Over curry, Gwen explained to a distrustful Petra that she and Elvia had sorted things out for now.

Unconvinced, her cousin crossed her legs and scrutinised the Cleric from her flaxen head to her calf-skin booties, sizing the healer up like an exotic creature. "You've caused some grief, Miss Lindholm. What I wouldn't give to pick your brain..."

"Be nice…" Gwen raised a piece of cheesy nan to diffuse the tension. "We're cool now, Pats."

Across from the bickering cousins, the demure healer focused on hammering home the lava-vindaloo, her cheeks rosy and her eyes brimming with moisture. The girl was suffering, Gwen could see, but Evee was determined to fulfil her earlier prophecy.

"Don't force yourself," Gwen cautioned. She wondered why her Evee was taking enough spice to keep Petra confined to the throne— mayhap the Cleric was stress eating? Just the smell of the spice was making her lips heat up.

With Petra gawking like a Big Bird, Evee dared not speak, and for the duration of the curry, the sound of spoons scraping plates passed for conversation.

"So, I'll be keeping your Foundation running while you're away," Gwen said at last. "It'll do you good, I imagine. The Ordo has relics that collect Faith, right?"

"You don't have to." Elvia replaced her spoon. "I'll find the time to—"

"Nonsense, you don't have the skills or the manpower, at least not yet." Gwen cut in. "Besides, I am keeping it running for my people on the Isle. They're used to your face by now. No point changing it."

"But maybe one day you could use Faith Magic as well," Elvia said. "After all, with Caliban, anything's possible."

"You're not suggesting Cali should Consume a Knight or an Ordained Priest?" Gwen laughed. "Besides, I am not even religious. Faith Magic? The Anglicans would tie me to a cross and call me a witch. Say, is that all you're eating?"

Petra watched with fascination as Gwen wolfed the rest of their food, after which her abdomen showed nary a bump.

"I'll be going back to the dorm…" Elvia explained when Gwen asked for her immediate plans. "I still haven't told Sylvie and the others about what happened. They're probably wondering if I've been exiled to the Isle of Man."

"When are you expecting to be stationed at Hastings?" Gwen asked as they proceeded down London's infamously narrow streets, flanked by cars and lorries, driving a little too close for comfort.

"As soon as possible, I imagine, once I inform the Seneschal." Elvia edged against the sandstone wall as she was the slimmest. "I guess I'll see you later?"

The casual goodbye was enough to make Gwen stop in the middle of the footpath, attracting more than a few grumbles from the passersby who had to step out onto the asphalt.

"Yeah." Betraying her words, she hugged her dearest friend to her chest, enveloping Evee's body with both arms. Even after huffing the Cleric's hair and making Petra's blood pressure rise, she held on. "Oh, Evee. I am going to miss this."

"You said it yourself— I am only an hour away. And I will be in London now and then." Elvia hugged her back, albeit with far less force. "I'll miss you, Gwennie."

"Me too, stay away from any skirt chasers," Gwen warned her. "I know those white knightly types. Give them an inch, and they'll be in your panties next."

"Mathias will be with me, remember? He's sworn." Elvia giggled.

"If its Mattie, then that's fine. Just tell him there's a face-to-face with Gunther in it for him if he keeps you safe. He'll get it."

"… sure." Elvia pushed her away when Petra grunted beside them. "Gwennie, are you sure about the er..."

Elvia touched her ring finger.

"Of course, they're yours." Gwen hand-waved the gifts. "I got my IIUC replacement, and mine's a bigger Storage Ring. I'll be getting some cool stuff from our Dwarven friends as well. You make good use of those."

"Okay." Elvia touched Gwen's arm. "I'll be going now."

The two young women watched the Cleric saunter away toward Nightingale College.

"Good riddance—"Petra made the universal gesture for sweeping out vermin.

"Bloody oath, Pats..." Gwen warned her cousin.

Petra shrugged.

After twenty-odd metres into the crowd, Evee disappeared. Gwen watched her Cleric turn the corner, feeling a little lost, wondering whether she did the right thing.

"Are you sure it's wise to let the little minx go?" Petra reached her side. "She's a Vessel of our foe, right? She knows too much."

"Her patron is the Order's problem now." Gwen patted Petra on the shoulders. "And in a way, Evee's right. I can't honestly say the Yinglong's done anything unforgivable other than giving Evee a dodgy dose of sovereignty. That and I still need Golos until my abilities catch up. Speaking of which, how was your lesson with the Runesmiths?"

"Very instructive." Petra's mood lightened. "I never knew how intricate contemporary Dwarven magic could be! Did you know that Chadwick's Constant could be paired with Giem's Equilibrium through parallel conduits?"

"I understood some of that." Gwen grinned broadly. "I'll have you know; your cousin knows more than just Shield now. I also know Alarm, and I am working on Resist and a Cambridge Edition of Mage Armour."

"Impressive." Petra bit back a smile. "How's your Enchantment?"

"Not sure, actually— I should be on the second tier of efficacy. Major Knott has been sweating me with inscriptions." Gwen stretched her neck. "What are your plans for the rest of the week?"

"Seeing as I'll be missing the Lent Term regardless, would you mind if I stayed in London to accompany the Masters?"

"Sure, it's no skin off my nose," Gwen said as they made their way through East End. "Magister Wen isn't going to mind?"

"My learning contract with her has been absolved," Petra said.

"What, just like that? You're not sentimental at all?" Gwen felt surprised by Petra's candidness. "She did look after you for three, four years?"

"Babulya looked after me," Petra corrected her. "Which reminds me, you've been neglecting a lot of folks back home. They've been asking for you."

Gwen slapped her forehead. "You're right! Tonight! Wait, tomorrow! I'll call home first thing in the morning!"

To Gwen's wonderment, a fortnight and then some elapsed without incident, vanishing the linen snow, replacing the sleet with warmer and wetter weather.

The Dwarves' construction projects continued full-steam, kindling her stock of HDMs as newly erected scaffolds transformed into warehouse buildings, brutalist offices and streamlined printing towers.

Lorenzo returned after a week's absence, bringing a list of names, mostly NoMs, who were willing to jump ship from the Herald Sun and the Telegraph. A few of the spook's old mates at the Guardian were keen as well, and after signing off their CVs, Gwen interviewed her future staff in person.

Petra finally enrolled, ultimately choosing Queens College. Gwen commissioned Ollie to find her cousin a rented house not too far from Peterhouse as Petra was a post-graduate student and therefore had the option of external accommodation. Once the orientation completed, the Mind Mage elected to spend most of her time on the Isle of Dogs, observing the Dwarves, bringing their daily skinship to an end.

Gwen met with Elvia once more before she left for the Order of the Bath, taking the girls shopping at The Strand and filling their rings with clothes, shoes, makeup, snacks and assorted bric-a-brac. Hastings was a sizable township— but its commercial offering was incomparable to the capital.

Before her pilgrimage, Elvia informed Gwen that she had asked Sylvie Stratford, her colleague at Nightingale, to stand in at her Clinic to work under Walken. Gwen recalled that the pink-haired girl had looked after her friend, and so and told Elvia that Sylvie would receive her guidance.

Concurrently, Gwen's lessons under her tutors persisted: art, music and Illusion with Le Guevel, abjuring Mandalas under Kott, frustrations under Patel, tea with Lady Grey, and outings with Dede with Maxwell Brown.

Then, one tranquil afternoon, while breaking bread with her duck, she was accosted by her tutor.

"What's wrong?" Gwen noted Brown's haunted expression. The man wanted something from her but was hesitant to initiate.

Finally, after some duck banter, the Magister cleared his voice and delivered the bad news.

The first instalment of Gwen's repayment had arrived. The college now desired her active participation in researching Void Magic.

"Gwen, I've come to speak to you as a friend, your teacher, and the researcher trusted by the Academic Council to plumb the depth of arcanistry pertaining to your Element."

"Really?" Gwen lifted her face from Dede's rainbow feathers. "You need my permission?"

"Of course dear, we're not the CCP." Brown gave her a sideways glance. "We always ask for permission, so long as you don't upset the powers-that-be by refusing."

Gwen laughed at the mirthful Catch-22.

"Why are you laughing? This is your life," Brown replied seriously.

"Oh…" Gwen's grin grew rigid.

"The necessity of quantifying Void as an Element, which will lead to new Spellcraft advancements and countermeasures against Elizabeth Sobel, is no laughing matter." The Magister's eyes were unmoved by her upset. "Of course, this is not just for yourself but other Void Mages as well. To pool together our knowledge, you'll be joined by your contemporaries."

"Other Void Mages? Who else is there aside from me?" Gwen was genuinely astonished.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"From London Imperial, there's Meister Bekker's boy, who recently returned from Pretoria. I believe you're acquainted?"

"Jean-Paul?"

"The very same. And you'll also be meeting Gracie Hillbrook."

"And who would that be?"

"A predecessor."

"A Void Mage? Like Jean-Paul and me." Gwen's mouth half fell open. "Why haven't I heard of her?"

"We've been keeping her safe."

"Quack!" Dede struck out a wing in warning when Gwen's fingers dug a little too deep into its feathers.

"Come again?" Gwen placated the duck. "Cambridge has 'kept' this girl on campus?"

"She's not the most stable sorceress." Brown cocked his chin. "A good study of Sobel's deterioration over time, actually— besides, if the college didn't step in, she would have wasted away."

"Kept her like…" Gwen looked to Dede then to Brown. "… like a duck in a pond? How old is Gracie?"

"Twenty-one," Brown recollected. "Her birthday was last November. She's been with us for six years."

"And you want us Void Mages to meet and greet, show and tell?"

"An encounter that is in itself an experiment," Brown confessed. "We're still negotiating with the central continent's institutions for their candidates. Understandably, they're wary of you. Don't you think it's interesting? Did you have nothing to gain from Adventuring with Jean-Paul?"

"I suppose we had a good time." Gwen considered their experience with the Undead. Jean-Paul had indeed demonstrated a whole new tier of Void-based arcanistry.

"We think Gracie could use a dose of your optimism. She's recently become more unstable and erratic." Brown cautioned her. "Understandable. Nobody wants to die, of course, especially from Void consumption."

"That's… sad." Gwen felt a surge of sympathy.

"You're sweeter than you look, Gwen." Brown struck out his hand and patted Dede. "Dede's an excellent judge of character. Can I ask your permission to go ahead with the meeting of the Void Mages?"

"I am glad you asked, but why would I say no?"

"I am afraid you might feel compelled to save Gracie."

"What?" Gwen cocked her head. "Are you saying I should let a fellow Void sorceress die when I can empathise with the hunger, the terror, and the needless suffering?"

Brown's lips formed a bitter smile.

"Thanks to Wen, we now know your physiology is unique— and that your Druidic Essence is a transferrable medium." He stroked Dede's head. "I performed some tests on Dede, just to be on the safe side. Yours is a raw and primordial form of Essence. We don't know what Caliban ate to give it to you, or if the vitality is a unique part of your Astro-morphic frame— but it can benefit others."

"It only works on Magical Creatures," Gwen pointed out.

"Hardly. Have you tried giving it to humans?"

"Of course not."

"But you have," Brown reminded her. "That Chinese wine you dispensed so freely…"

Gwen raised both brows. "That was Sen-sen."

"A mere medium. Nothing we can't solve, or we can have Miss Lindholm provide the leaves on commission. We can even have Gracie train in Conjuration and whip-up a Familiar. I hope you understand the implications. The burden of life is something no one wants to bear. That's why I am warning you."

Gwen spent a moment digesting Brown's truism, gradually coming to terms with the entanglements Brown inferred. If indeed she could single-handedly prevent future Void Mages from dying with Almudj's Essence, utilise mediums of Wildland origins to infuse consumables with vitality— wouldn't the onus of her kind's livelihood be held in her dainty white fingers? As someone shouldering that obligation— the potential dilemmas and moral baggage were unfathomable. Even altruistically, the idea of Void Mages whose lives relied on her goodwill made her skin crawl.

"Please don't look like that. It's best to think of yourself as a medical specialist," Brown re-framed her growing unease. "You can save as many as you're willing— but no Cleric is morally obligated to operate on every patient."

"Yeah, that's a fucked up proposal if I ever heard one."

"Quack!" Dede agreed, dabbing her cheek with its bill.

"Please mull the matter over. You don't have to decide right away. Also, that was the lesser of our two problems." Brown smiled. "I was, alas, buttering you up for the bigger predicament."

"My womb is off-limits."

"... Your mind amazes me sometimes." Brown choked on his spit. "No, no— word has arrived from up-on-high to quantify the risk-tier of your Planar Ally. Factional interests wish to observe, document, then eradicate this creature you have dubbed the Shoggoth. I say this is a bigger problem because it isn't so much a quest but an obligation— one that pertains to your freedom anywhere in the developed world."

Gwen pursed her lips.

"Before you go and tattle… Lady Grey is in favour," Brown explained. "I don't think there's a living soul who would suggest that we should allow the contractor of a creature as inexhaustive as the Shoggoth, to exist unchecked and unexplained. For your knowledge, the Militants have been banging on the gates very loudly since your arrival."

"And NOW they tell me this? After how many weeks?" Gwen narrowed her eyes. "This would have been more palatable if it was a condition of coming to London."

"Then blame the Isle of Man for bringing the time table forward. We wanted more time for you to settle in as well. The more invested you are in us, the more we can invest in you. It's a two-way avenue." Brown returned her antagonism with calm logic. "If anything, blame that Cleric of yours who used your IIUC vid-cast for inciting the Militants. The Shoggoth can't be used as a deterrent if we have no idea what it's capable of deterring, or if it is quashable— a crucial distinction."

"They're going to blow up my Shoggy? What if they piss it off?"

Brown raised a critical brow. "In your report— you said that the Shoggoth is a mindless mass of mouths and that it does not possess intelligence. In the haste to get you inducted, the college assured the Tower that this was the case..."

Cold sweat instantly drenched the delicate fabric on Gwen's back.

"Right," she replied with the only acceptable answer.

"Then, we will proceed." Brown hovered a hand over her shoulder, hesitated, then moved onto Dede. "Gwen, are you certain the Shoggoth is a Planar Manifestation without an Ego?"

"Quack?" Dede gazed at her with its unsullied eyes of beady black, demanding the answer. "Quack-Quack?"

Gwen knew she had only moments to speak.
Was the Shoggoth capable of feelings or emotions?
Did it understand logos as humans did?
Was it a product of those stories she loved, or did the Shoggoth communicate the will of something swimming five fathoms down, deep in the depthless Void?

In all honesty— she desired a definite answer as well.

"Yes." Gwen crossed both fingers under Dede's feathers. "To my knowledge, I can say with confidence that Shoggy is an amoeba of hunger."

" _Enlarge_. _Seeking._ " Patel commanded from behind the Wall of Force.

"Void Missile!" Gwen ramrodded the spell through her conduits, her lips muttering invocations while her fingers somatically assisted the mental incantation.

Soundlessly, three amorphous globs, each resembling a dark ball of tenebrous ink, whipped through the air to strike the bird-Golem used for target practice. As her spell struck true, a sound of springs released from ratcheted tension accompanied the sight of the bird careening into the firing range.

"Next. _Extend Range. Delay. Simulcast_."

Another bird fluttered into the range, this time slow and ponderous to lower the difficulty of her targeting.

"V-Void Missile!" Gwen fumbled but quickly recovered by repeating the latter portion of the spell. With her VMI and Almudj's Essence, the exercise of low-tier Void-craft proved little inconvenience unless the elevated invocations suffered from catastrophic failure.

As per her designation, the first set of missiles did not manifest.

"Void Missile!" She finished her second spell just as the first materialised. Together, twin globs of Void matter shot forward as though propelled by a catapult. The second struck true, taking the Golem by the wing. The first missed by inches, sizzling against the Wall of Force before dissipating.

Gwen growled.

" _Enlarge_ , _Explosive._ " the command came from Patel.

"Void Missile!" Fighting the spell-strain, Gwen just managed to complete the third spell. "Enlarge" required two additional Minor and one Major invocation. "Explosive" was trickier, adding seven Major invocations that required another twenty-two Minor ones so that the spell exploded on command and not the moment it left the gate.

This time, her missile sailed just overhead of the fallen target. At her behest, it erupted in a jet-black burst of Void, showering the surrounding area with droplets of corrosive, all-consuming ink.

"How's that?" Gwen smugly turned to her instructor. "I did it."

"You fumbled, and then you missed against a slow-moving target." Kareena golf-clapped. "Yes, congratulations, Magus Song, you did it."

Just as she was about to offer a witty riposte, her tutor redirected her attention. "Before you embarrass yourself further. Your audience is growing impatient."

Gwen spun on her heels.
On the bleachers behind them, shielded by yet another Wall of Force, was a group of Mages. Two, she recognised instantly. One was Magister Brown in his demure jacket and dusky vest; the other had an unforgettable face; the last, a young woman, was new.

Gwen quickly bowed toward her Transmutation-spellshaping tutor, then made for her observers.

"JP!" Gwen dismissed the barrier, her voice bouncing across the high ceiling. In the next moment, she embraced the young man, who was shorter than herself, then gave him two unreciprocated air-kisses on either side of his face. "It's good to see ya, buddy."

In response to her friendly overture, the pale young man with a face that only a Meister could love polymorphed into an overlarge beetroot.

Suddenly self-conscious, Gwen glanced down to see if she had unexpectedly shamed herself with a daring attire. These days, her attention often waned thanks to her mental toils. Some mornings, whatever she could unlock within the first ten minutes had to suffice. Presently, she wore conforming jeans joined by a zip-up sports top, hardly the sort of thing that could start a scandal.

More than likely, JP had not anticipated so warm a welcome— which, combined with his introverted tendencies, had made him flustered.

"… Hello." Jean-Paul unglued himself, extending each finger as though unfurling a row of sticky tendrils. "You look well."

Gwen laughed. For some reason, she liked JP's awkwardness. There was a genuineness to it that the smooth-talking folk at Cambridge with their titles and their upbringing could not affect even if they tried.

"Emm…" Jean-Paul glanced at the young woman beside him, bracing himself with an expression of a boy waiting for the whip to land.

Brown coughed. "Gwen, this is the sorceress we discussed, Gracie Hillbrook."

With one hand still hanging on Jean-Paul's shoulder, Gwen looked to her right.

Gracie Hillbrook stood five-foot-six with a luxurious head of hair that fell over both shoulders down to her chest. She had an angular face atypical of the English, with freckles bespotting her pale skin from ear to ear. From sunken sockets, dark eye bags that rivalled Jean-Paul's made her forest-green irises especially intense. If the girl could be healthier, Gwen would remark that the sorceress was pretty— though now the girl simply appeared perpetually tired. On her bony shoulders, Gracie donned a tunic that was one-size too large, beneath of which a drab skirt covered her to the ankles. The overall effect, Gwen felt, was a frailness that cried out for a pair of strong arms to hold her tight.

Their eyes met, the girl looked downward, not daring to meet her gaze.

"Hello." Gwen extended a greeting. "I am Gwen Song."

"Gracie…" the Void Sorceress swallowed the air before producing a skeletal hand. "Hillbrook."

"Nice to meet you." Gwen took the woman's enfeebled extremities. From the trembling in her digits, Gwen could sense the young woman was undergoing a whole range of complicated emotions. "You alright, Gracie?"

The sorceress withdrew her hand. "Magus Song, are you well-acquainted with Jean-Paul?"

The timbre in the woman's voice was enough to catch Gwen off guard. With a bemused expression, she looked from sorcerer to sorceress, trying to discern the source of Gracie's antagonism.

"Of course, JP and me, we go way back." She patted Jean-Paul's curved back. "He and I, we survived the Front together, demolished Dungeon-fulls of Undead in Shenyang! How about you, Gracie? When did you get to know Jean-Paul?"

"Only a few days." Gracie's expression remained irksome. To Gwen's dismay, the young woman turned to Magister Brown accusingly. "Sir, what is the meaning of this?"

Very carefully, Jean-Paul slipped from under Gwen's arm to stand to one side.

"Gwen." Brown's expression was cringeworthy. "Though it is not my place to say so, I should inform you that Miss Hillbrook is well on her way to becoming Mrs Bekker..."

"... What?" Gwen's immediate response was to snort. A second later, she caught herself. "WHAT?"

"Per our prior conversation," Magister Brown spoke slowly and meticulously. "Miss Hillbrook has decided to put her future in the hands of London Imperial's Meister Bekker."

Gwen's mind performed a mental pirouette before landing back in reality. A week ago, post Brown's petition, she had advised her tutor that she would not be providing for the Mageocracy's future Void Mages. Brown had concurred, stating that the Tower's wish was to respect whatever outcome she chose.

Now she was being told that Gracie Hillbrook and Jean-Paul Bekker were en-route on becoming Mister and Missus Bekker. If Jean-Paul had said that he had known Gracie since childhood, Gwen would have bitten off the matter with a smile— but Hillbrook had just admitted that she knew the guy for a few days.

The fuck did that portend? Her fingers grew numb— an arranged marriage? No, worse than that. Meister Bekker had a way to keep Void Mages alive— as evidenced by Jean-Paul, and Brown had said that Gracie wasn't going to last much longer. If so, was this young woman choosing to offer her body to Umzokwe's Master to stay alive?

A grotesque wave of repression suffused her abdomen, making her breathless. Gwen rarely felt such upset for someone she had never met. Gracie, poor fucking Gracie. As a fellow Void Sorceress, she completely understood the horror of extinction from self-consumption. She also empathised why Gracie would choose to risk-bearing a child over wasting away.

BUT—

Did JP and Gracie know how fucked up it is to bear a Void baby?
Did anyone even know that Faceless was Sobel's kid? Or that Sobel went batshit insane on a Consume-spree because she was eating for two?
She should tell them— but was her Master's shame her secret to give?

As for Jean-Paul, the cocky prick—

"Oi, _Bekker_ " Gwen heard her voice ring out, her tone as hollow as the Void. She glared at Jean-Paul, who she had thought was a nice enough chap, despite literally everything else. The very thought of Jean-Paul's frog-like figure sprawled out over Gracie's milk-white body made her want to punch his teeth inwards.

"Y-yes, Gwen?" the Void Mage intensely studied the floor.

"Are you for reals, JP?" A wave of expanding vertigo filled the space between them. Beside her, Gracie Hillbrook took a step back, her irises suddenly contracting as the Void mana still churning in Gwen's conduits tuned the air solid with pressure. "Mate, you ever heard of the story of Sir Bors of Avalon?"


"Gwen! Stop that!" Magister Brown erected a Shield so that the barrier enveloped both himself and Gracie. "She can't defend herself!"

"Surely not." Gwen retracted her soul-constraining aura. "Look at JP— he's not even flinching."

"Gwen…" Brown raised his voice several decibels. "With your history, you should know better."

Gwen looked to Gracie, whose face was beading with sweat. The young woman looked as though she would faint at any moment. Still, Gwen felt the need to leave a stern impression. If Gracie couldn't even take a harsh stare from a Void Sorceress on the fifth tier of Affinity, how could she stomach having a life-sucking parasite siphoning on her already disasterous constitution?

"Sorry Gracie." Gwen raised both hands. "Jean-Paul, explain yourself."

"Me? I-I— er—"

"Perhaps you should converse with Gracie before you blame Jean-Paul." Brown set the trembling Gracie down on a cushioned seat before returning to Gwen. "Your friend is the ward of the Mevrou, and Gracie is ours. Please don't presume you can compel either of them."

The young woman took another minute to fully recover, allowing Gwen more time to study the kept Void Sorceress. Though her frumpy dress hid her figure, she could see from her collarbones that beneath the fabric was a vitality-famished body in the process of consuming itself. It wasn't a matter of fat and sinew, as with cases of anorexia, but a deeper, more metaphysical malaise. Everything about Gracie was weightless and frail, so much that Gwen wondered if she could lift her with one hand— or if such an act would break an arm or dislocate a shoulder. She felt sorry for the girl, and also upset and angry and resentful all at once.

"Magus Song." Gracie's voice sounded like a ghost's. "I would not want to be a bother to your busy self."

"Bollocks," Gwen cut in. "We're both in Cambridge, and we're both Void Mages. If anything, now that we're acquainted— I would loath to leave you be."

"… Thank you." Gracie swallowed. "I think Magister Brown has told you that I am not well."

Gwen nodded.

Gracie touched a white hand to her hair. "I am an Illusionist by trade. I can't exercise my spells every well, and I don't have any means of replenishing my vitality. Nonetheless, I understand that as I grow older and the talent continues to mature, my body won't be able to keep up."

"We've been looking after Gracie both nutritionally and through Clerical means," Brown interjected. "It is possible to keep Gracie hale if we simply pile on the Wildland ingredients—"

"I could chip in," Gwen said immediately. "You know how much…"

"— I fear between diminishing returns and the exorbitant cost, there's a limit."

Oh yeah, Gwen recollected from her Fructum Vitae adventure. Most effects from the Wildland's mystical ingredients lost their efficacy by half with repeated consumption.

Gracie' shoulders fell. "I've never been able to do anything myself. I am sick of it."

A pang of guilt hammered home the shame Gwen had kept at arm's length. She thought of Elvia, then she thought of Dede. Gracie had made a decision that should be respected, but why shouldn't she broaden the girl's options? Wasn't that sisterly solidarity? "Is marrying Jean-Paul a part of that?"

"The Mevrou has said that she has a way for me to keep hale," Gracie lowered her voice. "She said I could live a normal life, or even be useful as a Mage— if I so desire."

"And that's what you wanted?"

"I am sick of being kept." Gracie's breathing grew strenuous.

"I see. That's understandable. I don't fault you, Gracie." Gwen took a deep breath, then turned to her old party companion. "Jean-Paul, do you know why I am angry?"

"I listened to Mevrou Bekker?" The Void mage continued to study the floor.

"No." Gwen clicked her tongue. "I am upset because last time, we talked about all of this. We talked about respect and marriage and love. Do you remember that?"

Jean-Paul nodded.

"I said to you— there needs to be more to making babies than getting told you should. If there's no love, no affection, only desperate perpetuation or blind lust, then you're just animals— cows and bulls. Besides, we're talking about a kid here. A living, breathing, mini Jean-Paul or Gracie! Both our childhoods were fucked up— yours especially. Why would you think giving that to a kid is a good idea?"

Magister Brown loudly coughed.

"...Yes, Max, I know I sound like Elvia delivering a Sermon. I know I chose not to help Gracie, and that makes me a hypocrite and a Void-damned bitch. But this is about— dignity, I suppose. Jean-Paul, you failed to see that Gracie isn't just a womb you need to fill at the Mevrou's request. And Gracie, girl— you need to have more respect for yourself. You too, Jean-Paul, you're not just an inseminator." Gwen blushed heavily even as she spoke.

"The— er— Mevrou said 'love' should come tomorrow because Gracie needs to live today." Jean-Paul's nostrils flared. "She also says you're welcome to keep Gracie, but then she won't be responsible for Cambridge's candidate."

Gwen felt a massive migraine come on. Looking at the young couple squirm, she could see that some personal sacrifices needed to be made on her part to dissuade the pair. "Okay. I am going to tell you about some very unpleasant truths. Max, can we get some privacy? I need to inform these two why this baby business is not happening. You can listen in— but no questions."

"Is this classified information?" Brown wetted his lips.

"It's private and pertains to mine and Gunther's Master."

"Very well. To avoid Scry and Crows, may I suggest your Portable Habitat?" The scholar extended a hand. "You can set it up over there."

"Alright." Gwen led the foursome to the empty range. "Caliban! Ariel!"

"EE! EE!"
"Shaa! Shaa!"

Her Familiars materialised with a flourish.

Gracie's eyes grew wide. "Its… the Death Worm and the Kirin!"

"You two, keep guard." Gwen inserted the crystal, then laid down the pocket dimension. "Alright, you love birds, come inside. It's time to learn about the life-eating bees and the soul-sucking birds."

Peterhouse.
The Deer Garden.

Gwen held the inconsolable Gracie's bony waist with one arm, rubbing her back with another. Caliban rubbed itself against Gracie's leg, while Ariel lent itself as her support.

The story that Gwen had framed for the trio was that, fearful of her flirtatiousness among Sydney Tower's young men, Henry Kilroy had set her aside for a cautionary tale about a pregnant Void Sorceress.

Within her story, her Master had the misfortune of studying the unfortunate sorceress. Throughout the gestation period, the Void-talented Transmuter had grown so erratic and insane that she began to drain anything she could get her hands on from plants to dogs to manservants. In the end, at six month, her own body half-consumed the child. When the miscarriage occurred, what emerged was a mangled mass of aberrant, pulsing flesh, driving the woman mad. The poor girl then Voided herself, much to Kilroy's dismay, and that was the end of her unsung story.

"For me, all hanky-panky was off-limits." Gwen painted Henry as a stern father warning a rebellious daughter with a preference for miniskirts and heels. "Trust me— neither you nor your baby is going to survive. You can't breed Void Mages. They have to Awaken naturally."

Jean-Paul then tried to explain that Mevrou Bekker could circumvent this tragedy through workarounds— but Gwen retorted that if "Deathless Henry", husband to the vilest and most successful Void Sorceress in all history, drunk on Sufina's Golden Mead, could not protect this pregnant nobody— then it was unlikely a Meister from South Africa half of Kilroy's age could proceed with confidence. If Jean-Paul cared at all for Gracie, Gwen said, he should consider the risks. If he didn't care, then she would spank his ass with Lightning until he did.

There was silence. Then all three sighed long and hard.

By the time they left the portal and returned to the wet and dreary space of the Deer Garden, Gwen had delivered the promise that she would keep Gracie hale for now with her "Druidic" Essence— while Jean-Paul should renegotiate with his Mevrou.

"My Master will return next week," Jean-Paul muttered under his breath. "Could you speak to her for me?"

"Er…" Gwen felt her innards scrunch. Speak to the Mevrou? A Meister? Not one like Wen, but a ruthless elite who had figured out the quirks of Void Magic and could even make spells for her Apprentice? Someone who, according to Jean-Paul, probably presided over a state-wide eugenics program? Would she be debating with the devil herself? "Sure thing, JP. Just give me plenty of warning. Don't you dare throw me to the wolves like you did with Gracie."

Jean-Paul responded to her elder-sisterly authority in the only way he knew how.

Gwen sighed. She looked at Gracie; then she looked at Jean-Paul.

Void Mages.

What a fucked up existence.

"You two." She mulled over the matter in her mind, toying with a solution. "You guys ever heard of a Worker's Union?"

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A day later, Gwen convened at Peterhouse with Lady Grey, Magister Brown, Ollie and a representative from the Tower at the Master's building opposite the Old Court. In a room richly draped with crimson and furnished with rare wood, the imperialist coven plotted the demise of the Mageocracy's enemies.

"By the authority of London Tower, I now commence this formal meeting to discuss the deployment of the Shoggoth by Magus Song, Public Practice Licence No. 321530— Class VI War Mage," Colonel Sam Greyson, Administrative Official and representative of the Shard, spoke toward an omnidirectional recorder device. "Present with me are Marchioness Maxine Loftus of Ely, Magister Maxwell Brown of Emmanuel College and Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse. Scribe Ollie Edwards shall serve as our minder of the minutes."

The speaker waited for his august company's silent input, nodded, then continued.

"I present to our members the developing situation in Northern Wales." Colonel Greyson punched a few Glyphs in the air visible only to himself. "Our allies in Snowdonia tasked London Tower with a Quest last June. The given objective was to exterminate an aberrant parasitic life form, the carnivorous extra-planar species known as Triffidus Celestus, an invasive Elemental flora plaguing the peninsula of Anglesey— allow me to bring up an image."

With a touch, the Colonel projected a lumen-cast illusion into the space between the observers.

"That's a Triffid?" Gwen asked with both brows raised. In her mind, Triffids looked like single-stem orchids and were kind of cute. "It's disgusting…"

In the image, a roughly phallic-shaped monstrosity writhed and turned. On one bulbous end, a massive head consisting of tiers of lilac, violet and sunburst petals tapered into a muscular shaft that propelled itself via malicious tentacles. From the barbed neck, its waist snaked downwards until it formed a mass of angry knots that serviced its locomotion.

"There are now three variants in the Triffidus species." Greyson breathed out. "During the first extermination, we sent a Flight of Magus-tier Combat Mages into Anglesey. The purge took a week, and their Quest reported success. In hindsight, the Tower should have sent specialists, as untrained Combat Mages could not have known that the flora left spores. When the next outbreak occurred, the Triffids were far more durable and immeasurably hardier, some even evolved. In October, we sent two Flights of veteran Combat Mages, together with a Botanist, Magister Valarie Banks, up to the region for a second round. The Purge was a success. However, Magister Banks reported that the Triffids had fundamentally altered the physiology of the landscape and that extermination would involve a longitudinal operation."

The image shifted to a map showing the spread of the Triffid contagion.

"Her prediction came true in early November. Adventurers Purging the region of regrowth reported seeing not two, but three variants of Triffids."

A second bestiary image came into view. This time, it showed a Triffid with no less than three heads, and its central torso was a mess of vines that entwined to form a reptilian body. As it slithered forward, the whole thing appeared both comical and terrifying.

"This variant, the adventurers call Hydraffid," the Colonel explained. "The Triffidus Hydrus possesses extreme regeneration. Size-wise, its three times the length of the Mono-Triffid while possessing extreme agility. Thus far, the encounter-tier is set at six. Unlike the normal Triffids, they do not hunt in packs."

Finally, a third image came into view.

"This came from our December expedition to study the creatures. We call it Triffidus Primus. It is an intelligent creature capable of reproducing crude but powerful Druidic manifestations. It can also summon its kind, rapidly regenerate, and is intelligent enough to utilise tactics. It speaks rudimentary Elemental."

The image depicted an enormous humanoid-plant hybrid half-buried in the mossy ground. Its face was a flower with a maw that resembled a carnivorous fly-trap. A massive mane of leaves surrounded its neckless head, and on both of its shoulders distended two Triffidus Celestus that served as limbs.

"We have consulted Snowdonia on the matter, and they have raised the level of alarm near their Grove. Though the Elves are fully capable of eradicating this invasive species, the Mageocracy's present treaties with the Hvítálfar dictate that regions outside of their Träälvor Warden's control remain within our jurisdiction."

"With resource comes responsibility," Lady Grey interpreted for Gwen. "In this regard, we're farmers given land to till."

The Colonel brought up another map. "Since January, the Triffidus contagion has taken no less than three dozen Adventurers— including one Mage Flight from the local Garrison sent to suppress its expansion. Thanks to the Isle of Man's ceasefire, we can now relocate Mechanised Golem units across the Menai Strait to Pili Palas. The operation was set to commence next week— until we received news that Magus Song shall be gracing us with her presence."

"How green is this region?" Gwen asked. "Colonel, have you been briefed about the Shoggoth's propagation abilities?"

"If need be, you may cleanse the peninsular entirely." Colonel Greyson indicted to the infestation map. "Only a bridge conjoins the landmasses. Our citizens who have not left the island have long become monster-fodder. On the other hand, the indigenous inhabitants on the isle are negligible. We tried to evacuate them, but they are either in hiding, have escaped, or are being used as food by the Triffids."

"All those villages are empty?" Gwen pointed to the hundred or so dots lining the coast from the English mainland to the Irish Sea.

"Some benign Merfolk and Avian colonies live near the coast," the Colonel explained. "Fear not, they can escape into the ocean."

"Let's say the Shoggoth grows too large." Gwen eyed the map. "Then what happens?"

"In Shenyang, it reached no more than three kilometres at the apex," Brown noted helpfully. "Mind you, that was a city said to have several thousand still-living souls. I think we should be fine. The amount of energy required to manifest in the Prime Material is astounding. For a Shoggoth, its maximum allowance is limited by your Void Affinity and Conjuration tier as well. Once its dimensional anchor becomes disrupted, the cost to remain in our world will directly be burdened by its internal supply of mana— and there is no way to resupply while on the Prime Material. Void as an Element simply does not 'exist' per se."

"Which is why before it disappears, the 5th Regiment Royal Gunners, joined by the 32nd Royal Artillery, will be conducting field exercises. Likewise, they'll be joined by specialists from Oxbridge and London Imperial, in addition to invited observers from our allies."

"Shock and awe?" Gwen raised both brows. "You're using this example to flex some muscles?"

"You could say that." Colonel Greyson nodded.

"We're assuring our allies, dear." Lady Grey's eyes twinkled. "Considering Sobel, it's best to keep you an open secret."

"And once the Triffids are gone, the moorlands should return to shrubbery and granite within the month with the Druids' help," Browned assured Gwen. "Worry not. We've checked with the Dwarves as well. They don't have a settlement in the area. It's a clean Purge."

"One more question." Gwen raised her hand. "Are the Triffids sapient?"

"In the same vein as most extra-planar lifeforms of a high-enough tier," Colonel Greyson affirmed. "Is that important, Miss Song."

"I mean, we negotiate and work with Dryads and the Alraune, don't we?"

"Not exactly, dear," Lady Grey joined the conversation. "Both your Master's Sufina and Miss Lindholm's Familiars were companions from an early age. In the wilderness, a fully developed Alraune is an upper-tier menace capable of siphoning away entire settlements if allowed to ensnare even a single man. Likewise, Sufina's kind can dominate entire regions if gone unchecked. They're not openly malicious, though one should always be wary when one's neighbours reproduce by predating on sons and husbands."

"Besides, the Triffids should not exist on our plane." Colonel Greyson's patience endured. "That and their evolution is too rapid to be left alone. I hate to imagine the diplomatic pitfall should they make it to Snowdonia. It would be Ysbyty Ifan all over again."

"What's Ysbyty Ifan?" Gwen regarded her betters. "It sounds Elven."

"Druidic-Gaelic, actually," Lady Grey answered her ward. "Ysbyty Ifan was where the Militants decided to challenge the Snowdonian Enclaves over ownership of Afon Tryweryn, the Lake of Crystals."

"A tragedy." Greyson made the sign of the cross. "Less so because of the lives lost, but more so because we asked a question and we didn't like the answer."

"That and none of us stopped the Militants from asking the said question." Gwen's House Mistress rolled her eyes. "The Crown too had made a misstep."

The rest of the room remained silent. Only a childhood friend of the Crown could offer such open criticism. For the rest, to speak too candidly was a danger in itself, and disingenuous as well, considering the power and prestige the jewel of Britannia had salvaged from the Beast Tide's aftermath.

"Elves kicked our asses?" Gwen noticed the change in atmosphere.

"I, for one, believe the humiliation was necessary," Colonel Greyson spoke carefully. "I think our heads got rather large after we recovered Australia and South Africa and parts of South-East Asia. The incorporation of new arcanistry from our Demi-human allies, as well as the plethora of new methodologies presented by the Grey Faction, had opened up avenues that Humanity was not yet ready to explore."

Brown and Loftus both raised their cups.

"… one more thing." Gwen looked around the room. "Am I one of those avenues?"

"Not you personally," Brown quickly interjected. "Sobel, on the other hand..."

"I see." Gwen made a mental note to petition Lady Grey in private, hoping her hostess was willing to dispense with the details. With everything happening at once, Gwen realised she had neglected to chase up her Master's old mates for their stories. "Please continue. I apologise for interrupting."

The tension in the room relaxed.

"Our operation will consist of the following." The Colonel returned to the map. "If you will observe…"

For Gwen, the Purge action was set to be in two stages. Stage one involved the capture and collection of Triffids to be kept in Stasis. The Royal Botanical Society requested a hundred specimens of the baseline variant, as well as up to twenty of the evolved species. Four Flights of Mages, together with Adventurer-volunteers, would be deployed across the strait at the forward operating base at Menai. During this stage, Gwen would assist the Purge and stock up on vitality for her Shoggoth, helping to ensure the safety of the academic staff.

The Shoggoth event itself would take place on the moorland, now a carnivorous forest crawling across tablelands formally known as Anglesey. In the aftermath, guarded by the Tower's Mage Flights, Gwen would deploy her Planar Ally, then retreat to the Forward Operating Base. As insurance, Dublin's defence-focused Tower had been put on alert and would mobilise in anticipation of an extreme event.

Observation of the Shoggoth would then take place, followed by suppression.

"… and this concludes the briefing." Greyson bowed. "Marchioness, Magisters and Maguses. Are we in agreement?"

His audience returned nods, or stood and bowed as the officer retrieved the recording device, bowed in turn, then made his exit.

"Ollie, Max, you may leave us." Lady Loftus permitted the men to leave.

Ollie bowed, gave Gwen an amicable look of caution, then turned for the door. Gwen's instructor performed likewise after a silent exchange with the Marchioness through pulsing Message spells.

Once the two were alone, the two women drank tea and made small talk about the news. Lady Grey informed her that a full biometric evaluation would take place before the mission to ascertain the efficacy of Caliban's Consume, not to mention the Shoggoth's baseline arcane emanations.

"Gwen," Lady Grey hailed the contemplative sorceress once the tiring details were exhausted. "After the Purge, would you like to take a break?"

"A break?" Gwen's eyes lit up. "I would love a break. This isn't a trick question, is it?"

"It's a sincere enquiry, dear. You've been working very hard both for yourself and for the Isle of Dogs. The college will fund this expedition for you. Would you like to spend a spell in Snowdonia?"

Gwen blinked. "We can visit Snowdonia now?"

"Of course, if you have the connections and the HDMs." The lady smiled. "That said, you won't be entering the Enclave unless personally invited. There's a trading post— Trawsfynydd, not far from the Grot where it's possible to spy the grand trunk of the Elfhome at Tryfan. It's a very popular destination for our well-to-do members. I suppose you can consider it a waiting room of sorts for those seeking an audience with the Masters inside the Grot. If you're lucky, you may even spy a Hvítálfar Elementalist training the youth on the Llyn. Moreover, there's someone there who we would like you to meet."

"Who would that be?"

"An ally of the Mageocracy, someone who has been helping us for a very long time."

"An Elf?"

"Not just any elf. A Highborn immortal."

Gwen swallowed. She immediately thought of Galadriel. Would it be like meeting a goddess? What would Snowdonia's Grot look like, she wondered. Hopefully, like Lothlórien. "Any idea what she needs from me?"

"It's a 'he'," Lady Grey assuaged her fears. "And I think you meant what _you_ might need from _he_ who is a thousand or more years old, likely older. He knew Henry Kilroy longer than any of us and can answer all the questions we're not at liberty to address— and only he has the authority to teach you a unique form of sorcery."

Suddenly, Gwen's Divination Sigil tingled. Instantly, Gwen's chest constricted, although with excitement or fear, she couldn't tell. The feeling of premonition travelling up and down her spine was making taste buds hallucinate. For some strange reason, she could taste eucalyptus.

"Druidic Magic?"

"Nothing quite so rustic." Lady Grey's gaze was full of benevolence. "And don't count your cockatrices before they hatch. No one said the Master is willing to teach you— that, my dear, is a test where you're truly on your own."

****


Gwen wondered if she could replace the flimsy hospital gown with a swimsuit or a silk robe.

The sheer fabric made her feel exposed, especially with the silhouette of Wen bending over the Glyph panels, reminding her of the unpleasantness that filled her early days in Shanghai.

Back then, she had been desperate— both to please and to find out more about her latent Void talent, a combination that resulted in her consenting to Wen's suggestion of testing Caliban on a human being.

The results had been spectacular— even from the braindead Choi, she had extracted his talent for Illusion. In its aftermath, however, she had dreamt of the man's expressionless face, half-drooling even as Caliban tunnelled under his tremulous rolls of fat.

_Beep— Beep— Beep—_

Pinned to her chest, just above her heart and below her breasts, Glyph-clad devices the likeness of scarab beetles pulsed with light as her body channelled its energies. A thin veneer of sweat plastered her skin, making her feel all kinds of icky. Connected to the nodes was a thrumming thinking-engine feeding a stack of Wen's Spellcubes, each tenebrous with Void Mana, drinking in the pale light. A year ago, before Almudj's blessing, she could fill three or four— now, she had just managed a dozen.

"Gwen. No need to push yourself." Petra was ready with a warm robe even though Gwen did not fear the cold. It was the sterility of the lab, the smell of pristine equipment, the tang of metal-on-metal that made her skin alive with goosebumps.

"She needs to push her limits for the accuracy of the data." Wen's voice was no less sterile as she performed her calculations. "I can't believe Cambridge hasn't been collecting data the whole time you're here."

"Maybe they think of me as a person," Gwen replied with unapologetic sarcasm. "Having a lucid Void sorceress is more important than having data."

"Wishful thinking," Wen said. "Their deference is because you swallowed Shenyang."

"I'll take it," Gwen said.

From across the glass pane, Wen touched a few Glyphs only she could see. "This will sting."

"Strewth!" Gwen flinched when the beetles attached to her skin suddenly bit her. The one attached to the base of her skull was especially nasty. "What the hell?"

"Blood and skin samples." Petra stopped Gwen from removing the scarabs. "If you recall, the sensors are for your heart, liver and—"

"I know, I know… jeez…"

"We're done. You may remove the dive nodes now, Petra," Wen informed her ex-student.

Her cousin carefully tapped the seamless plating that married the scarabs to the tubes feeding back into the Spectrometer. With a squelch, the little lamprey-attachments loosened, leaving red welts marked with rows of tiny needle-teeth punctures.

"Oh, you're bleeding." Petra reached for a cotton pad. "You weren't bleeding before."

"I am dry on Essence." Gwen steadied herself with one hand against her cousin. "And I am running on mana fumes."

"You look terrible." Her cousin agreed. "You look like that Gracie."

Unable to staunch the blood naturally, Gwen accepted a low-tier Heal Minor Wounds from one of Petra's spellcubes. After she healed, Gwen forwent the robe and slipped on her intimates, followed by a loose cotton one-piece dress from her ring. Once her hair was tamed and her feet adorned by a pair of kitten heels, she was ready to meet the others.

Jean-Paul milled about just outside, half-hunched against the wall with a slumped Umzokwe blowing bubbles onto the floor. Both were exhausted, as the sorcerer's Void admixture took from both himself and his Familiar. On the opposite wall, sitting and hugging her knees, Gracie appeared both diminished and drained.

"How are you all feeling?" Gwen smoothed out her dress. "I am starving."

"I could eat," Jean-Paul concurred.

"I want to sleep." Gracie buried her head against her lower limbs. The sight was so pitiable that Gwen materialised a jacket for the young woman's shivering shoulders. "Sleep for a week."

The door to the laboratory next door slid open with a hiss, revealing Brown in his tweed coat. "Well done, you three. I've got the results. Would you like to share them?"

"I don't mind," Gwen shrugged.

Jean-Paul nodded.

Gracie said nothing.

"… here's the script." Brown appeared to think better of reading the numbers out loud. "There— at your discretion. Ask me questions."

Petra took a step back, but Gwen positioned the script so that her cousin could read it anyway.

Unlike the simple line-scripts from Fudan, Cambridge's Spectrometer encompassed visualisations, depicting everything from Affinity for School to Mana Efficacy to aggregate scores for her Different Schools of Magic. The row on the left indicated Wen's last measurement of her talents, while the row on the right showcased the score assigned by Cambridge.

"Luckily, Wen trained in England," Brown explained. "Meister Bekker as well."

Together, the girls read the report.

Gwen Song
PPL No.321530

Lightning: 7.12 (7.57) — 7.17 (7.84)”
Void: 5.23 (5.33) — 5.42 (5.56)"

"The kids have grown thanks to adventuring with Dede," Gwen remarked to Petra. "Looks like socialising the Familiars does help. My affinity hasn't grown much, though."

"Thanks to diminishing returns, you would hit a soft cap around the sixth tier," Brown spoke beside them. "Where's Wen? She might offer some better insight."

"She's occupied," Petra offered a non-committed answer. Gwen understood that Wen was taking some time to adjust. In Shanghai, she had been lauded and celebrated as the city's precious Meister. Here, the polite indifference was maddening.

"Your mana growth appear to have stunted." Brown watched as Gwen turned the page. "We both know the solution to that…"

Gwen read the summary.
VMI: 345 — 352

Her growth, Gwen noted, was indeed minimal considering all the work she had put in.

"Maybe it'll expand after the expedition?" Brown read her disappointment. "There's nothing like combat for a Mage to grow, and you're one hell of a Battle Mage, or so they tell me."

"Yeah." Gwen mulled over the various indices. "Let's see the damage."
“Evocation 5.62 — 5.71”
“Conjuration 6.23 — 6.27”
“Transmutation 4.07 — 4.70”
“Abjuration 3.01 — 3.50”
“Divination 1.78 —2.00”
“Illusion 2.56 — 3.21”
“Enchantment 2.11— 2.78”
"Other - 4.78," she muttered to herself.

"… Other?" Gwen's brows furrowed. "What's 'other'?"

"Our spectrometer takes into account talents other than those measurable by the IMS." Brown's voice took on a calming tone. "Other is… assorted efficacies other than the Schools mentioned above. They're more common in students with exotic bloodlines."

"That seems rather helpful." Gwen re-read the sheet. "Druidic magic?"

"One would hope." The Magister smiled. "You have a rather exotic Astral Body that filters Essence, after all. It's only fair you would have an affinity for unconventional arcanistry."

"Maybe it refers to something older." Gwen thought of Almudj. Maybe it's the Dreaming? She thought to herself. Holy shit! That would be amazing. "How do I find out what it is?"

"I am told you will be receiving an instructor from Snowdonia?"

"In Snowdonia—" Gwen corrected her tutor. "I don't know who this 'Master' could be, Maxine would not say."

"I shall enquire no further."

"Suit yourself." Gwen kept reading. "I see that Evocation and Conjuration have reached a bottleneck."

"It's only natural," Petra observed. "Your Enchantment and Illusion was going up by leaps and bounds— Transmutation especially."

"I did a lot of Spellshaping," Gwen confessed. "Nothing but Void as well."

Gwen turned the page, saw Jean-Paul's profile image, then handed the sheet over to her compatriot.

"Er... I've seen yours before…" the Void Sorcerer confessed. "Would you like to see mine?"

"… phrasing." Gwen amused herself, then took back the script. "Oh, this is very interesting."
"Evocation 5.27 — 5.34."
"Conjuration 5.61 — 5.71."
"Transmutation 2.12 — 2.35."
"You can access three Schools of Magic, JP?"

"I was a Conjurer by trade. Many of the spells I utilise require Spellshaping and Multi-School focus from the very beginning." Jean-Paul's lips formed a lopsided grin. "It's not so hard if it's all you've ever known."

"Elite training, eh?" Gwen read on. "Void Affinity— 5.80 (6.45) and a VMI of 220. That's impressive, JP."

"It's not so impressive when you consider that I was…" Jean-Paul's tone grew devoid of any particular emotion. "… tailor-made."

Woodenly, Gwen read on. There was a shorter section of the paper stack that remained— Gracie's biometrics.

"Gracie, do you mind?" Gwen offered a platitude. "If I am sponsoring you, I would like to know what we're dealing with."

"Help yourself." Gracie's face grew red. "It's incomparable to your talents."

Gwen quickly studied the graphs.

Illusion 2.44 — 2.48

Void Affinity — 4.11 - 4.12

VMI - 43-45

"Your Void Affinity is quite high," Gwen remarked with surprise. "How often do you train?"

"That's almost pure talent," Brown explained in Gracie's stead. "Keep in mind that affinity denotes efficacy. Void Mages Awakening with low affinity have lower chances of survival."

"But higher affinity means more mana leaks…" Gwen's brows furrowed. "Jesus, we're fucked from both ends?"

"What a wonderful way with words you have, Gwen. Yes. There's a Goldilock's zone involved. You were lucky to have Awakened in Lightning concurrently," her tutor remarked. "Wen says your affinity began around two?"

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"Something like that," she replied. "Master Kilroy had said I shouldn't be bothering with Void Magic for a long while, at least until I was an adult. It wasn't until I got to Shanghai that I started using it regularly."

"And that would be thanks to Wen." Brown made an unpleasant face. "A fortunate woman who met a very lucky specimen. A less talented Void Mage would have perished in her laboratory."

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Gwen smirked.

"Your Affinity was only two?" Gracie looked up, her face full of hope.

Pre-Faceless, it probably was, Gwen thought, mentally banishing the howling, laughing, screaming mien of the tar-like shapechanger as Caliban slurped her up like a line of stubborn snot.

"Yeah. I had some close calls, but things worked out," Gwen assured her newest companion. "Somewhere up there, a hidden hand hath the steerage of my course."

"Are you religious, Gwen?" Gracie responded to her Gwenism by stretching her limbs like someone trying to figure out independent muscle groups. "That sounded biblical."

"No, not at all," she replied, helping Gracie into the jacket. "Let's go get some piping hot curry. After that, allow me to prescribe some medicinal spirits. JP, Gracie, you're coming with me."

"Where to?" Jean-Paul looked to Brown for permission, then turned back to Gwen when Brown concurred.

"To the Runic Underground!" Gwen grinned. "I wanna take you to a Dwarf Bar."

The reason Gwen had elected to take her compatriots to the Dwarf Bar was that finally, after placing the order in early December, her new stock of Maotai had arrived.

At the docklands, she was received by Wally, who made his report for the week, then lead the foursome down to the warehouse, where Gwen gazed with benevolence upon the virginal pallet of life-giving elixirs.

Unfortunately, these were no longer the Dynastic-era distils, but decade-old variants available to the mass market. The House of M had acted as her agent in the auction and had succeeded in securing a pallet of the precious liquid for the open market. Its present value was well over ten thousand HDMs, a hit to the wallet even for someone like Gwen— though she knew that with her special constitution, these liquids could open doors no volume of crystals could begin to pry.

With a wave of her hand, twenty-four cases of six bottles each disappeared into her Storage Ring.

They then toured the isle with Gwen selling its sights and prospects, making a detour via the printing press to say hello to Lorenzo's gang, likewise meeting Eric Walken.

"I've found those ghostwriters you were after," Lorenzo reminded her. "When do you want to meet them?"

Gwen informed Lorenzo that things would have to wait until after the Triffidus Purge.

"Such a shame our paper isn't ready for this headliner." Lorenzo sighed. "Remember, no interviews. You'll be on the Front Page of our first edition. 'An Audience with the Void Sorceress'."

Gwen concurred.

Walken's concern was more so concentrated on the Void Mages.

"An interesting development." The Magister's gaze made Jean-Paul and Gracie uncomfortable. "I can see where this is going. It's fine, I suppose. Just be careful out there. And don't drink too much. Last time, you frightened the wits out of the NoMs with your midnight screeching."

Gwen apologised, then unapologetically and without adieu, made for the bar.

"Any 'mate' of Gwennie's is a clan of ours!" Yossari Vildrenbrandt slammed back the thimble of Maotai. "Phua—! This Firewater kicks like an overcharged Strider!"

"This is the Maotai I've been telling you about." Gwen studied the Dwarves as they threw back their heads, then wiped their beards or whiskers. "I've added some vitamins as well. How is it?"

Yossari smacked her lips. "Curiously vital. It reminds me of Elven sap-mead. What's in it?"

"A criminal amount of fermented sorghum," Gwen explained. "I am told that the volume of harvest required to distil this one bottle could feed the township that makes Maotai for a year. It is a luxury for an era of prosperity. The older distils' all gone now, more or less. No one had the food to spare to make Maotai during the Sino Conflict, and then the Revolution, and then the Beast Tide."

"We've got spirits like that in Deepholm." The Alchemical Master poured herself another thimble. "What vitamin?"

"A bit of Druidic Essence." Gwen smiled. "My secret concoction, what do you think?"

"Earthy, with a hint of oak, a little bitter." Yossari swirled the metal vessel. "Needs stronger legs. Not nearly mellow enough. Yer no Brewmaster, are yer?"

"I was a bit tired today." Gwen looked at Jean-Paul and Gracie. "Maybe it'll have more kick when I am fully-charged."

Jean-Paul was staring into his cup, half-slumped against her shoulder, his face red from the neck up. Gracie looked like she was warm and fuzzy and could do with a nap about now. Her complexion was much better, though Gwen doubted a mere 75 HDM crystal bottle of booze is going to fix her swiss-cheese Astral Body. More than likely, at least for now, she would have to add another leaf or two to her monthly Sen-sen Tax. Before she left for the Triffids and then Snowdonia, she would very much like to possess a bottle as close to the Sen-sen Original as possible prepared for her mysterious mentor.

"I'll ready another batch later," Gwen informed the Dwarves, who between them had already demolished no less than six bottles. "Trust me. When it's at full strength, it'll grow you a new beard."

For the next few days, Gwen's tutors readied her for the excursion. Le Guevel conjured a few life-like Triffid illusions to get her acquainted; Patel drove her up the wall with IFF spellshaping, and Brown busied himself with coordinating the Void trio. Her last lesson of the week was with Nils Kott, who wanted her to finalise proximity wards.

"How's this?" Gwen looked up from the floor, where she had been busy inscribing a Warding Circle.

"Fair— but too slow considering we're on a levelled plane with no debris and no howling Triffid. Some field exercises would do you good." Major Kott walked around the circle scratching his chin, inspecting her work.

Gwen pumped mana into the inscription rod, liquified the precious materials contained in its cartridge, then continued her mental chant while her hand moved the cumbersome wand over the floor. "Sir. Some of my largest gains in recent months are in Abjuration and Enchantment."

"I've been informed." Kott smiled warmly. "I am glad you're taking this seriously, Magus Song."

"No need to be so formal. Just Gwen's fine." Gwen gazed up at the square-jawed German. "Thank you for teaching me so well. I never knew that Enchantment and Abjuration had so much synergy and that it could be used offensively as well. I've banked enough CCs to pick up Repulsive Field, Spell Siphon and Core Shatter. It's hard to imagine a defender capable of smashing monsters to smithereens."

Gwen's tone of worship was because she had finally gotten a glimpse at the true potential behind Abjuration when she tapped into the upper tiers. For instance, the sixth-tier Repulsive Field created a movable Wall of Force in a semi-dome that not only functioned as a barrier but created multiple 'sponge' layers. These buoyant barriers then worked to absorb incoming attacks, ultimately unleashing an omnidirectional wave of destruction. Likewise, Spell Siphon at tier five could drain mana from an area to dampen a variety of effects, serving as the basis of Anti-Magic Mandalas inscribed by Enchanters. As for Core Shatter, Gwen had only recently discovered that such an Abjuration spell existed at the seventh tier, being capable of casting a "Banish" with such brutality that lower-tier Creature Cores would explode, instantly slaying their foe. When such a spell was deployed against a Creature Mage, Kott had warned her— weak-willed Conjurers may suffer permanent damage to their Astral Souls, akin to what Alesia had sustained.

In her mind, therefore, Gwen imagined a scene in which hundreds of Triffids hammered on Kott's Repulsive Field. Then, at the apex of the spell's potential energy, the Abjurer concurrently unleashes an AoE Core Shatter on the field itself, sending an explosion of erupting bodies flying every which way.

"You have a long way before you get there." Kotts snorted. "Whatever the case, don't get cocky, and don't underestimate a wildland creature's hunger for life. I've left instructions for the crew to have you perform the Wards for their camps. If you fail, somebody may very well die due to your negligence."

"I'll do my best." Gwen saluted, giving the man her best smile. The more time she spent with the Major, the more she admired his stoicism. Likewise, as with most Abjurers, there was a natural protective aura they exerted which she found to be calming.

Major Kott looked downward. She followed his eyes, wondering if the instructor was seeking out something he liked.

"If that's your 'best', I would be cautious in that Triffid-infested Purple Zone. Re-inscribe this hextogramic ward right now." The Abjurer-Enchanter knitted his brows. "And stop getting distracted while you're inscribing. Abjuration isn't Evocation! A wrong stroke could mean a life lost!"

Emmanuel's College.
The Duck Ponds.

A few days later, after some back and forth, it was decided that Richard and Petra would accompany Gwen, Gracie and Jean-Paul. Together, the fivesome would make a party of a sort, with Richard as the defender, Gwen and Jean-Paul as the damage dealers, Gracie on support, and Petra on utility.

The rationale given by the university was that they wanted London's three Void Mages to get to know each other better by observing one another in combat. Through feats of broil and battle, Brown explained, the participants may awaken particular instincts, or reach new states of clarity not possible while living in Cambridge's greenhouse.

Gwen had no complaints, neither did Jean-Paul, who had full confidence in his and her appetite for destruction. It was only Gracie who had never been to a Purple Zone, and who hyperventilated over the prospect of seeing a live-fire exercise of two battle-ready Void Mages against truck-sized monsters.

On Gwen's lap, Dede the duck coiled its massive body, mesmerising Gracie with its rainbow hues. Around the pond, Caliban and Umzokwe wrestled on the lawn, sending screeching students fleeing for the Old Court. Ariel drifted overhead, napping in the warm sun.

"Between my dogs, Familiars, Richard and Lea, you'll be right as rain," Gwen assured the Illusionist. "The university will also provide you with protective items, so this is more like a field trip of sorts. Besides, we're not the front line. Mine and JP's job will be stocking up on vitality while we travel with the Botanists."

"Indeed," Jean-Paul chimed in. "Anglesey is Gwen's proving ground. We're just there to observe."

"And you'll get to meet Golos," Gwen said to the Void Sorceress. "You said he was your favourite out of the three on the vid-cast, right?"

Gracie nodded. She had said that she admired the raw power and majesty of the Thunder Wyvern. Gwen was more interested in the copious volumes of Triffid Cores Golos could bring to the market. Once the Triffids ceased to exist in the wild, she could operate a soft monopoly until someone found a way to farm them safely.

"Great, as so long as I have a stern chat with the horny lizard, you two can hang out." Her voice took on a chill that made the two Void Mages shiver. "If he's as cheeky as before, you guys will get to see how Caliban tames Drakes."

As for reaching the peninsula, only Gwen possessed a Flight licence, and so they would first take the ISTC from Paddington to Birmingham, then from Birmingham to Liverpool. Once outside Liverpool's airspace, they would be free to utilise Flight spells. The distance, as Gwen could see between the coastal port and Bangor, was exactly fifty kilometres, meaning an hour's flight at worst.

"That said, how're you feeling?" Gwen asked the young woman. Wen's tests had been exhaustive, so much so that Brown had brought in a Cleric. "Are you taking your nightly Maotai?"

Gracie's luminous eyes lowered with shame. Once the sorceress found out that Gwen was sharing the source of her vitality to keep her hale, she hadn't known how to express her gratitude. Gwen didn't mind. She wasn't helping Gracie for her appreciation. At least now she had confirmation of Brown's hypothesis. After two biometric scries, spectrometry and blood works, it was determined that her "Druidic Essence" could indeed be a stop-gap for Gracie's decline.

The Maotai, as a Wildland component, would eventually lose its efficiency as Gracies' body began to reject the rejuvenating effects. However, the same diminishing returns did not apply to Gwen's Essence, which Gracie's body appeared to absorb readily. What it meant, therefore, was that a Maotai-like medium could catalyse 'Druidic Essence' to fortify physical and Astral bodies, even with its potency diluted.

The confirmation meant that Gwen could arguably juice-up elixirs that could allow Void Sorceresses to keep their health. The problem was that, should Gwen fail to provide said elixirs, lose the ability to produce Essence or die in battle, the fate of all Void Users addicted to her life-giving salve would immediately be sealed.

There was also a longitudinal predicament. With Gracie's affinity, the more capable her body became in sustaining the demands of her talent, the more robust its growth. What should be a sufficient volume of Essence today may not be for tomorrow. If they were to multiply the demand by ten-fold, or a hundred-fold— then what?

But Magister Brown had an answer for that too. It wasn't as though a Void Mage could not be kept upright through periodic injections of Positive Energy, Faith Healing and Wildland rarities— as was the case with individuals reportedly living in the central continent and the USA. If they took that approach, Gwen's talent was merely another unsustainable delay of the inevitable. What the researchers desired was Umzokwe and or Caliban as a sustainable addition— a way to tap into the lamprey-Sprites theorised to exist within that realm of pitch and nothingness, awaiting a human mind to give them shape.

"I am feeling better," Gracie replied demurely.

"Quack!" Dede offered his sympathy. "Quack!"

Gwen patted the girl's hands in a show of solidarity. "Get some rest, Gracie. We'll be leaving first thing tomorrow. JP?"

Jean-Paul, half-draped over the park bench watching Caliban french Umzokwe, was smiling.

"What's up?" Gwen said, watching the master of the White Leech.

"This is nice." Jean-Paul's lopsided grin once again marred his face. "I am feeling an abnormality in my chest."

"A what now?"

"Like a current of warm water." Jean-Paul's expression changed as he did his best to explain. "I feel less constricted."

Gwen was about to ask Jean-Paul if he could clarify when the realisation struck. She tilted her head, studied the confused young man, then broke into a generous grin. Without a word, she reached out to give the wretch a big hug. "Come on, Dede. Gracie, you join in as well."

"Quack!"

Flustered, Jean-Paul sat with slack limbs while Gwen enveloped him in a manner akin to Caliban's spider-limbs. Gracie dreamily joined in a moment later, her arms encircling Gwen's waist to dig into Dede's soft, luxurious feathers.

"Quack!"

"How about now?" Gwen said to the blushing young man. "Even better?"

"Yes." Jean-Paul's breathing grew rapid. "Am I ill?"

"Oh, you poor thing." Gwen rubbed her companion's hunched back, running her finger over the ridges of his spine. "JP— that is what we call _ordinary happiness_."


Lieutenant Shiyang Chen ordered the corvette to drift closer to Jifen Village.

In the South China Sea, on Chicken-shit Reef's Turd Island, his map marked a fishing hamlet rife with stubborn, fish-headed Mermen refusing to leave even though the Navy repeatedly gave them warning to move further down the Xima-Anshan archipelago.

The reason for clearing out undesirables was simple. From the lip of the Yellow Sea, it was only seven hundred kilometres, or two day's passage between Shanghai, Jeju and that cursed Dai Nippon island chain of Okinawa, allowing no complications in the delicate balance. With his motherland as the most significant rising economic and military power in the region, both the American-backed Koreans and the Demi-human loving Japanese had grown enormously nervous.

Chen's was a fact-finding patrol; one sent to investigate the loss of a supertanker— the Liaoming. With Tonglv and its canal operating at capacity, an endless volume of goods rolled into and out of Shanghai. As much as the nationalists loved to shout, the flow of Crystals between the three nations flourished in this period of unusual tranquillity. Any disruption to that flow was unacceptable.

Presently, a question lingered on everyone's lips. With the recovery of Shenyang hailed as a success, why was there no adverse reaction from Pyongyang? In the past, the Cult of Juche was never one to back down from a slight. Every so often, whenever it felt even the pettiest disrespect from its neighbours, the Lich Lords of Pyongyang would threaten to unleash a flood of Undeath across the borders unless a ransom was paid.

Since the Beast Tide, the Undead threat had bound the three nations in a careful treaty. Now, with China's success, the Koreans grew wary of Great Mao's map-striding fingers walking through Liaoning once more. Of course, a land invasion via Jilin's tundra was impossible, as was any hope of crossing the Yalu via Dadong. Its inaccessibility left the East China Sea as the only viable trade and military route, one that interconnected the Sea of Japan to the north and the Philippine Sea to the south.

In Chen's studied opinion, the East China Sea had grown far too crowded.

Cargo carriers, military warships, fishing boats, patrol vessels, privateers and black market traders had all piled into the two-thousand-kilometre long trade routes between Asia's largest population centres. Kilotons of fish, squid, prawn and Wildland Demi-humans of the South Sea, harvested by state-lead frigates crewed by red-eyed Mages trawled the waters for its seemingly limitless resources, battling the weather, the wildlife and the indigenous populace.

"Lieutenant Chen. It's all gone. Exactly as the Coast Guard had reported. Some form of 'planar activity' wiped them out; there were no survivors."

"Wiped out?" Chen furrowed his brows. "None of them have returned? Is the island still unoccupied? Usually, not even periodic Purges can discourage them."

"Not a thing, sir. There's a magic circle on the island, but that was from an authorised experiment carried out by the CCP Tower last year."

"I see." Chen rubbed his chin. "How's our Scry looking?"

"No sign of the Liaoming anywhere." The Ensign saluted. "The waters around here are too clean. There aren't even low-tier Mermen."

"That makes no sense…" Lieutenant Chen couldn't help but feel that there was no possible way that a container carrier half-a-kilometre long with a breadth of seventy-meters could just disappear without a trace. COSCO ships, like all carriers, had embedded Shielding Stations, meaning nothing short of a Kraken could come near the vessel without writhing in debilitating agony. The Liaoming's route naturally detoured around Chicken-shit Island, and so he had thought to interrogate the inhabitants. If these Mermen had absconded, then did that mean the inhabitants of the island were responsible?

Chen shook his head.
That prospect was laughable.

His suspicion was because Mermen who lived near Human coastal cities, the friendlier ones, had over the half-century developed a resistance to the resonance thrumming from the ships' passage. The wretched fiends would have to— or else their Cores, assuming they had one, would eventually collapse from the stress fractures from the tens of thousands of carriers that passed each year. The official intel was that these Mermen, resistant to resonance and highly adept at farming or gathering Wildland fauna, fed the tri-nations' Grey Markets, and so had been left alone. The more accurate tale, Chen had suspected, was that the administration used them as an early warning system against undetectable Mermen activity in the deep.

"Tell the men to return to the vessel," Lieutenant Chen gave the order. "We continue the patrol. Divert 20 per cent output to our Scrying Engines. Lin and Liang will have to cycle their shifts. I want one Diviner awake and searching the seabed at all times."

The seaman then looked toward the open water.
No Mermen anywhere? Chen felt disquieted.
Sometimes, there was nothing more foreboding than unexpected good news.

In the East China Sea, four hundred kilometres north-north-east of Shanghai, a "Great Shoal" was on the move, marauding across the murky depth.

Terra— the Prime Material Plane— was over seventy per cent inundated by the boundless seas, its precious waters of life held hostage by gravity and atmosphere, ebbing and flowing endlessly, its currents and streams unknowable by the mere mind of men.

If on land there existed places where the Prime Material grew thin, and the Elementals that inhabited their irrespective planes emerged to forage or begin new lives— then the ocean's three-dimensional, depthless space was a sieve of planar-instability, bringing every flotsam and jetsam from Krakens to Charybois to alluring Sirens through dimensional tears larger than human cities.

Thankfully, these creatures of the deep, so used to the cold dark of the Elemental Plane of Water, rarely sought the warm and lighted space of the sunlight zone.

Unfortunately, what these marauding masses of ageless predation also brought was a game of hunger in which monsters were pushed from stratum to stratum, rising bottom-up to plague Terra's oldest migrants— what Humanity called the Mermen.

To say that the Mermen were a single species would be a great misunderstanding. The ocean, with its hugely variable living conditions, had led to the rapid evolution of creatures far more complex than the happy homogeneity offered by the arithmetic surety of living on land. What their numerous habitats also meant was that like the ocean itself, the arrangements and politics of the sea were always in flux.

On his coral dais, affixed to the cargo carrier's bridge, Lei-bup slumped against the side of his throne. Below, with the anchor-chains around their bullish necks, two tamed Ningen, their limbs lazily swimming through the water, pulled the Human ship toward its destination with powerful swishes of their vast, fleshy fins.

Beside him, the Great Shoal of the Elder One, the multitude faithful of Yog, Saviour of the Deep, travelled as a constant stream toward the underwater city of Blightreef.

Ever since leading his people from Turd Island, they had absorbed tribe after tribe, clan after clan, spreading the gospel of the Pale Priestess. In his heart, he knew that the power of the Elder One was unfathomable and that its will was as unpredictable as the sea. He was merely its instrument, a Mermaid's Purse sown by the Pale Priestess to do the All-Watching One's bidding.

Even now, his near-death made him shudder. The last instance Lei-bup had successfully called forth the Pale Priestess' Shoggoth, it had fully descended onto the island and devoured every last living thing that existed.

That night, Lei-bup had thought himself on the verge of rapture.

Yet, when the screaming had stopped, and only the silent susurration of the sea sounded on Turd Island, Lei-bup and a dozen of the faithful remained.

Was it luck? A little voice at the back of Lei-bup's mind demanded.
No. Lei-bup felt an unholy assurance surge up his spine and envelope his Core.
His survival was intentional. He had been chosen. The great Shoggoth, O digit of the Old Ones, poking through the abyssal gates to anoint the faithful, had chosen Lei-bup as its prophet.

"Iä! Great Elder One! O key to the Gates where the Spheres Conjoin!" Lei-bup recalled howling at the starless havens. "PRAISE!"
"PRAISE!"
"PRAISE!"
"PRAISE!" echoed the voices of the surviving faithful, each rancorously covered in layers of abandoned ectoplasm.

Joining the survivors, cries of jubilation and awe echoed from the sea. All around Turd Island, drawn by the tribe's unexpected ascension, hundreds of thousands of the sea's denizens had witnessed their communion with a God of the depth, saw the improbable survival of Lei-bup and his priests, and shuddered at the unfathomable power of the Shoggoth.

After that, Lei-bup knew he had crossed the threshold of the void's baptism.

Where he had been the leader of the Jifen Folk and de facto master of the archipelago, he now metamorphosed into the heart of an immigrating shoal. _A Great Shoal!_ The very thought straightened his spine— for though he was the wise Elder of the Jifen, there had been no Great Shoals seen since what the Human's called the Beast Tide.

When finally, he had time to settle down and think, Lei-bup marvelled at the Elder One's design. What the Priestess likely had fathomed was that life in the sea was ten times more arduous than Lei-bup's life on land. Those Mermen who had been drawn by the food dispensed by the Jifen folk, whose females entered into the island chain's hierarchy, and who had come to spy on the Jifen's resolve, were all made to witness her gospel of power.

Lei-bup was old for a Merman and knew that in the open sea, a few rules were Mythril.

One was that there was safety found in numbers. On the land, a pack of Skull Jackals could down an Oliphant, and in the ocean, a frenzy of Gill-Tooth Marauders could strip a Megamouth to the bone within the hour. Alone, the individual Merman was ephemeral, an insignificant existence—together, they were combined and eminent. To seek safety in numbers was an instinct built into the minds of the Mermen, no matter one's fins, gills, tentacles or proboscis. Where the water grew deep, selfishness was self-destruction— safety rested with the masses.

And this Lei-bup knew well because he had read Mao's Manifesto, delivered to his island by the missionaries from the mainland in rusty containers filled with the little red books. As the great exodus from Jifen took place, Lei-bup could not help but see a strange parallel between him taking his people from the tyranny of the Human bureaucrats and Mao's revolution to build the promised country.

It was just like how, when Mao had to fight the Imperialists, he took the Great Red Army of NoMs and Mages on that suicidal Exodus from Jiangxi to Yunnan to Shaanxi. The destruction of his home by the Shoggoth was a sign— a dear and intimate omen from a priestess to a prophet. Why else, Lei-bup reasoned, was the only surviving food left from the Shoggoth's all-consuming purge those tins of mysterious meat called SPAM? That was what the Pale Priestess had first gifted to Lei-bup. That was how Lei-bup knew she was watching. And just like how Mao was forced from his home to rule over the central continent upon his return, so Lei-bup must take his people away from Jifen to the sea shelf beyond.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

As for the Shoggoth, that was another precept of the ocean that the Mermen inherently understood. Some beings and their prowess were insurmountable— even if said being never ventured to the surface. Past the daylight zone, past the twilight, there lurked unfathomable creatures the size of islands, bigger than the largest Human tankers. Leviathans, these were called, beings whose stature dwarfed the oldest Krakens.

That was why they believed in the Shoggoth. And though some kin would become fodder for the Elder Gods; the Mermen steadfastly believed they had found a proverbial shelter-beast; themselves serving as its Remora labourers. To survive, the Mermen were pragmatic. When the Hammerhead Raiders from the deep Clans attacked, nothing remained, be it females or eggs or food. At least with the Shoggoth, the Faithful would survive.

All of this, Lei-bup understood, both as a Merman and as an indifferent disciple of Mao. When the representatives from each of the tribes approached Lei-bup to seek out his wisdom, this was what Lei-bup had to deliver:

"Only in the Pale Priestess and her Elder Gods lies the truth. A truth that is beyond our mortal ken but yet paves the way to salvation. No— do not question. We who are touched by her grace know that we must humble ourselves in front of she who brings forth the Great Shoal."

" _The Great Shoal!"_ The crowd had cried out, drunk on the elixir of belief.

"Before we embark upon our great Exodus, lend me your ear-holes," Lei-bup raised his voice, finding that strangely, his words travelled through both air and water with equal ease. "If you wish to join us— you must give up yourself. _One_ fish— no matter how smart or limber or powerful, is always defeated. You are doomed to die, alone, a failure of a fish who did not fertilise ten-thousand spawns. But with the Elder Gods, with the Path of the Pale Priestess! You can escape from the _one_ _fish's_ frail and mortal body! Give me your submission! Give her your Faith! Call them! Iä! Great Elder One! O key to the Gates where the Spheres Conjoin! Iä! Yog-Sothoth! Only then can the _one fish_ escape from his or her vice! Escape from predation! Only in the Great Shoal can _the proletariat fish_ find their way to the Promised Land! Only as a part of the _Great Shoal_ can _one_ fish be _all powerful_ and _all knowing_! IMMORTAL and COMPLETE!"

In the silence, Lei-bup knew that he had them.
The Great Shoal was already forming, and soon, they would be on their way.

"Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Lei-bup began to cry, mimicking the Shoggoth.

"Weee—Weeee—
"Weee—Weeee—Weeee—
"Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Weee—Weeee—"

The multitude had sung.
And the rest was history.

Along their way, no tribe or clan who had seen their Great Shoal, its girth stretching from horizon to horizon, could resist their evangelisation. Over a distance of thousands of kilometres under the sea, meeting a thousand tribes in their tiny territories, they absorbed them all by faith or by teeth.

Then, in the path of the Great Journey Forward, the passing Shoal became blocked by a Human cargo carrier bearing its own Shielding Station.

For Lei-bup and the folk living near Jifen who regularly traded with the Humans, the agony from the passing ships had grown to encompass a part of their being. Those of them too weak to survive the disruption of their Cores had long ago died as spawnlings. As for the rest, the Leviathan-sized ship's passing became a keen blade that sliced into his people, sending hundreds plummeting below while others held their heads in induced madness. Eggs burst, pregnant Mer-women miscarried. Some of the deep-living Shell-folk even tore off their limbs; such was the pain they endured.

Lei-bup knew he had to do something. He was their father now and the shoal, his fingerlings.

"Warriors! With me!" He counted on the fact that the more of them gathered, the more the resonating power of the ship's onboard Shielding Core would be split, for without a direct connection to a ley-line, its output was severely limited. "Weee—Weeee—!"

"Weee—Weeee—"
"Weee—Weeee—Weeee—"
"Weee—Weeee—Weeee—"

A thousand warriors answered Lei-bup's call. Following the folk from Jifen, they surged upwards toward the carrier. They had believed— and so the High Priest's words rang true, for with enough of them gathered, the resonance tearing apart their Cores wasn't nearly so painful.

On their barbed Seahorses, the Wave Striders of the Blue-fin Tribe burst through the surface to scale the container ship's walls. From afar, forty Eagletail Razor Rays, each mounted by a dozen Flying Carvers with toothy blades of bleached coral, sailed through the spraying brine. The Ningen, risking their white-fins, halted the carrier in its wake.

Lei-bup knew that once they boarded the ship, there wouldn't be much of a fight, for the Humans rarely had Mage Flights to spare for cargo vessels. His first order was to bring down what he recognised as the ship's Divination Tower. Then, he redirected the slower but heavily armoured Claw-folk to the bridge, where the human crew awaited for salvation that would not arrive. There, his faithful had peeled back the metal and made tasty work of the screeching bipeds packed-in like sardines.

It took only an hour for the ship to be captured.

Lei-bup was in the middle of considering scuttling the ship when one of his men from Jifen excitedly ran up the bloody stairs.

"High Priest!" the man was dribbling slime and snot from every orifice. "We found it!"

"You found what?"

"The sign!"

The sign? His opaque eye-lids formed a squint.

Lei-bup did not know this sign. He had to see for himself.

Together with his guards, which now consisted of an overlarge Bluefin Strider Captain, a burly Crustacean Razorclaw and two of his priests from Jifen, he entered the cargo bay. His folk, who had long worked with humans, had an excellent understanding of Human-made contraptions.

"This is—!"

Lei-bup was speechless.
Here was the cargo hold, and within it were thousands of containers. One of the Crab-folk had peeled back the tin to reveal cases and cases of the tiny golden boxes of nourishing meat. With trembling fingers, he lifted one of the tins.

There, on the printed label, was a tiny visage of the Pale Priestess.

"An official sponsor of the IIUC," the label read, followed by a tiny speech bubble from her mouth that said, "SPAM— Miracle in a can."

"How…" Lei-bup's hands trembled. "How many are there?"

"A hundred containers or more like this, filled with other foodstuffs in cans…" His aide swallowed the air like a fish on land. "High Priest, you should see this as well."

Together with the others, Lei-bup followed the fish until they reached the crew's quarters. Inside the cosy hiding hole, there were bunks, and plastered across the shared wall was an image anyone in the Great Shoal would recognise.

It was the Pale Priestess, wearing a skin-tight suit of white and blue, looking like she was ready to dive into the ocean. Her benevolent face was smiling broadly at them with that secret smile of hers as if she knew everything that would happen from now until their eventual ascension. The poster was huge, almost life-size, so vivid that it seemed like the Pale Priestess might leap forth and bless them herself.

"Sinomach Heavy Industries" read the logo. "Miss Gwen Song, International Inter-University Competition's Most Valuable Participant. The Devourer of Shenyang will wear NOTHING ELSE."

"Join Us!" read the words in Chinese, which only Lei-bup understood. It was followed by a prophesy written in blood-red calligraphy. "A hundred battles— A hundred victories!"

"A… a fellow c-cultist?" Lei-bup stuttered, suddenly regretting killing all the Humans. It was amazing— incredible— beyond belief that there was MORE of them, even among the Humans. Naturally, unlike the other Mermen, he understood the poster to be an advert, but why else would such an image be in a prominent position? At this time? In this place?

"She brought this gift to us," his adjutant began to wail, completing his hypothesis. "Gu-wen, S-song— Weee—Weeee—"

"Weee—Weeee—"
"Weee—Weeee—" the others answered.

"… this ship, it is a gift by the Pale Priestess," Lei-bup announced to his men, finding the only acceptable answer to the serendipity as a feeling of unfettered acceptance suffused him. The clarity he now felt could only be described as divine. "It is ours now. The ship will be our mobile home. Its Core will deter our enemies and open the way for us."

"How so?" The crustacean grumbled. His kind was most vulnerable to the resonance.

"We will find a way to utilise the Crystal Core of this Drift Hulk," Lei-bup promised his warriors. "With her gift, we can build ourselves the promised land."

"What shall we do now?"

"We keep travelling," Lei-bup gave the order. "But tonight, we feast in her image— and call out the name of _Gwen Song_."

Since that eventful encounter, months had passed, and now they arrived at their destination.

Lei-bup shifted in his seat, clearing the recollection from his mind.

Blightreef.

Even as a child, Lei-bup had heard of its infamy.

Blightreef was the lawless, chaotic city at the end of the first Eastern Sea's continental shelf. It was a Merman port ruled by gangs of Tigermaw Shark-folk, patrolled by Hammerhead Raiders, and lorded over by the machinations of the Kraken Biplipodoofu.

It was also a place where Humans from the black markets traded with the denizens of the deep, pouring crystals into the greedy Kraken's coffers even as it chopped up the city's citizens for parts.

All this was the tale that Lei-bup had heard from Humans— stories now verified by Karasin, the Bluefin Captain, whose kin's flesh was considered a delicacy among the Man-folk of Nippon. Even Jinka, the warrior supreme from the Claw Clan validated that indeed, Blightreef was the wealthiest city between the first and second sea shelf, and also a living Wet Market.

Here was the place that Lei-bup saw as their promised land— as one whose wisdom spanned both the above water and below water realm, Lei-bup's perspective was uniquely positioned— another blessing the Pale Priestess must have foreseen. He knew more than the others that Blightreef was near-equal-distant to the Human nations of Japan, China and Korea and so saw scant naval activity. Yet, at the same time, its existence was condoned by something called the "Grey Faction".

Ever since the Great Shoal had left Jifen Island, Lei-bup had been wondering if their mass would grow powerful enough to subdue a city of a million Mermen ruled by a four-century-old Kraken.

Before they had found the "Liaoming" bearing the sign of the Pale Priestess, the answer was no.

Now— now Lei-bup was confident they could take the tyrant by the tentacles and yank him from his octopus pot.

If he could combine the advantage of the Human-made Resonating Crystal with their united calling for the descent of the Shoggoth— the Kraken could only submit or be consumed.

Of course, he would first give the slavers a chance to convert.
He had plenty of food— obscene volumes, in fact, and the folk that lived on Blightreef were well-starved by its cruel master. It was almost too easy— for how else would they consign their children to be butchered? How else could the Kraken's thugs bully the proletariat of the sea?

The city's masses were a million strong— ten million more if Lei-bup counted the young, but how many predator-thugs did the Kraken command, all-in-all? A thousand? Ten-thousand? Even the Imperialist Mages had more men when Mao bore down on Nanking and Shanghai!

Conversely, Lei-bup's Great Shoal was a mass of a hundred-thousand fish, all chomping at the hook to be unleashed! They were well-fed, not only on the flesh of their enemies but the food they had unsealed from the tanker!

"Lord High Priest."A Mermaid drifted closer, her lengthy hair fanning out in vibrant red waves. "We should arrive soon. Shall I inform the Striders and the Claw Clan?"

"Not yet, we await parley—" Lei-bup stood, peeling his slimy body from the coral throne. "What word from Biplipodoofu? We have his city surrounded."

"The Messenger did not return." The pretty Mermaid, whose hair was dark and her skin like the moonlight, had been specially selected to serve as his aide. The first of many future Temple Priestesses. She was fertile and well-shaped, Lei-bup could see, and she was too pretty to be a helper.

Were his followers afraid that Lei-bup would leave no heir? The High Priest chuckled to himself.

There was nothing to fear. Lei-bup had twice survived the descent of the Shoggoth— why would he worry over something as mundane as the little-death that resulted from violence? How could such insignificance compare to the Great Shoal? Did Mao's death stop the Communists? Not even close. Even if he were to perish, the Shoal would go on. They had all sworn by the name of the Pale Priestess, whose human name was Gwen Song. They had all given up their Cores to become the Great Shoal itself, that all-consuming collective which is immortal and everlasting. Strike him down, Lei-bup laughed, and the Shoal would become more powerful than Biplipodoofu could imagine! Martyrdom? He welcomed it!

"Then we wait for them to act," Lei-bup gave the commands. "Tell Blo-bup and Fu-bup that the Floating Hulk will move on my command. I will be along shortly to conduct the rites."

"YES! High PRIEST!" The Mermaid's eyes, along with that of the guards behind him, were crystal-bright.

"Soon, we shall bear witness—" Lei-bup gazed over at the teeming city below. The central spire of Blightreef, fashioned like a giant spiralling shell, rose up and up and up until it reached the surface, where a series of looted Human ships formed a flotilla of hulks.

"Weee—"
"Weee—Weeee—"
"Weee—Weeee— Weeee—"
"WEEE—WEEE— WEEE— WEEE—"
The chants began, first from the hulk, then spreading throughout the Great Shoal until the water itself appeared to vibrate, growing thick with such a tangible resonance of mana and belief that it seemed as though the shimmering mass was not a multitude, but a single, living being.