arrows.

More so than alarmed, Gwen felt impressed. She was almost two hundred meters in the air, meaning these Red-hatted archers were as good as stumpy-legged centaurs. If she were lower-tier Mage, she would probably take an arrow to the gut.

Opposite, the Dwarven battle line shrunk, concentrating their firepower. Slowly but surely, they backed away toward a series of steam-billowing structures. The entrance to their city? Gwen wondered, or perhaps, something like heat-vents?

"Ariel!" Gwen summoned her Kirin, concurrently applying an Invisible Familiar.

In a manner of seconds, her mind browsed through a dozen scenarios.

After exchanging her Draconic Essence for Almudj juice, lesser Void Magic barely scratched her conduits. That said, the more Void Mana she processed, the more Essence was consumed. It meant that, if she wanted to burn the proverbial candle from both ends; she had to balance Void and Barbanginy.

_Tink! Tink!_

More arrows clattered against her shield, turning a few pin-points opaque.

Mentally, Gwen weighed the boons and banes, then made a decision. With this many mobs, vitality shouldn't be a problem. If she wanted to help the Dwarves, she might as well do a good job. The Trollic horde, in her humble opinion, wasn't too generous a meal. If they had been in the Amazon, facing warrens of the big, burly bastards in an enclosed forest full of monsters, it was a different story. Here, with two kilometres of open-air Dimension Door and no Lich to counter her spell, she felt no pressure at all.

Her mind now made up. Gwen tapped her Message Device, pinning the Dwarf that had called her earlier.

"Lass!" There was a sound of pressurised steam hissing in the background, likely a whistling canister of coolant. "Wot are yer still doing here? Get!"

"Let me re-introduce myself," Gwen said calmly. "My name is Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage. I would like to offer my aid via an AoE as well as my Familiars. Is that acceptable."

"Yer a Conjurer?"

"I am an Omni-Mage." Gwen decided she may as well start building her brand. "They call me the Swa—"

FUCK, Gwen swore. That was close. Such was the danger of alliteration.

"— the DEVOURER of Shenyang."

"Don't nu about that," the gruff voice said. "But if yer wanting to do something, I'll not stop yer. Just save yer hide when the time comes. We can't spare the carcasses to go saving yer hinny."

"Good." Gwen drew a deep breath. "Trust me. I'll be done before you can finish a casket of ale."

Stolen novel; please report.

Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, son of Handrek Bronzeborn, was a warrior caste Hammer Guard of the Iron Legion. His father, and his father's fathers, had all died glorious deaths— one fighting the Murk-dwellers of the Deep Dark, and the other defending the Red Citadel from the Scarred King of Red Peak. The first of four brothers and two sisters, he was the head of his House and a renowned member of the Rotory Guild.

His present mission was a Purge of the lands surrounding the Red Citadel to prevent the build-up of green-skins that would seek to infiltrate the workshop district from above. The task was thankless, as Dwarves fought poorly in the open, but someone had to lead the young ones. For this, Hanmoul begrudged the Deepdowners, the Clan's keepers of artifice. How could their elders be so greedy for the wealth of the lidless world, while concurrently loathing everything above the earth's crust? To Hanmoul, the hypocrisy was astounding.

Nonetheless, his routine patrol had begun without incident, with a troop of twelve Ironclads and two Rockcrushers MK VIs, they went about their business blasting Gobs and nailing Redcaps.

When they reached Greyrock Bluff, however, the green buggers poured out of the warrens like the stench from a ruptured septic tank.

Without delay, Hanmoul's hands danced across the runic keys, setting the Rockcrusher to maximum output. The quad-turbo mana-engine roared, its vibrations sending shockwaves through his seat. Kicking with both legs, he pivoted the converted mining engine at the waist; above the Spellhammers grew hot.

_BLAM!_
 _BLAM!_

The control cabin shook. Two gouts of superheated plasma, sticky and unstable, arced through the air and into the crowd of Redcaps. Hanmoul's first victims were incinerated at once, then—

_BO-BOOM!_

The globules erupted, splattering the surrounding space with conjured phosphor, igniting a dozen Redcaps, including a Long Tooth Hob.

Besides Hanmoul, his partner likewise lit up the enemy's backline.

"Contact in THREE… TWO… ONE… Dragon Breath!"

From all twelve Ironclads, torrents of fire transformed their perimeter into a landscape of hell.

"Hold the line! The Redcaps can't get through your armour. Leave the Trolls to us, and keep the Long Toothes pinned!" Hanmoul commanded his troops. "Rockhammer, up the pace! Look for a caster!"

"Commandrumm, I see their priest! He's out of range!"

"Furk!" Hanmoul swore. A Priest meant that what they encountered wasn't a patrol, but a war party. What it also meant was that anytime now, the Priest would conjure its Brutaliser guard.

On cue, the snow exploded, revealing a Rock Troll. This one wasn't a Brutaliser, though it was stout enough to wear the moniker.

"Covering fire!" Hanmoul pulled at his beard. "Pull Back! Rockhammer, keep it from closing on us!"

"Hanmoul!" Broroth's Message bloomed beside his ear. "There's a human Mage watching us from six o'clock. I can't tell if she's friendly or hostile. What if she's one of those Rogue Mages?"

"Dirrk! Just our luck. Must have kicked the wrong pickaxe in the morning," Hanmoul growled. Tapping into the war engine's diagnostics, he zoomed into the image of the human Mage. To his surprise, it was a Human female adolescent. She did, however, wear combat armour, and from the looks of the materials, it looked expensive. "Let me check… she's on an open channel..."

_Ding!_

"Oi there, Lass, what unit yer from?" he called out, doing his best to control his temper. "Yer support from London Tower? The Forge Master said yer wouldn't come…"

"I will now begin." The sorceress was now out of his optical range.

"Begin wot?" Hanmoul checked his diagnostics, wondering if the Human was also a Diviner.

His runic readings flashed green, then orange, then red, then purple.

The Hammer Guard tapped the screen, checked that his instruments still functioned, then drew in a breath of coolant-choked air. The lass, her energy reading was off the charts! A War Mage? A pure platinum, Human War Mage? What are the likes of her doing here, floating over the Red Citadel? Shouldn't she be at a Front somewhere, fighting to claim resources?

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

A warning icon flashed overhead. Hanmoul re-calibrated his instruments, then marvelled at the volumetric scale of the sorceress' manifestation.

_Crack!_

Fulminating thunder rolled across the clear sky. As advertised by Hanmoul's instruments, a portal into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning opened directly over the head of the green-skinned swarm. Beside his head-up display, the diagnostic engine identified the spell as "Maelstrom— Lightning".

As the numbers compiled, Hanmoul's eyeballs almost punched his visors. The bleeding thing was two kilometres wide! A strategic spell? Where was the Mandala or the setup? Where was—

_CRACK! BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—_

A line of living lightning cut the Gob swarm in half. When his spectacles adjusted to the retina-searing assault, Hanmoul performed a double-take. The electricity was viridescent! Never in all his years of trading with the humans at Merthyr Tydfil had he seen such a meta-magic. Just what in the Sju Forfran's name did the Humans steal from the blasted long-ears this time?

Before Hanmoul could wrap his head around the blazing phenomenon, an array of warning Glyphs exploded across his HUD.

"SHAA—SHAA! SHAA!"

"Hanmoul! There's a monster descending from the sky! It's bloody huge, and it isn't in our bestiary!"

"Wot de FURK is that? A Drake?" Hanmoul zoomed in on the outline of an enormous bird-slug, a full twenty meters from wing-tip to wing-tip.

"Why does it have hands? Why does it have HANDS FOR FEET?!" Understandably, Rockhammer was screaming.

"Hold yer FIRE!" Hanmoul recalled the girl's warning that she would bring forth a Familiar.

Meanwhile, the Maelstrom descended. Near its epicentre, a stream of swirling, screeching, howling Gobs and Redcaps soared from the Prime Elemental directly into the Eye of Lightning at the centre of the storm.

After a concurrent series of hoots, the Troll horde retracted their battleline, the surviving Hobs, too strong to be caught in the static-charged tornado, formed a perimetre around the Hag. Dishearteningly, Hanmoul saw the Brutaliser still standing beside the caster. Until it fell, there was no touching the Troll's priest, but without the Hag's death, there was no stopping its minions.

Not far from Hanmoul, the pseudo-Brutaliser he had torn apart was rapidly regenerating, ignoring his troop's generous application of Fire and Magma. Given time, the Trollic Flesh Golem would be as good as new.

The Hag raised both hands, then pointed at the approaching bird, laying down a black-blooded curse. The Hobs raised their bows, their accuracy now guided by a supernatural charm.

Hanmoul recognised the affliction as The Curse of Arrow Attraction. He sighed. The girl was overconfident. The black arrows of the Long Tooth Hobs were deadly to all unarmoured creatures.

"SHAA! SHAA!"

Hanmoul shuddered. The bird was the most horrific thing he had ever seen. It had a long neck, but no face. Its feathers were so dark as to consume the light of day. The worst of it was that beneath its feathered body, distended a pair of white hands with six long and slender, feminine-looking fingers.

"Master Hanmoul—"

"HOLD FIRE!" Hanmoul gave the command. Hammer Guards weren't berserkers. They did not risk their lives for atonement. He would not send in his men without knowing that the bird was friendly.

"— There are more monsters incoming."

Hanmoul checked his map. His partner was right. According to the diagnostic engine, there were at least eight creatures rapidly approaching from the east. From the signature though, these were not Trolls. If so, from where did they come? Thin air?

A few seconds later, the blimps on his map came into view.

War dogs? Hanmoul thought. No, the creatures were too large to be dogs. They were more like horses. Yet, the "Dogs" did not appear terrestrial, for they possessed a faceless, eyeless, bullet-shaped head that took up half of their bulk. The rest of the sleek-bodied creatures were all muscle and sinew, sporting long, spindly legs encased in a slick, oily exoskeleton.

Morden's Hound Pack— his engine submitted its diagnostic results. "Element: Void".

Mole Shit of the Deep! Hanmoul staggered. He had never seen a Hound Pack like that!

From behind the Troll band, the pack dashed toward their targets, moving without sound. From above, the big bird circled, screeching and howling and giving the Trolls the finger with its many... fingers.

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

Another spell signature.

"Wot the bollocks?!" Hanmoul tapped his screen. Was there a whole platoon of Mages hiding somewhere? Was the girl a scout? The reading was off the charts! Did the Human possess the mana pool of a Golem with a Core in her gut?

_CRACK—_

"Chain Lightning"— the diagnostic engine returned, registering an energy signature well above the spells' recorded threshold. Among the crowd of huddled green-skins, an arc of electricity struck the Brutaliser.

_—ZAP! SPAK! CRACK!_

After the brute, the bolt struck the Hag, then five other minions before arcing back toward the Brutaliser. Not far from the circle of lightning, a creature shimmered in and out of optical range.

Simultaneously, the big bird, now riddled with arrows but not giving two shits, descended with an earth-splitting "Shaa!".

While the Trolls remained paralysed, the bird-slug opened its maw, its neck peeling back like the exotic human fruit known as banana, then enveloped the Brutaliser head-first. Simultaneously, one of its hands seized the Troll Priest, each delicate digit folding against the Hag's body, then squeezed.

"MAY THE DEEP ANCESTORS PROTECT US!" His partner, Rockhammer, was howling into his Divi-link. If his infantrymen had an open channel, they would also be screaming. "What tier is that thing? At what pressure index are its fingers running?"

Between the big bird's fingers, the Hag oozed. Though Hanmoul was too far to hear the cracking of bone and the rending of flesh, his optics showed the Shaman's eyes shooting of her sockets, while between the big bird's fingers, bits of stuff dribbled over the snow. Hanmoul gagged. The bird-slug with hand-feet was wringing the Hag like a piece of cloth to prevent it from regeneration. No matter how tenacious the Hag's life force may be, to recover from that state— Hanmoul winced. Sometimes, death was infinitely preferable.

Beside the Hag, the Brutaliser stumbled away, headless and for some reason, no longer regenerating. It walked a dozen steps before its pulsing stump erupted into a dark-green fountain, then laid still.

And now, the dog-horse things closed in, ripping through the still-paralysed Hobs, taking the creatures in their human-sized jaws, swallowing some whole, tearing others apart.

"By the Sju Dorfran…" Rockhammer's voice quivered, calling on the Seven Ancestors. "Hanmoul, what have we summoned? What calamity could do a thing such as this? Maybe she's a Dragon pretending to be human?"

Every Dwarf knew that humans were as greedy as Dragons.
Every aid required payment in gold, in minerals, or gems.
Now that Hanmoul had inadvertently enlisted the aid of so mighty a Mage, what would happen to the Council's coffers?
If the girl came calling, what would the Deepdowners think?

When the last Hob died, Gwen licked her lips and realised she might have overperformed her initial objectives.

It had been months since she had felt the thrill of combat, and in her haste to test the extent of Amuldj's Blessing, she had gotten a little overexcited. For now, since the Dwarves were safe and they had her moniker, it was best to be on her way.

Finishing up, she called Ariel and Caliban to her side, applying another layer of Invisible Familiar. Caliban was beyond happy to be out and about, and she was delighted to see it fly with Ariel as a companion.

Though she now slinked away from the field of battle like a thieving cat, she felt giddy with satisfaction. Losing her Draconic-Essence had undermined her confidence, but now, her Void abilities had grown to replace what was taken.

She was, after all, a Void Mage and not a Dragon-Mage like Ayxin. Without a willing Dragon to impart its racial knowledge, she had limited utility for Draconic-Essence beyond punching Necromancers in the face, kicking Da-Pengs in the face, and belting young masters in the face. That and make NoMs shit their pants.

"In hindsight, it is for the best..." Gwen muttered to herself as she headed for the human township. Sometime later, Caliban's vitality trickled back into her body, forcing her to land so as to walk off her shivers and to orientate her bearing. She was happy to find that the pleasure was no longer so intense. After the Soul Flayer, her tolerance had grown.

"Evee—" She punched the air as her body grew warm. "I am coming! No more delay!"

Elvia moaned, her face flushed, sweating through her bedsheets.

Outside, a thunderstorm rocked the valley basin. Such was the nature of weather in Southern Wales, as unpredictable as a drunk Troll. Beside the healer's gurney, her Knight and the Magister responsible for the security of Merthyr Tydfil argued.

"Mathias, you are a Knight— and as such, I won't judge." Beside Mathias, the Tower's ombudsman, Major Hanford, sucked on a pipe. "But as the officer overseeing the defensive operations in Merthyr Tydfil, I cannot commend your recklessness."

"That's because you fail to understand Elvia's selflessness." Mathias stroked his healer's long, blonde hair. "We saved, what? A hundred men today? I alone took down two Rock Trolls, mind you, and a few hundred Redcaps. Who can say the same?"

"That may well be." Hanford's tone remained cold and unconvinced. "We needed her here with the others, working triage. Also, if you lose Miss Lindholm, I'll have to answer to Lady Astor. Then what would happen to the town's Contribution Credits?"

"Many of those men and women, Mages and NoMs, would not have made it to triage, Magister." Mathias' voice rose an octave. "Dare you demand that I abandon my duty?"

"YOUR—" Hanford controlled his temper. "Duty? To tax your healer so much she concurrently suffers both spell AND mana exhaustion? Are you daft?"

"I merely did as she wished."

"She's a Frontier Refugee! You're an overtrained Knight! Show some wisdom, man! Guide her if she's an idiot!"

"I cannot refuse her selflessness, not in the slightest." Mathias shook his head. "Now, if you're done, let us discuss tomorrow's operations. With Elvia recuperating, I can—"

_Ding!_

"Yes, Lauren?" Hanford's Message blossomed beside his ear. "What? A War Mage? Here? Did London send her?"

The Magister's eyes moved from Elvia to Mathias, to the door. "For Miss Lindholm?"

"What's this?" Mathias cocked his head. "Why would someone from the Tower come for Elvia? Is it a friend of Emily's? Tell her Elvia is doing fine, and that we'll be back—"

The Magister motioned for Mathias to shut it.

"Tell her to wait— What do you mean she's coming in? She flew here— she has a Mithril-Class Licence? Which Unit is she from?"

The Tower's base of operations at Merthyr Tydfil was, in fact, a commandeered inn. As the operation in the Dwarven Frontier rarely lasted over a month, investment of additional resources had been deemed unnecessary.

"You can't go in there—" Hanford's aid stopped at the threshold. A flash of lightning lit the room quicksilver before its delayed fulmination rattled the windows.

The hinges creaked. The double doors to the inn's common room, now the command room and the officer's quarters, swung open, siphoning the warm air.

Into the room, the sorceress' aura poured over the men like treacle. The girl was dangerous; the Mages implicitly understood that as fact. At the same time, they felt confused by the paradoxical sensation of both elation and vertigo emitted by the girl.

A Druid? Mathias glanced at Hanford. The Magister had no idea, particularly in light of the girl's battledress.

"My secretary is right. You can't be here. Miss—?"

The self-deploying rain cloak retracted.

Click. Click. Click. The girl approached— her enchanted attire drying at once.

The sorceress' heels, Mathias noted, were stiletto daggers. Her irises were multi-coloured and brimming with depthless desire. From her shapely calves to her elegant shoulders, she was clad in cloth plating, a style of armour favoured in the east. Draped on her back, was a handsome blue mantle.

Suddenly, Mathias' lips felt dry.
He recognised her peerless face.
More importantly, there was no mistaking the "Maotai" printed across the sorceress's thighs.

"Song." The girl arrived at Elvia' bedside. "Gwen Song."

"From the IIUC?" Hanford discerned the competition logo plastered on her chest plate. His daughter religiously followed the competitions. Fudan was her favourite until they dropped out. "Miss, why are you here?"

Mathias' gut tingled. He wasn't a Diviner, but the Knight sensed an awful thing was about to happen. The girl stood beside the gurney, seemingly transfixed by the vision of Elvia's semi-conscious body on the levitating stretcher.

"I was sight-seeing." The tone of the Devourer of Shenyang's voice sucked the life from the room. "What's wrong with Evee? Why is she like this?"

"Trolls," Mathias blurted.

Hanford gave him a strange look.

The Knight could not believe the words were coming out of his mouth. He couldn't recall the last time he had almost lied. Such cowardice was dangerous for a Knight, anathema to the Faith magic they practised. Nonetheless, something told him he had better pay Gwen the lip service, or forever hold his peace.

"Yes." Mathias forced his mouth to move. "Those blasted Trolls did this."


"Did she get cursed by a Hag?" The sorceress' gaze, burning with an inner light, scanned Mathias like a cheap piece of meat. "As her Knight, is there a reason why Evee's horizontal, and you're still upright?"

Mathias met the girl's burning eyes and felt his Radiance quake. Gwen Song! From the International Inter-University Competition; Elvia's "Mate" and her long-distance Message-pal. Here was a woman-shaped Thunder Tyrant Rex. The controller of Caliban! Mistress of Ariel! Tamer of Golos!

The Devourer of Shenyang!

And now, she was accusing him of dereliction of duty!

A burst of bile threatened to spill from Mathias' throat. Misunderstandings were dangerous, especially when one side held a Mithril Badge. Sponsorship from three Magisters was the bare minimum required for such freedom. But as a Class VI asset, who had the clout to stomach the uproar when the girl misstepped? The only Mage Mathias knew to possess the clout was Grand Master Errol and Emily's father, the reputable Duke Rothwell.

"Yes, I am her Knight." Mathias kept his face stoic. "And NO, Miss Elvia is not injured. She overtaxed herself from saving those who had been caught up by the Beast Tide. I assure you, not a hair has been harmed on her head."

"A Beast Tide? Of course." The girl's reply was churlish and provincial, indicating a lower-class upbringing. "Evee— can you hear me?"

Elvia moaned, deaf to the world.

Something wiggled under the healer's shirt. A little bulbous head peeked out, its short limbs waddling as it emerged. "Kiki?"

"Kiki!" the girl squealed. "Long time no see, buddy. How's Evee?"

"Kiki! Kiki!! Ki!"

"I don't speak Kikish." The girl waved her hand. "One second, Ariel!"

_Clonk! Clonk!_

A shimmering pony knocked on the door, then entered the inn, sending the dozen or so Mages in the dining section scrambling.

Both Mathias and Hanford fought to keep their cool. A Kirin! Their minds reeled. A real-life Kirin! Look at its horns! Its hooves! Its rainbow-hued coat! The blasted thing glowed! As with many Magical Beasts of the upper-tier, it was the unique presence that made them larger than life.

"EE! EE!"
"Kikiki!"
"EE?"
"Kikiki-ki!"
"EE-EE!"

"EE-EE-ee-EE!" Gwen's Kirin gestured with its horns toward Mathias.

Mathias put a stout oak table between himself and those horns.

"I see." The girl shot Mathias a glare that made him place a hand on the pommel of his Spellsword. "We'll see what happens when Evee wakes. For now... hop on."

Mathias moved to intervene. He knew next to nothing about the Void Sorceress' abilities other than the fact that she could clear a District without breaking a sweat.

"Ki-ki!"

When the Alraune leapt into Gwen's hands, Mathias slowed. He couldn't swat the willing creature out of the sorceress' palms. Her Kirin looked mighty dangerous, not to mention she still had "Caliban" hidden in a pocket dimension.

Beside him, Hanford leaned over Mathias' shoulder with a face full of wonder. "My word, that IS Druidic Essence!"

"Drink up." The sorceress glowed.

In the dim light of the room, a viridescent puddle of sloshing, viscous liquid, brimming with life, pooled in between the palms of Gwen's hands.

"Kiki!" The Alraune danced in the manna and began to absorb the elixir at an alarming rate, growing glossier and more globular by the second. Atop Kiki's head, a tropical lily bloomed out of season.

Hanford's eyes wandered toward the girl's ears. Thankfully, her well-rounded lobes were entirely human.

A minute later, Kiki had soaked up every drop. Now appearing the size of an infant, it leapt onto Elvia's chest, then slipped a hollow, tentacle-like tendril in between the healer's lip. Through his well-trained senses, Mathias felt his Cleric's hollowed-out conduits infuse with raw, unadulterated vitality. As Kiki transferred the viridescent energy, Ariel stood guard, licking the flower Sprite's bulbous body.

"What now?" Mathias stood sideways from the Kirin; its hind-legs looked like they packed a wallop.

"Well." Magister Hanford's eyes darted between the smartly attired War Mage and the sweating Knight Protector from St Michael's. "While we wait for Miss Lindholm, would Miss Song care to answer a few questions?"

"Sure." The girl appeared to relax, or so Mathias hoped. "Besides, I want answers too."

Before the fall of Sydney and its horrific revelations, Debora was the companion that Elvia admired the most. Out of all their friends, it was her vivacious confidence that made Elvia feel the rare bite of jealousy. At first, she had felt astounded by the audacity exhibited by "Debbie". Though all of them were equal friends, that Debora would so brazenly declare her worst intentions had made Elvia feel ill. Not only was the bronze-skinned Transmuter unafraid of ostracisation or rejection; she revelled in Gwen's distress.

Inevitably, the corresponding recall would remind Elvia that their friend had long been an inhuman Void spawn. What Faceless had wanted was for Gwen to join its crusade against the world— and failing that, it would assimilate Gwen into itself.

And if Faceless had succeeded?

Elvia shuddered every time the possibility of losing her friend crossed her mind. Seeing Gwen's exquisite face morph from adoration to sadism, love to hunger was a sure recipe for insomnia.

Presently, however, the healer's consciousness was consigned to the void. Such deep, self-induced meditation was a known phenomenon. During periods of extended duress, a Mage may continue to tax their mental and physical reserves, using their body as fuel. For a Void Mage, the process was par for the course, but for a healer, the occurrence was rare indeed.

And so, caught in the undertow of self-restorative slumber, Elvia dreamt the strangest dream.

"Evee!" someone shouted.

Elvia's eyes shunted open.

She wasn't on her gurney; instead, she sat on loose straw over powdery clay. The air was impossibly dry, her tongue felt like sand, and dust invaded every fissure. Squinting, she saw that over the ochre landscape, a sinking sun warped the horizon with heat.

Beside Elvia sat Gwen, grinning with her teeth showing, puckering her lips. When Elvia's eyes wandered across her friend's figure, her complexion turned scarlet.

"Why— why are you in the nuddy?!" Elvia blurted out. "F-for shame!"

Gwen laughed; her skin glistened, reflecting the slick patterns of ochre, obsidian and sunburst adorning her torso. Likewise, ghostly handprints covered the canvas of her body. Elvia recognised the five-fingered contours. Some of them belonged to Yue, and more than a few belonged to herself.

Her friend pointed to Elvia's right. "Evee, Look!"

Elvia followed Gwen's finger.

They were languishing in the shadow of a colossal landmark, too famous not to be recognised.

Ulu—ULURU?! Elvia's heart seized. Why were they in Uluru? Wasn't she in England?

A dream, Elvia pinched herself.

Gwen stood.

OH MY GOD, Elvia's mind rioted. She was in a VERY realistic dream.

"Kapi!" Gwen clapped, extending a hand in invitation.

Not knowing what else to do, Elvia took it.

With a strength that betrayed her litheness, her friend lifted Elvia to her feet so that she fell against her bosoms.

OHMYGODOHMYGODFORGIVEMEFORMYSINS— Elvia felt Gwen's heart pounding against her cheek. An inch from her nose was Gwennie's—

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_ Gwen's heart thundered. On cue, there came a crash of thunder; then the sky began to pour. A cloudburst fell in pailfuls, a near-solid wall of water bucketing from the blue.

Arm in arm, their skin as slick as eels, the girls looked up at the red stone of Uluru, where snail-trails of white water turned into wine.

"The Rainbow - the rainbow comes from the earth and returns here," Gwen spoke beside Elvia's ear.

The temperature fell, but she didn't feel cold at all. Gwen's body was a furnace, and presently, their shared warmth permeated everything, the muddy earth, the cloudless sky, the plunging deluge.

"Haha, Almudj is proper cheeky." Gwen's arms crossed over Elvia's shoulders. With one hand, she pointed to the sacred stone.

"My kin lives here— she has a long beard and sharp teeth. She does not need men or women. She dreams, requiring no ceremonies. Very rarely does she wake— but when she does, Almudj is proper cranky."

Elvia opened her mouth, her thirst quenched by the downpour.
In gulps, she swallowed, her body filling with the waters of life.

Gwen regarded her with a broad grin, her pink lips curling at either edge.

"Remember, Evee, the Snake. She will attack invaders. If someone bullies you, it will return their body to their ancestors. No matter how many of them. No matter where—"

_CRACK—BOOM!_

An ear-splitting cry of thunder shook Elvia's world.

The sky! It was opening up! She could see a fracture across the infinite space of the horizon. All around her, the ground shifted and moved and shook. Atop the stump that was Uluru, an immense shape began to slither and meander, emerging from the interior of the stone.

"We're kin, Evee. Mayhap more, but never less. I've always wanted to share with you Almudj's Song. The Song of the Pintupi, the Singing from a time when the world was young."

A flash of quicksilver ignited the sky.

The dream world crumbled. Elvia fought against her friend's embrace, but Gwen held her fast. In tune with the supernatural fulmination, their hearts beat in twain.

Gwen began to clap.

"Kapi! Kapi! Kapi!" Came another earth-shattering reverberation from the apex of Uluru, the serpent that birthed the world swam for the sky. Water, the colour and texture of blood, flooded the desert, restoring the soil's fecundity, bringing to bloom a million wildflowers. "Come on, Evee!"

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Elvia joined her friend, her hands slapping the water.

A rainbow appeared, linking the horizon from ocean to ocean.

Unbidden, Elvia wept, for here was where every river in the world begun.

Soft as feathers, Elvia's long blonde lashes fluttered open.

"Too dangerous, the Trolls have warrens here— here— and here—" Half a room away, the harsh tone of Magister Hanford quarrelling with Mathias was as familiar to Elvia as a lullaby. "You can't be thinking of taking them alone? That's stupidity!"

"Kiki!" Her Alraune Sprite prodded her cheeks, its adorable bulb wadding left and right. "Ki-ki!"

"A friend?" Elvia's gaze lingered on the blooming Alraune with confusion, finding herself exhausted beyond belief. "Who is it?"

"EE! EE!" answered a triumphant thrill, followed by a cold nose touching her neck. A wet tongue, sticky and smelling faintly of rain, licked her lips.

Instantly, her brain fired up to wakefulness. "A-ARIEL?"

The argument from the map-table ceased at once.

"EVEE!" an all too familiar voice rocked the inn, displacing the dust from the ceiling. "Thank God, you're awake!"

A pair of arms soon enveloped her torso. A familiar silhouette kissed her left cheek, once more on the other, then again on her forehead.

"Gwen?" Elvia fought her irresponsive extremities, her mind struggling to connect the dots. "What's happened? Why are you here?"

Her assailant pulled back.

Her friend looked older. That was Elvia's first impression. Gone was the puppy fat once adorning her friend's cheeks, giving her an elfin visage. Gwen's eyes as well, once so glistening with insecurity, were sharp and focused, almost frightfully so. She appeared taller too, the confidence she now exuded was practically tangible.

"O, you heart-breaker, you!"

Another round of uninvited kisses showered Elvia.

But why was Gwen in Merthyr Tydfil? Her mind was only now registering the reality in front of her. All those months without contact; week after weeks of watching Gwen slog through the IIUC, fighting rogues, Trolls and then Undead, and now her friend was here?

"Ah—" Elvia tried to speak, but what emerged instead was a choking cry of insurgent emotions. Her eyes misted over, growing damp with feelings impossible to keep in check. There was so much she wanted to say, so much pent up stress that needed to be released. "G-Gwennie… I missed you so much."

"I know… I know…" Gwen held her tight. "It's okay, Evee. I am here."

Behind her friend, Mathias wore an unreadable expression. But that was no different from how Mathias usually acted. Elvia felt she could barely read Mathias anyway and had long since given up trying.

But, none of that mattered now.

"Ow—"

When Gwen attempted to lift her from the gurney, her muscles throbbed with protest.

"What's wrong?" Gwen's face twisted with concern.

"I am aching all over." Elvia wondered if it was because of the dream she had endured. Did Gwen have anything to do with it? She would have to ask her about that. Almudj felt far too real to be a hallucination. "Can you put me into a chair? I don't think I can stand right now, not until I get some more mana in me."

"Aww, you poor thing," Gwen cooed. In the next instant, her eyes lit up. "You know what? I've got just the thing. Stay here; I'll make you a nice tonic that'll fix you right up."

Under the watch of both her Knight and Major Hanford, Gwen Mage Handed a table close to the gurney. Then, she produced a nephrite bottle of what looked like rice wine as well as a vibrant jadeite container.

That looks expensive, Elvia innately appraised the object. Not even in the home of Lady Astor had she seen such exotic Magic Items.

"For this, I am going to need Cali's help," Gwen said to Elvia, then addressed the two men. "Magister, Mattie, please step back. Caliban isn't nearly so friendly as Ariel."

Obediently, the Mages heeded the Void Sorceress' advice.

"Caliban, come forth!" Gwen twirled her fingers, coaxing her monster to existence.

A pinpoint opening tore the fabric of space and time. Elvia had seen it a hundred times before, but for the others, they had only seen it once or twice and then only via vid-casts. An illusory Caliban was terrifying enough. Now, in real-time and vis-a-vis, they felt the bone-chilling, gut-churning vertigo characteristic of Void Magic.

"Shaa! Shaa!"

"Cali!" Elvia squealed.

"SHAA?! SHAA!" The endearing Void fiend stood two meters tall when fully erect. With a tentacled tongue, it rubbed Elvia's head.

"Wow, you're so big!" Elvia did her best to pet the faceless boa. "It's been a while. Thanks for looking out for Gwen, Cali."

"Shaa!" Caliban nuzzled the healer with its carapaced head, much like a cat reclaiming an old acquittance.

A table away, Mathias' eyes strained, his fingers flexing and unflexing.

"Cali, keep an eye on our root vegetable." Gwen tapped the box, unsealing its wards. "If it runs, drag it back."

"Shaa!"

Gwen opened the box.

Her audiences' eyes went wide.

"KIKI?" Her Alraune looked inside with a bulb full of curiosity.

"Kii?" a soft groan emanated from the jadeite preserver. A Ginseng! Elvia cooed. And a Spirit at a that. Unfortunately, it looked as though the Spirit was injured. From its humanoid likeness, the Spirit was missing both its lower limbs, most of its tendrils, and a portion of an arm. Instantly, her heart filled with sorrow and empathy for the poor thing. What horrid suffering had the poor plant endured? How lonely must it be to slumber in the darkness alone?

Groggily, the Ginseng turned to look at Gwen.

"KIIIIIII—!" it began to keen. Elvia felt her chest constrict. The poor baby!

"SHAA!" Caliban yelled it into silence.

"This won't hurt a bit." Gwen reached for the Ginseng.

"KIKI?" Her Spirit leapt in front of her friend. Elvia winced; a string of gut-churning emotions translated by her Alraune flooded her constricting bosoms.

GWEN WAS GOING TO EAT IT? Elvia comprehended Kiki's warning at once. "Gwen, NO! No eating! That's a Spirit!"

Gwen paused, a sliver of Void circulating about her fingertips. "Don't worry, Evee— this thing is cultivated. It's domesticated and reared explicitly for this purpose, no different to a delicious lamb chop."

"NO, NO, NO!"
"KII! KII! KII!"
"KIIIIIII—"

"SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban howled, spraying Elvia, Kiki and the Ginseng with grey goo.

Elvia clammed up, as did the root, a pulsating, purple-fleshed Caliban was pretty much the stuff of nightmares.

"KI—KI!" Her Alraune was the hero Elvia often aspired to be. "KII!"

"But we need it to heal Evee." Gwen's brows furrowed. "I suppose your master could stuff the whole thing down her gullet, but then she'll erupt with vitality."

Someone coughed.

"If I may, Miss Song— I don't think you should be eating that." Magister Hanford's voice drifted across from the other side of the room. "Not in public, I mean."

"We diced one up for Chinese New Years…" Gwen recollected Ayxin's gift to Jun's parents, which they shared with friends and family. "It was older than this one."

"May Christ have mercy for us all," Mathias swore, marking a cross across his forehead and his chest. "You Orientals will eat anything…"

"Gwennie, please?"

"Fine." Gwen withdrew her Void scalpel.

Elvia exhaled.

"KII—KII!" Kiki slapped Gwen's hand with a tendril. Like Sufina, its island sister, the Alraune was fearless.

"Shaa!" Caliban licked its chops, issuing a warning.

Disregarding the serpent, Kiki reached into the box, then helped the Ginseng to its feet— or more correctly, its stumps.

"Gwen, how could you," Elvia chided her heartless friend, staring at the stumbling Ginseng with moist eyes. "Was Sen-sen who you were eating in the competition?"

"Sen-sen? Eating that root vegetable pulled me through quite the pickle, possibly gave Allie a baby, and added twenty years to Gramp's life!" Gwen cocked her head. "But, what's done is done. Now, do you want it?"

Elvia's reply caught in her throat. A Spirit? One that knew pain and could beg to be spared? How many CCs could it be worth? "I… can't. It's far too expensive."

"Kii!" Kiki glared at Gwen, stomped the table angrily, then passed a tendril toward the Ginseng. A dribble of Gwen's viridescent Essence infused the root vegetable.

"Sen?" The Ginseng shuddered, then gestured wildly to itself. "Sen-Sen! Sen-sen!"

"Look at it," Elvia begged, feeling another stab of empathy striking her heart. "Can you heal it? With your Druidic Essence?"

"Heal it?" Gwen looked from her friend to the Ginseng. "It's supposed to be providing nourishment for us, not the other way around. I mean, if you want it, that's another thing. If not, I'll box it for another day—"

"I'll keep Sen-sen!" Elvia announced. Kiki's emphatically-linked demands were tearing her heart out. "Don't worry, Kiki, we'll save him yet."

"Fine. Kiki, move aside," Gwen commanded the Alraune.

Warily, the flower Sprite shifted to one side.

Elvia watched as her friend uprooted the feeble Ginseng by its leafless head, then laid it flat on the palm of one hand. Again, Gwen's audience bore witness to the spectacle of Druidic Essence oozing from a human sorceress.

Bathed in the elixir of life, the Gingseng Spirit sprouted hundredsof tiny tendrils that, once interwoven, began to resemble a pair of stubby legs. Its missing arm as well grew hundreds of whiskery beards that soon resembled a limb. Atop its head, leaves began to sprout, first a few petals, then a whole bushel of "hair" emerged, transforming the deformed Ginseng into a textbook Mandrake.

By the time the Spirit could move on its own, Gwen was breathing heavily.

"Sorry," Elvia apologised. "I didn't know it was that hard."

"Anything for you, Evee." Gwen gave the Ginseng a flick on the knob. "Here, your new pet, 'Sen-Sen' sans three limbs but otherwise as good as new."

"Kiki!" The Alraune hugged the Ginseng.

"Sen!" The Ginseng, having escaped the chopping block, embraced the Alraune.

"Aww," the girls cooed.

"Shaa!" Caliban salivated.

"Kiki!" Kiki directed the Ginseng toward Elvia.

"Sen!" The Ginseng ran toward Elvia on its new legs, then performed a kowtow by throwing itself on all fours.

Kiki's pantomimed Sen's intent.

"It wants me… as its Master?" Elvia didn't understand Fae, but Kiki was a champion at charades. "But I've got you already, Kiki."

"Miss Elvia—" It was Mathias who interjected. "Perhaps it is best to donate the Mandrake to the Tower? A friendly, sapient Spirit is worth a great deal of CCs. Think about the other Healers who could use it to bolster their craft. The favours you could curry..."

"NO." Gwen wagged a finger. "That root vegetable is Mine. I gave it to Evee, and I reserve the right to prevent it from falling into anyone else's hands. Either she keeps it on her person, or I mash it for Maotai. There is no recourse."

"Miss Song." Mathias grew radiant. "Please be reasonable. You'll be entering society soon, I wager."

"I am reasonable, 'Mattie'." Gwen's acerbic defiance gave Elvia an indescribable thrill. "You want a Ginseng, ride your ass up to Huangshan and rip it out of the Yinglong's garden. Otherwise, keep your advice to yourself."

Mathias' jaws clenched. Elvia gulped.

"Why are YOU upset?" Gwen snorted. "Look at the state I found Elvia in, 'Knight Protector'. Got a complaint? Go fish. I welcome any grievances, large or small, lodged against my person. If anything, you should ask the Duke of Norfolk's office to process the claim. Old Dickie's out on a limb to see me fail."

"This incivility isn't becoming of you, Miss Song," Mathias replied with a measured tone, though Elvia could sense her Knight's heart rate elevating to new heights. "I would have imagined Elvia's companion possessing more class."

"I hail from the industrial district of Forrestville, from Frontier Sydney." Elvia noticed that Gwen's lips sneered whenever she enabled her first-class bitchface. "This is how us plebs speak."

"Mattie, Gwen doesn't mean to be rude." Elvia felt her heart simmering at her throat. She did not desire conflict between her Knight and her best friend. Besides, Mathias was strong, but Gwen was lethal. "Please, we'll discuss this later, okay?"

"You! Ginseng!" Gwen snapped at her dietary supplement.

"Sen!" The Ginseng snapped to attention.

"Leave Elvia, and you're soup." Gwen patted Caliban on the head.
"SHAA!"
"EE!" Ariel added its two cents.

With an air of fatalism, the Ginseng approached its new Master.

"Kiki!" With a shuddering wince, Sen-sen tore out one of its leaves and placed it against Elvia's hand.

"For me?"

"Sen!"

Elvia placed the green growth under her nose. The magical salad smelled strongly of soil, and also something far older.

Gwen nodded. "Eat it, Evee. I should tell you that this is a five-hundred-year-old Ginseng cultivated by Golos' brother, Ryxi the White Serpent, in the secret valley of the Yinglong's Mythic-class abode. I'd wager its got quite the kick."

The two men opened their mouths. Mathias maintained a stiff upper lip.

A little nervously, Elvia chewed the leaf.

"MMPH!" Her eyes sparkled. The taste was bitter beyond belief. The energy, the vitality, the mana contained therein, however, was unlike anything she had ever imbibed, not that a pleb like herself had access to ultra-rare Wildland ingredients in the first place.

"Take it slow…" Gwen advised. "Circulate your mana, allow the Essence to infuse your body."

"Essence?" Elvia blinked.

"Draconic-Essence." Gwen grinned. "Yinglong's dragon juice tends to infuse everything. Don't worry, Sen's safe to eat. No one at the banquet exploded. I think."

Elvia closed her eyes, allowing the vitality to infuse her body.
The fatigue in her limbs melted away.
Her mind, so murky a moment ago, felt crystalline with cloudless clarity. Gradually, the earthen taste in her mouth turned to mint, reinvigorating every cell in her exhausted body.

Elvia burped.

"Evee." Gwen studied Elvia's new Ginseng friend. "I gotta ask, as my memory isn't great. Is Kiki a Familiar?"

"Nup." Elvia shook her head. "She's a freely contracted Spirit. I've never performed the Familiar ritual."

"That's, unfortunately, fortunate—" Gwen cocked a brow. "Good news. Now you have room for a bonded Familiar."

"Miss Song, I cannot advise…" Mathias interjected. "Such a waste..."

Elvia too felt overwhelmed by the excess. A Spirit replaced one's Familiar. She had never heard of someone with a Spirit contracting a whole other Spirit through Summon Familiar. Theoretically, both could co-exist, but Mathias was right. What a waste! No matter how good she became, she couldn't perform the job of TWO Spirit Healers.

"So? Its HER Spirit to waste." Gwen shrugged. "What's so unique about a Spirit Ginseng? I wager there's two-dozen more on Huangshan. It's no biggie, Evee. If this limp-limbed bugger doesn't yield..."

Gwen shook the bottle of Maotai, looking every inch the tyrant.

"KIII!" The Ginseng kowtowed wholeheartedly, looking like it was doing push-ups. "Sen-sen! Sen!"

"Smart plant." Gwen packed away the booze. "How are you feeling now, Evee? Come off the bed, let's see how you are."

Elvia nodded. Slipping from the thick, goose-down sheets, she landed on her dainty little feet.

Her friend, however, felt her hands, paused, then glared at her fingers.

"What's wrong?" Elvia asked, puzzled by Gwen's steely expression.

"A small Storage Ring?" Gwen blurted in disbelief. "Evee, where's your Contingency Ring?"

Elvia cocked her head. Was it so strange that she didn't have a Contingency Ring? Those cost at a minimum, thousands of HDMs. A good one that came with guarantees for sanctuary, healing, and safe delivery ran into tens of thousands. Even after all her sanitarium work, once her tuition and lodging was paid, she had a few hundred HDMs to her name. Most of her quests that Mathias took were voluntary work. "Erm... I don't have one. It's too expensive..."

"I see." Her protector's eyes trained onto Mathias.

The glowering storm outside continued its pitter-patter, growing louder until a stone-splitting roar rattled the windows.

"'Mattie'." Gwen's accusation sizzled like a branding iron. "Why are you so useless?"