Magister Roslyn-Marie Wen meandered about her laboratory in a daze.
Only an hour ago, she had been studying the data from the Void Sorceress’ engagement with the Undead. Midway, the Dean had invited himself in, and now she felt paralysed by an uncharacteristic surge of jubilation hammering against her chest.

“I have informed Eric.” Dean Luo watched his prized researcher pace like a clockwork construct. “He should be joining us very soon.”

Wen paused, frowned, then returned to the Diagnostics Engine to print the biometric script. The cognitive labour, she hoped, would calm her nerves, not to mention clarify her hypothesis.

The knock sounded just once before Walken entered in a huff.

“What’s wrong? Is she in trouble again?” The British Magister opened with a rhetorical question.

“Good, we’re all here. Ellen, do we have unwanted company?” Luo asked of his Familiar. In her incorporeal form, Ellen responded by whispering into his ear.

“We can use my lab’s Pocket Dimension,” Wen pointed to the inscribed portal.

A pocket-space was a standard attachment to most experimental laboratories. Such a workspace was excellent for volatile experiments. When a spell goes awry, the researcher could instantly expel themselves back into the Material while shunting the melting mess into the Astral Plane.

"It’s a little disordered inside," Wen warned as she entered.

“Mao!” Luo baulked when he had to sidestep a Spellcube. “You’ve got quite the collection, Magister.”

“It's a hobby.” Wen shrugged. “The rarer spells are so hard to come by.”

Inside was a chamber the size of a tennis court, beyond which Astral grey-space met an infinite horizon. Here and there, stack upon stacks of stowed magic formed waist-high walls.

“A veritable treasure trove!” the Dean remarked, carefully picking up a cube to examine its content. "You've managed to stabilise the formula?"

"The bonding wards rapidly decay outside the Astral Plane," Wen replied, her thin lips curling to form a smile. "I am leaving the project to Petra for now. As you know, there are more pressing discoveries."

Walken’s attention fell upon a particular corner. “This is…”

“My contingency collection.” Wen pointed to the thirty-thick stack of crystalline cubes. “The glowing ones are her viridian Essence; the dark ones are her Void Mana.”

“What for?” Walken guessed the answer as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Why, for when she dies.” Wen raised hers in response. “I am not the one pushing her into danger, you know. Prodigies perish every day, but the search for knowledge must go on.”

The Dean coughed.

“Jiang, show him the letter.”

“What’s this?” Walken recognised the broken seal even with its top half missing. “From Oxbridge?”

“Cambridge, to be exact.” The Dean smacked his lips. “What do you make of this, Eric?”

Walken retrieved the sheet, then activated the embedded glyph, embossed by an ermine fur "cross" linking four golden lions, the university's coat of arms.

“Dean Jiang,” the Message began to read itself in the voice of the Vice-Chancellor, a bureaucrat above Walken's paygrade. “It is my supreme pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you regarding one of your most accomplished acolytes - Miss Gwen Song. Since witnessing her performance at the last IIUC, many of our senior House Masters and Matrons have expressed interest in the girl as an exchange candidate…”

Walken paused the Message. As an old boy, he knew exactly how difficult it was to be admitted to Oxbridge, much less receive an invitation. To his knowledge, a demand such as this was enough to make waves in the intra-politics of the colleges. “And it bears a seal from his Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh...”

"Oh, it's real." Dean Luo's expression was unreadable. “I spoke to Magister Butterfield via simulcast this morning. He has assured me that their commitment should be considered immovable."

“Immovable!” Walken swallowed. “For Gwen?”

“That’s right.”

Walken returned to the Message, as he read the lines, the Vice-Chancellor’s imposing voice continued to play.

“...I understand that Miss Song may be considered an important asset for your university, and mayhap your nation possesses designs upon her many-talented person. Rest assured that we fully respect your ambitions and that Cambridge will offer the candidate's weight in mithril in reparation. For our ‘exchange’, I am willing to gift Magister Marie-Roslyn Wen a placement as a King’s Scholar. Post-peer-review, all Void-related research she thereby publishes shall bear the seal of the Arcanum Press. Furthermore, should she successfully defend her thesis against the academic board, Cambridge shall itself vouch for her Meisterhood. At any period during her stay, she is free to return to Shanghai…”

Walken stared at Wen. Incredibly, the mineral-woman reddened.

“… On a more personal note, I would like to communicate a few points of interest to yourself and our old alumni—Magister Walken, who I understand is the girl's caretaker. Our oldest and most prestigious houses had initiated the sponsorship for Miss Song's invitation, including Peterhouse. The personages involved hold significant weight in the academic and the public sphere. Please understand that I am neither making a threat nor being obtuse when I say that even as the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, denying these august individuals would lead to no end of trouble…”

“Who made the offer?” Walken regarded the Dean.

“He didn’t say. I guess some big-wigs, wouldn’t you know?”

Walken chewed his lips as his eyes returned to the letter. If the request came from Peterhouse, could it be her ladyship? As for the others, were they academics curious to dissect Gwen's unique physiology, or did they simply want to keep an eye on the second Sobel? If anything, Gwen's mimicry of the Void egg came vividly to mind.

“… Finally,” the Message continued to play as Walken finished off the last few paragraphs. “… I am in contact with Miss Song’s guardian, Lord von Shultz. The young Master of Sydney is pleased that we can offer Miss Song a position in our ancient establishment. Such was the university's generosity that two of our finest Magisters should soon be taking residence in Sydney Tower as thanks to Magister von Shultz’s boundless wisdom. Presently, the same offer has been extended to the PLA's Secretary-General, who may soon be in contact, pending your decision... I look forward to your reply. Yours with the utmost sincerity, Butterfield V-C.”

"Well?" Luo regarded Walken.

“Is…” Walken’s brows stitched. “No one going to ask for Gwen’s opinion? Does she even know about this?”

Wen and the Dean appeared taken aback by the comment.

“Why would anyone turn down Cambridge?” Wen spluttered in disbelief. “She wanted a Tower, did she not? How else is she hoping to get one? Attaining the title of an Oxbridge Magister halves her labour.”

“That's true. Gwen could graduate right into middle-management, perhaps oversee a fief on the Mageocracy's behalf,” the Dean appended his Mineral Magister. “Eric, do you mean Gwen would say no?”

“The girl's a sentimentalist,” Walken stated the obvious. “Her family is here in Shanghai.”

“Then I shall take Petra with me,” Wen retorted with arrogance. “I have an allowance for an assistant.”

“What about—“ Walken jogged his bloated brain for names. “Richard? Lulan? Her grandmother and that Uncle of hers?”

“The Ashbringer?”

“Yes!” Walken was incredulous at the cluelessness of his colleagues. Surely it wasn’t just him who understood the girl? He never professed to be an authority in Gwenology, but his colleagues appeared novitiates. “She possesses an unhealthy attachment to the man. Even if he's free to travel, there is no bleeding way the PLA is letting him and his Dragon Princess out of the country.”

Wen and the Dean regarded one another.

“Eric, whose side are you on?” Wen's eyes narrowed. Her stone-cold expression was declaring that she wasn't about to let anything come between her and the Meisterhood.

“Eric,” the Dean growled. “Do you have any idea what Wen's Meisterhood can do for us? She would be the first Chinese Meister since Yu-Lin Chan! Furthermore, she wouldn't be a Meister bought with favours from the Americans, but one recognised by Cambridge! Fudan would exceed Jiantong and reach the status of Peking University overnight!”

Walken ground his teeth.

“I haven’t informed the Secretary-General Miao yet, but I know this— one complaint from this Butterfield that we’ve turned down free advisors from Cambridge, and we’ll all be rotting inside Tianlanqiao within the week,” The Dean explained with great wariness. “I think you're pessimistic. Who says she doesn't want to go? Gunther should contact her soon. I mean, how about yourself? Don’t you want to return to Cambridge, to London?”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

The Lightning Magister held his tongue, his awareness of his Affinity's mental corruption far too acute for an obtuse response.
If Gwen were to go to Cambridge, where would that leave him? Compared to those monsters at the peak of Spellcraft, Magister Eric Walken was just an understudy. Once he lost Gwen, what would he do? There was no homecoming in Sydney, and Walken could hardly return to his wife or his family in London either. He would once again become an aimless vagabond.

“Earlier, I processed her biometrics,” Wen changed the subject when Walken chose the right to remain silent. “I think she'll do just fine in Oxbridge.”

Having seen the script, Jiang Luo patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Woe betide the man who hopes to corral the girl, Eric. Don't be a fool. You're a Lightning Mage, not a lightning rod.”

His mind in turmoil, Walken read the lines one by one.

“Evocation 5.31 — 5.51.”
“Conjuration 5.80 — 6.01”
“Transmutation 3.75 — 3.85.”
“Abjuration 2.54 — 2.67.”
“Divination 1.67 — 1.72.”
“Illusion 2.45 — 2.48.”
“Enchantment 1.30 — 1.46.”

The incremental increases in Gwen's Schools of Magic had been somewhat expected, considering that the girl had been training and fighting ceaselessly. Seeing her Conjuration reach the sixth tier especially filled his heart with jubilation, for the girl had accomplished in one of her seven Schools what others took decades to attain. That she leapt into the next tier also suggested a rarer talent - the lack of a bottleneck. For the next tier, however, the girl would be kneecapped by her inadequate knowledge. Still, the milestone was cause for celebration.

He turned to the next scroll.

“VMI 302 — 330.”

Walken blinked, then reread the numbers.

“That’s right.” Wen smirked. “She can increase her VMI from consuming Demi-human casters. It’s not as pronounced as Human Mages, mind you, but it’s there.”

“Trolls can hardly be considered Demi-human magic-users,” the Dean proposed dreamily. “Imagine if she could get her hands on a High Elf Elementalist. Their mana reserves are legendary.”

“You're getting rather ahead of yourself,” Walken warned the Dean. “Pudong will have your head, even as a joke.”

“You jump at shadows,” Wen snorted. “Keep reading.”

Walken ignored the Mineral Mage, then read on.

“Lightning 6.67 (6.89) — 7.01 (7.44), the latter is if we include her Kirin.”
“Void 4.51 — 4.72.”

“She can absorb the Undead to increase her Void Affinity?”

“Not from our samples,” Wen shook her head. “Maybe it was the Soul Eater? Or something in that Beast Tide? Or perhaps the Hags. We’ll need formalised testing under controlled conditions. I anticipate better opportunities in England. Someone in Eastern Europe could probably conjure a Soul Eater for the girl to try her luck. Did you notice her Lightning has pushed past 7?”

“She was already a handful,” Walken grimaced. “A teenager and a dragon... a rebellious teenage dragon, my God.”

“Her pride shall work in our favour,” Wen remarked with cold logic. “Pardon me, Dean, but who would grace Fudan when one can be a graduate from Oxbridge? The same goes for you, Magister. Why would anyone care for Eric Walken when one could apprentice under Meister Darwin or Sanger or Beckett? Imagine being an alumna to Meister Oppenheimer of King's College! She’s already an Omni-Mage, Eric. Give it five, six decades, and she may very well attain the title of Sorceress Supreme! The Übermensch the Grey and Militant Factions dreamt of creating!”

The researcher’s pale crystal eyes glowed with sickly fervour, as though she’d just found the God of a new Cult she’d been following.

Walken felt a queasy unease. Wen’s unfeeling mockery hurt because she was right. What was Walken to Gwen? If he hadn’t intervened, she would be interning under Kilroy, a man who could exchange favours from London’s Meisters at a moment’s notice.

“Well, Eric.” The Dean’s gaze bore into his soul. “Are you with us?”

“... What do you think, Sis?” Gwen sat beside Yue and Petra. When Gunther rang, the girls had offered to leave the apartment, but seeing as her brother-in-craft didn't object, Gwen had begged them to stay.

“Never been to England except with Master.” Alesia scowled, her exquisite face scrunched with annoyance. “It's filled with lecherous old bastards.”

“She means lecturous,” Gunther intervened before his sister-in-craft could get the wrong impression. “Alesia gutted the King's Arms. Master had to bail her out.”

“Those House pricks duelled ME!” Alesia huffed. “If you can’t wrestle the Ogre, don’t grope its testes.”

“Well said!” Yue slapped her thighs.

Gwen almost spat out the juice she was nursing.

“OKAY, OKAY,” Gunther prevented his prudish sister-in-craft from further mental degradation. “Presently, nothing’s confirmed as of yet. I'm just letting you know that an offer has been made. For sure you're bound to get other proposals soon, but this is your best bet. To my knowledge, Vice-Chancellor Butterfield is acting on behalf of Lady Grey. To you, that's the Marchioness of Ely, Justine Maxwell Loftus. She and Master go way back, and I can personally vouch for her ability to keep you from... undesired attention. If you do decide to go, you’ll be in reliable hands. Most importantly, so long as the Marchioness requests it, every summer and winter break, you’ll be free to go where ever you please. That includes Shanghai and Sydney.”

“Pats, what do you think?”

“If what Gunther says is correct,” Petra’s face positively glowed. “I may be able to leave with Master and study under her in Oxbridge. I could even find a sponsor to further Spellcube research and author my own paper if and when she chooses to return to China.”

“Yue?” Gwen turned to her oldest friend.

“Why are you asking a spell-fodder what she thinks of Cambridge?” Yue laughed. “I am a high school graduate and a grunt. What the hell do I know about prestigious universities?”

“What about Richard?” Gwen grasped at straws. Her chest felt full of water. The notion of prematurely leaving Shanghai was a shocking proposition. There was no reason to reject Gunther’s good news, but it was all so sudden, all too soon. The direction she had finally garnered was once again spinning like a broken compass.

“I can petition Marchioness Loftus on Richard's behalf,” Gunther intoned gravely. “But then, you would owe her a great deal. When you get to her tier of power and influence, favours and promises may as well be Geas.”

“Richard is legitimately talented,” Gwen defended her cousin. “He could have gone to England himself, don't you know?”

“As a Praetor— not a student,” Gunther reminded her. “Not to mention he’d be under London Imperials, serving the Four Houses as a faithful guard dog.”

Gwen scowled, feeling that her pride for Richard's accomplishments had been trampled.

“Why not speak with Richard, tell him there’s an opportunity for both of you to attend Cambridge? Remember, you mustn't mention Lady Grey,” Gunther advised. “The poor boy's deeply indebted to you as it is. Have his parents arrived in Shanghai?”

“Not yet.”

“In case he asks, they won’t be going to London,” Gunther spoke with brevity. “Not even with CCs.”

“It’s not like that, Dick’s just repaying them,” Gwen explained that Richard felt he owed his parents. “He’ll be happy in Oxbridge, I’d imagine.”

“No doubt, studying in London was his dream, after all.”

Gwen sighed, leaning against Yue so that the petite soldier became a comfortable human pillow.

There was her family in Shanghai, as well as the friends she had made.
But she also wanted to see Elvia, who she could now cuddle a year and a half in advance. Academically, her study of Spellcraft would see a significant boost if she could receive tutelage from the progenitors of the knowledge she was studying. The author of her first-ever Spellcraft primer, Deekin A. Allenberg, was a Cambridge graduate himself and currently lectured there.

But then there were her investments here in Shanghai. Would Nantong allow her to leave the country? Certainly not with a one per cent stake in Tonglv. She would have to be bought out at a loss— her loss. As for the House of M, Mayuree and Marong could keep her interests satisfied, but the loss of Tonglv would mark a notable setback.

On the other hand, assuming Gunther's Lady Grey was a reliable sheila, Gwen'd be a free bird. As a globetrotter, far more business interests would open to her. With her stock of HDMs, using ISTC stations across the continents was no object. In her old world, the early 00s was a period of rapid innovation that had set the technological trends for the next decade. Knowing this, she would be remiss to not take full advantage of the fact.

But her heart remained sore.
Babulya.
Percy.
Tao and Mina.
Tonglv.
Ruì and Professor Ma.
Lulu and Kusu.
How would their lives be altered if she were to bugger off to London?
What would happen to her family's current prosperity? Would the PLA let her leave? How would she know they'd be safe? What if she were to act against the PLA's interests in the future? Indeed, a significant conflict of interest was inescapable.

“How long do I have to decide?”

“Take your time,” Gunther implored. “A month would be my guess.”

“Until the IIUC ends? Or when we lose.”

"At most, until London's winter solstice," Gunther explained. "You would require remedial studies before commencing any courses at Cambridge. Even if you arrive in February, you will miss Lent. Assuming six months of catch up, Easter is out as well. At best, you’re looking at Michaelmas.”

“I know some of those words.” Gwen’s head throbbed.

“October. You won’t be able to start second-year until October. But…”

“But?”

“You can see Elvia anytime,” Gunther roared with laughter. “No, that's a cheap shot. The choice is yours, little sister. You have to understand that it was YOUR performance in Burma and then in Amazonia that has brought this opportunity. I don’t know if you could have done better under Master if he were still here, but I do know you’ve worked hard. This outcome is what we desired from the very beginning.”

“Well said,” Alesia joined in. “Good work, Gwennie. Master would have been proud.”

Gwen perked up, the clot in her chest unclogging as she imagined a happy Henry giving his well-wishes. “Thanks, guys. How could I have achieved this without the two of you, my siblings?”

“Bah, modesty isn’t you,” Alesia snorted. “Sorceresses like you and I, we have reason to be proud. Right, Yue?”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Don’t listen to them,” Gunther forced Alesia out of view. “Take your time. If you must accept an offer, accept this one.”

"BYE, GWEN! Yue, show em hell!"

The Message ended.

Gwen repositioned herself beside Yue, then studied her cousin. Petra’s Husky-blue orbs glowed. If eyes could speak, they'd be screaming, “Screw going home to Moscow, we're going to Oxbridge!”

She puckered her lips.

She would have to consult Richard, and Babulya, Tao and Mina and her Uncle Jun. Ayxin would probably call her unfilial, mocking her for leaving her family to fend for themselves. Unlike the dragon-princess, they were just mortals; her family and allies didn't have a pact where they banded together to shit on anyone who dared provoke them—

She blinked.

“Holy shit,” Gwen punched the air with a snap. “RUXIN!”

Yue jumped, wondering if a Dragon had just gotten into her friend.

“What about Ruxin?” Petra wondered why Gwen was suddenly screaming the Thunder Dragon’s name.

“Ruxin is the elder Prince of Huangshan, and Tonglv is only two-hundred kilo-meters away from its border,” Gwen tittered like a greedy Goblin, her cunning eyes sending shivers up Petra's spine. "Pats, you know what. I am about to have my cake, and eat it.”

“Marong, did you feel that?” Ruxin laid down the reports Marong had brought to the Jade Palace. The numbers at the bottom had grown since his favourite servant had begun manipulating the Jade Market. Under the throne room, Ruxin's cache of element-specific crystals was also piling up rapidly.

“I felt nothing, my lord,” Marong gulped.

“It felt as though…” Ruxin tasted the air. “That’s strange. The weather's changing. How could it, when I gave no such command? Perhaps it's Golos? What’s he doing?”

“Sporting with his new mate, the bird-woman.” Marong touched his forehead to the cold ground, afraid that his lord was displeased. “I fear they made quite the mess in the eastern hall. The female, Phelara, she’s roosting.”

“Oh, do get up,” Ruxin commanded. “As my niece would say, don’t be so formal. Good service seldom comes from fear, and formality gets tiresome.”

“Of course, my lord,” Marong stood to one side, where Tika, who he now recognised as the old Naga of the mount, stood to attention.

“So, not Golos then. How strange.” Ruxin watched the hair rise on his humanoid arm. “Marong, look at this. Do your human follicles sometimes have a mind of their own?”

“Ah.” Marong stopped himself from bowing. “That, my lord, is what we call premonition.”


Before Jean-Paul became the protègè of Meister Bekker, he was a foundling with no name. According to his file, his mother was a prostitute, an unenviable position in the days of South Africa's regime change. A six-word abbreviation indicated she had died giving birth to her life-leeching son in an alleyway in Sunnyside. As for his father, any number of hundreds of Johns could have contributed to Jean-Paul's miraculous genetic makeup.

As an infant, Jean-Paul bid his time at the Sacred Heart Kinderhuis, an orphanage located in Pretorian platteland, a place that used to be a pumpkin farm. The modest acreage was composed of a vaulted chapel attached to a schoolhouse with a semi-detached dwelling. Together with the occasional neighbour, the orphanage was presided over by one sister Annett de Mulder, a flaxen-haired cleric-cum-caretaker.

For Jean-Paul, Sister de Mulder's Positive Affinity was a blessing, for the pallid child with the horrid constitution couldn't have survived anywhere else. Yet, here with the generous-souled sister, his health held on with the tenacity of a spider thread.

Compared to the other children, who prospered or starved pending the season, Jean-Paul's body possessed an incredible ability to subsist on anything given to him, no matter how unnutritious or unsavoury. When strife broke out in Pretoria and sister de Mulder's brood of some two dozen were reduced to soupy rice and pumpkins, Jean-Paul stubbornly thrived like a vermin, subsisting on the thinnest milk and the soupiest porridge for months.

Diseases also seemed to take to Jean-Paul like flies to a carcass, for though he had contracted everything from cholera, dysentery, smallpox and a strange rash on his pale, colourless flesh, he rejected all calls to a higher purpose. As a result, his arms and legs grew covered with scars and scabs from his ceaseless picking, and as his height sprouted, ringlet stretch-marks scored his encrusted skin.

"Jean-Paul, you're as tough as a warthog!" de Mulder had teased him once.

"Nee nee nee," the other children revolted. For some reason, they never liked Jean-Paul, whose bulbous eyes made them afraid. "Jean-Paul is an Umzokwe!"

Jean-Paul did not know what the word meant. He was neither the youngest nor the eldest orphan, but he was the least popular by far. Perhaps it was because of his upturned nose, which was so different from the straight-ridged or flat-button organs the other children possessed. Or maybe it was his grotesque pallidness, which juxtaposed the pale-pink or the creamy nutmeg of his fellows; either way, Jean-Paul was born alone and preferred to be alone.

Just once, Jean-Paul had asked her what the nickname meant.

"Ah…" The sister's well-loved eyes grew awkward. "You are named after 'John' the Baptist, who christened Christ. It's conjoined with 'Paul', the teacher of Tarsus, he who spread the words of the saviour. As for your surname, we'll see when your adoption arrives, hmm?"

"No, I meant 'umzokwe'," the boy inquired, his blue orbs sucking the sister's soul.

"It means the blessed one."

Later in life, Jean-Paul said a prayer for the sister to atone for her little white lie. "Umzokwe" was a Zulu word for leech. According to Meister Bekker, who applauded the children's wisdom, the word referenced not the common leech, but the deathless blood-suckers that inhabited the Vaal River. In popular myth, if one were to chop an umzokwe in half, two would emerge a week later. Older, Jean-Paul would learn that "umzokwe" had another meaning. It was one derived from an ancient Zulu custom— the slaying of sinners by bleeding them in a river full of umzokwe. For the Boers who bore witness to the trials carried out by the Sangoma, "umzokwe" was a word they took to mean 'cruelty'.

Every so often, the orphanage was visited by men and women looking to adopt the children. Prior to their new homes, the children studied Spellcraft, awaiting the day when they would be selected. For an orphan, the age of thirteen was the longest they could stay under the care of sister de Mulder, after which those who failed an early Awakening would attend a state-sanctioned school.

Once, when Jean-Paul snuck into the chapel to watch the process, he saw the sister bring out what he would later recognise as the Awakening Stone from the storage room.

"Lightning, tier 1." One of the men grinned at Johan, a haughty thirteen-year-old who often picked on Jean-Paul. "Geluksvogel, you're getting adopted."

"Well done, Sister." the bearded leader left a bagful of crystal credits on the altar, what Jean-Paul now identified as HDMs. "See you in six months."

Sister de Mulder bowed from the waist. "Please take care of Johan, Lord Magus. He is a good boy with a good heart."

That was the last Jean-Paul saw of Johan, and he was happier for it.

When Jean-Paul turned ten, news came from the Boers up the road that the British abolished the old laws, and a new coalition was in power. The celebration was so drawn and so vast that even in the platteland of Pretoria, they could hear the sound of fireworks and spells firing off from Johannesburg. Mister Nieuwoudt, their neighbour who was in Pretoria when it happened, said that the party had lasted three days and three nights; that the NoMs hung wands across the Johan Rissik Bridge so that sparks showered on the trains and trams, heralding the end of a misguided era. Cries of "Long live Johannesburg!" resounded through the city, reaching even Jean-Paul's ears when a group of NoM labourers drove by the farm, screeching wildly.

For a while, things in the city had remained hopeful. But when time passed, and nothing changed, the jubilation fermented faster than sauerkraut.

One night, only six-months after the political sea change in the city, Jean-Paul was awoken by the sound of shouting in the chapel. A fidgety sleeper mocked for his permanent eye-bags, Umzokwe snuck into the chapel by wiggling into the storeroom's underfloor crawl space.

To his chagrin, it wasn't the lord Magus who had come to visit, but a group of strange men armed with clubs and what appeared to be shock wands, like the one sister de Mulder kept locked in her office. The weapon was a necessity, for occasionally if a group of Gobs appeared and the neighbours were busy, the sister would have to shoo the monsters herself.

"Bitch, where did you send my sister?" A man pushed sister de Mulder against the dais from which she usually conducted her lessons.

Sister de Mulder kept her eyes downcast. "I do not know, Mattys. I am just a caretaker."

_Slap!_ The man struck her with a blow so savage that Jean-Paul almost leapt from his hiding spot. In his mind, the strike may as well have been a thunderclap.

"Hoer Heks! Where is my sister? What have you done with her?

The man turned. Now that Jean-Paul could get a better look, he could see that his face was familiar. It really was Mattys, a boy that had left the orphanage some four years ago. His sister was two years his junior, a fair and auburn-headed lass with long limbs. Jean-Paul recalled that she had happily Awakened as a Fire Mage and had been adopted by a Magus.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Mattys struck the sister again, an act that made Jean-Paul flinch. He wanted above all else to bite the man in the neck, to tear his throat; but, somewhere in his head, wedged between the floorboard and the foundation, he understood his helplessness. As a child yet to be tested for Affinity, Jean-Paul was wand-fodder. Could he charge out and headbutt the man? Could he stand and defend sister de Moulder even if he possessed the will?

In the room, the sister remained defiant. "You cannot cow me, Squib. You're a disgrace to our kind. How dare you join the NoMs to conspire against your superiors? They'll murder your future children, I guarantee it."

Mattys paused. Jean-Paul held his breath. He was ignorant then, and the sister's vitriolic voice shook him to his core. Never before had he seen the sister so bitter and so angry. Even with her body pressed against the dais and her arms pinned by the men, her pride astonished him.

"Brett." Mattys' response was to place a hand upon sister de Mulder's motherly bosoms. "Can you guess the sister's age?"

"Twenty? Thirty?" The older man's expression darkened. "Why?"

"She's forty at the very least!" Mattys tugged at the fabric so that the sister's collar came loose, revealing the white flesh beneath. "She's a Cleric, you know. When I studied under her, the textbooks say that healers have the sweetest bodies, full of youth, that they'll survive even the harshest abuse."

The other men laughed. As a child, Jean-Paul understood but did not understand why their laughter stunned his ears and made his chest feel like exploding.

Thankfully, the group's leader, the bearded Brett, told Mattys to leave the sister. Mattys insisted that the sister paid for her crimes as a sorceress, and it wasn't until Brett intimidated the men with a Lightning Wand that they backed away, muttering something about "Just having fun".

"Sister." Brett turned to sister de Mulder. "We'll be taking some supplies; then we'll be on our way. Is that agreeable?"

Sister de Mulder nodded, hugging her habit against her torso. Jean-Paul could see that she had turned as white as a freshly laundered sheet. When the men left, sister de Mulder knelt before the cross and prayed. Jean-Paul wanted to return to bed, but the sister's suppressed sobs had by now paralysed every nerve and sinew.

As a teenager, Jean-Paul asked the all-knowing Meister Bekker about who the men were. The Meister explained that encounters like the one Jean-Paul had experienced happened all over the country. The policy changes forced upon the Boers by the British were an experiment designed to encourage exodus.

"There's bad blood from the war, the memory of what the Mageocracy did to our women and children..." the Meister's lips pursed. "Don't mind it, Jean-Paul, that was another time and another place."

Thanks to Mattys' overzealous looting, when winter arrived, the orphanage had neither food nor mana crystals to survive the cold. Even with aid from their neighbours and Sister de Mulder's magic, several of the younger children perished.

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When the promised time of the adoption came, the men and women who arrived weren't nearly so kind as they had been before. As usual, Jean-Paul snuck under the floor.

"What did you tell the Coalition?" This time, the Magus had not come to exchange the cheer.

"Nothing, sir," the sister spoke true.

"We lost two farms, totalling twenty acolytes. Magus Rylond paid with his life. You were on the list of people they spared. Do you mean to tell me those NoMs left you alone out of kindness?"

"I…" Sister de Mulder paled. "I bribed them with food."

"Then you have aided and abetted the enemy. Corli, you're clear to proceed."

That was the first time Jean-Paul saw Mind Magic. He would see it in employment many times as yet, but this was the moment he would always recollect. Pressed against his juvenile brain, the sight of sister de Mulder's screaming as her eyes rolled into her head branded him forever. While he crawled in the earth, not unlike that of a white, pallid leech biding its time in winter; sister de Mulder drooled over her habit, her eyes dilating as though possessed by a demon.

"Did you tell the rebels were the other farms are?"
"N-no…"
"But you did give them food?"
"Y-yes..."
"Where did they go?"
"Westward."
"How many men?"
"A dozen... more..."
"Weapons?"
"Wands..."
"Did they do anything to the children?"
"No."
"What did they want?"
"Mattys' sister."
"Where is the sister now?"
"Magus Kruger's office."
"Did you tell them any of this?"
"N-Nothing..."
"They left you alone?"
"They struck me…" The sister's eyes were wide and vacant. "Mattys tried to rape me. I was going to kill myself."

The Mages fell silent.

"This country has gone to the fucking ogres. Corli, heal her."
"She needs a Lesser Restoration. Sir, we're tight on potions."
"Do it. Gather the Flight. We'll hunt these dogs down and give them a taste of their own medicine."

The wooden planks creaked. Jean-Paul felt the Magus come close to where he hid under the floor. There was the sound of a Flare spell striking, then the acrid smell of tobacco. When the men left, Jean-Paul dragged the sister through the corridors and to her bed. There, he covered her with a blanket, then fed her the potion on the altar. The last thing he recalled was that he fell asleep beside her, but awoke in his bed.

When winter ended, Mattys and his gang returned.

"YOU HOER! You sold us out!" The man's voice burst through the splintered door before the smoke could clear. "They killed Brett, you bitch! They necklaced him!"

That was the first time Jean-Paul heard of the torturous form of execution known as "Necklacing" derived by NoMs and carried out on Mages. When a Mage became sufficiently subjugated, his or her assailants would tie a rubber tire around their neck, then set the thing alight with a Scorcher. As the victim attempted to douse the flames with complete futility, there would be clapping, often to the tune of his or her spluttering Mana Shield. In response, disgruntled Mages sometimes returned the favour, often as a warning, occasionally for sport.

For now, the children sat stunned at Sunday service, staring at the silhouette of the madman stepping through the door with a dozen others, each dressed in outlandish bric-a-brac of salvaged uniforms.

"Children, leave now! Go!" Sister de Mulder gave the command.

Together with the other foundlings, Jean-Paul streamed past the crowd of NoMs. While the other children fled for the schoolhouse basement, however, Jean-Paul made directly for the sister's office. There, he found the key for the storeroom, entered through a hole in the roof, then unlocked the chest containing the Awakening Stone.

Across the thin walls, Jean-Paul could hear the horse-laughs, the groans and grunts, the choked screams and the tearful pleading. _Thump! SLAP! Thump!_ Came the thunderous sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed shortly by the din of sister de Mulder rolling painfully across the floor. For a little while, the commotion almost took on a rhythm, but then the sister began to howl like a gutted Hob, all dignity forsaken.

When the spark from the Awakening Stone jump-started his Astral Form, Jean-Paul felt consumed by an alien ecstasy. Never before had he felt something so intense, so full of malice that he struggled to breathe. His throat burned, and Jean-Paul tasted such hatred for these NoMs that the desire for their extinction consumed his mind. When her scream intensified, Jean-Paul wondered if he had gone insane, for even behind a door and a corridor, he could smell the frothing blood, the heady musk and the mutton-stink radiating from the sweltering men.

Without warning, his chest grew hollow, expelling Jean-Paul's frustrated feelings. It was as though a balloon had burst inside him, or that a stiletto had punctured his bloated torso. Something inside him cut loose, and Jean-Paul possessed neither the will nor desire to suppress the unnamable thing scratching at the edge of his consciousness.

He screamed into the Void, and something shrieked in reply.

As volatile mana filled his conduits, Jean-Paul knew only one thing. That unless he acted, he would be consumed by regret. For his tireless caretaker, Jean-Paul would open the lid, unwind the seam, untether the leash, unbind every delicate tendril if it meant that her suffering would cease by a single second. If he were to do nothing again, if he were to hide and hold his breath, hibernate like a leech, he would prefer oblivion.

Like a fetid stream overflowing, Jean-Paul's Astral Body tapped into the Sigils, Glyphs and Gates he'd been learning for the better part of his adolescent life. Magical formulas flashed through his mind, leaping from textbooks and the inscriptions to clash and collide in his feverish cerebellum.

"Umzokwe!" Jean-Paul invoked the vision he had dreaded since childhood, calling into being the very thing that had haunted his dreams. The men were monsters, Jean-Paul argued. To defeat them, he had to be the bigger beast.

In the chapel, the vaulted roof grew suddenly clamorous with howls and screams, minging with the sound of sister de Mulder's insane howling.

Pallid and segmented, sinuous, slimy and ever-hungry, Jean-Paul's beast visited its wrath upon the source of his anguish. It had manifested on Mattys, swallowing the man wholesale into its tripartite lips with nary a slurp. Then, well-fed on the Squib, it warded off the blows from the low-tier wands to consume the others one by one, using its viscous saliva to glue them to the chapel's floor. When the last assailant disappeared screaming and kicking into its slurping gullet, Umzokwe turned to the quivering sister, even now bleeding out on the crumpled rug. His fiend possessed no eyes, but even so, Jean-Paul saw.

"Jean-Paul…" the sister's voice was barely a whisper. She knew it was her pale-skinned ward, but she couldn't see. Earlier, the NoMs had taken her eyes in their cruel antics. "Con...gra...tulations..."

When Jean-Paul unlocked the door, there was only his monster left.

In greeting, Umzokwe clicked its teeth, its semi-translucent flesh undulating with pleasure. It was hungry still, and so was he.

Jean-Paul couldn't recollect much after that, but Meister Bekker told him that when the Enforcers from Pretoria arrived, they found a pallid, skeletal child sitting alone in the ruined chapel. There were wands stolen from the security forces scattered here and there, but no other survivors.

When he had regained his senses, Jean-Paul had arrived in the city on the hill, the place he knew was the administrative centre of his country, Pretoria. There, among the falling flowers of ten-thousand jacarandas, he met a woman with the scent of mouldy scrolls and yellowing paper.

When his escorts bowed from the waist, Jean-Paul understood that he was before a rare presence. As he had performed before the age-worn statue of Christ in the chapel, the newly awakened Void Mage knelt.

"Jean-Paul." The woman whose eyes were the colour of a cloudless sky spoke his name. "Welcome to Pretoria. From this day on, I christen you— Jean-Paul Bekker."

"Meister—"

"Nee, nee, Jean-Paul. You shall refer to me as Mevrou."

His new sponsor was Meister Engela Bekker, one of three Meisters to grace the Cape of Good Hope. Under her tutelage, innumerable tests were carried out on Jean-Paul, who understood that his life was worth precisely as much as the utility Mevrou Bekker could derive from his plaint body. Without complaint, Jean-Paul came to heel, never once complaining of pain, not even when the diagnostic machine made him violently ill. Day after day, he practised the knowledge his new master gave him. Though his constitution continued to wane, Jean-Paul remained tough, wiry and stoic, a paragon apprentice, docile and diligent in equal measure. No matter Mevrou Bekker's pleasure, he left no curiosity unsatisfied, no single flap of skin unpeeled. In the beginning, he was made to call on Umzokwe until he grew emaciated. By twelve, Umzokwe could be manifested for six, eight, ten hours before he lost consciousness. When it came to feeding time, Jean-Paul-cum-Umzokwe ate whatever the Meister willed, be it animals, Magical Creatures, Demi-humans, NoMs or the occasional Mage. When he wasn't baiting Umzokwe with live prey, he studied, working toward his fifteenth spring.

When he finally came of age, Jean-Paul took to the dais to receive his biometrics. As a confidential project reared hand to mouth like a pet by a Meister of the Republic, Jean-Paul proved the rarest of specimens.

Conjuration— 3.22.
Transmutation— 2.55.

Void— 2.30.

It was a memorable day for Jean-Paul, for Mevrou Bekker hugged him, embracing him against her chest. She had always loathed his touch, though that was something Jean-Paul had come to anticipate from others, and so this was a special moment.

"Jean-Paul, come. It's time you met my colleagues."

Forty-eight hours later, Jean-Paul had travelled across the world. Standing in a stranger's land, he looked up at the grandest sandstone building he had ever seen, wrought with the most intricate murals imaginable. At the relief's centre was a shield adorned by seven golden lions and an open spell scroll. Scripts in a language he had never seen spelt out the words "Spellcraftia imperii decus et tutamen".

"Mevrou," Jean-Paul recalled asking his master. "What does that mean?"

"Spellcraft knowledge is the crowning glory and the safeguard of the Empire," the Meister intoned, her face unreadable.

In London, Meister Bekker's tests continued, as did Jean-Paul's growth. More and more, he came to understand his place in the world— that he was a unique existence. In the half-decade he had spent in Mevrou Bekker's laboratory, Jean-Paul met other Void Mages, though they seldom lived long after their Awakening. The volatility of their element, the Negative Drain associated with its utility, was biologically insurmountable for all but the rarest candidates.

In that regard, Jean-Paul's Umzokwe was capable of storing the life-force of the beings he consumed. As per Meister Bekker's findings, Demi-humans and humans were the most nourishing, followed by higher-tier Magical Beasts. Thankfully, the Mageocracy's endless conflicts of interest meant there was seldom a shortage of Demi-humans.

In the intervening years which followed, Jean-Paul often heard a name— Elizabeth Sobel. A woman whom the Meister said was the best of his kind, the Mageocracy's magnum opus, its chef-d' œuvre. If Jean-Paul could prove himself half as talented as Sobel, the Meister promised, he would find both purpose and pleasure in life.

When his craft matured, Jean-Paul prepared himself in the Purple and Black Zones all over the world. In most instances, his Mevrou stood a safe distance away with a data slate, directing him to complete one feat or another. "You've done well," Mevrou Bekker had kindly informed him when he was eighteen, though sadly, he wouldn't be a second Sobel. Jean-Paul undertook the criticism without complaint; he was merely a canvas on which Mevrou Bekker painted her colours, and so continued his questionless compliance. Though the pair seldom stayed at London Imperial, the Mevrou had a tradition of returning to her homeland each spring to flee the British winter. A sentimentalist, the Meister longed for the lilac and purple Jacarandas that turned the boulevards of Pretoria indigo.

"Jean-Paul, return home," the Mevrou called him one October morning, pulling him from the depth of Swaziland. "I need you to see this."

Two days later, Jean-Paul sat beside the Meister as she played a broadcast from the latest IIUC, a competition the Meister often mocked as student politics.

The vid-cast showed a girl.
A girl who was like Jean-Paul, and was yet dissimilar.
A sorceress who tapped into the Quasi-elemental Plane of Lightning and Void.
A smiling lassie with pale skin that didn't resemble the leeches living in the Vaal, but whose dermis glowed with smooth and supple vitality.
A young miss surrounded by companions and friends; men and women who trusted her enough to put their lives on the line.
A Void Mage who transformed into a dark egg, swallowing a Beast Tide.

"A second Sobel," Mevrou Bekker informed the pale-miened Jean-Paul, then sighed deeply. "She's Kilroy's hidden apprentice, as you are mine. One wonders how one man, not to mention a dead one, could find two diamonds in the rough."

When next the Meister placed a hand on Jean-Paul's shoulder, the warmth he longed for sent shivers down his spine. He had been in Swaziland for months and it had been a long time since a fellow human had touched him.Yet, he couldn't help but feel ill.

"Jean-Paul," the Mevrou's voice filled the recesses of his mind. "Ever thought about acquiring a lady-friend?"


Gwen regarded her armoured profile in the mirror.

"It has heels?" she asked, dubious that such a decision had made it into the custom suit's design.

"A melee AND an aesthetic feature. It collapses at-will." Magus Lin Tsai, the representative from Sinomach Heavy Industries, mopped the sweat from his brow. The stiletto had been incorporated by their chief designer, who had projections of Fudan's vice-captain pinned to his workbench. Ever since Sinomach's RECON Operator's Garb appeared unannounced in Cuzco, requests and complaints had driven the clerks in the public-relations section mad. In response, Commissioner Tsai made explicit demands that their state-sponsored corporation wouldn't made a laughing stock in future broadcasts. The result was a maintenance team that arrived at Fudan with a fully-equipped service truck.

In the training hall, Fudan's eye-catching Void Sorceress cat-walked up and down an invisible rail, observing her reflections in the conjured mirrors. The re-tooled MKIII CUSTOM promised to hold together much better than the stock MKII, with elevated thresholds for dampening physical and elemental damage. Likewise, for Fudan's members who necessitated external means of Flight, an internal module enabled tier 3 locomotion, specced to the competition's item-assistance limitations.

Furthermore, the once unisex Shen-teī was gender-split. Gwen's suit had conduit-lines inscribed around her lumbar to cup her under-breast, while at the rear, a half-armoured skirt protected her bottom, extending like a dovetail. Comparatively, the girls' collision-pauldrons draped around their shoulders, capable of transforming into all-weather capes. An automatic potion-injector was initially included, though Gwen forsook the unaesthetic waist-bulge for reasons that a crushed potion-pouch was no use to anyone. The result was a sleek and modern design akin to Magi-tech racing suits.

For the palette, Fudan's iconograph came in three hues— red or blue with a white backdrop. The original designer favoured Revolution Red with white highlights and a blue under-layer, but all Gwen could see was a Pepsi Company IP violation.

"I want Gunmetal, here, here, and there…" Gwen ran a finger down her body line from chin to her inner thighs, then from knees to boots. "The team members who are willing to keep the red motif are welcome to, but I need the thighs in white. The butt-skirt's a nice touch, by the way, more space."

"Space for what?" Magus Tsai furrowed his brows. "There are no modules for that… region."

"Nothing to worry." Gwen grinned at her re-colourised reflection. "The armour should work out beautifully."

"So you keep saying..." The Magus Glyphed new hues onto the skin-hugging malleable-metal. Of Fudan's crew, he far preferred working with Miss Li, who was petite, red-faced and obedient. Even Miss Wong, who asked for the men's variant, had been perfectly happy with the original design. As for the Void sorceress, she had an opinion for every nook and contour. "Miss Song, as an Illusionist and an Enchanter, it's easier if you manipulate the pattern and colour yourself. I'll relinquish the formulae."

"Even better." Gwen checked herself in the mirror again, inspecting the angles. Feeling sentimental, she wondered when she'd be able to sell the world's first selfie App. But for that to happen, she needed a whole tree of technologies to be unlocked. Maybe when she arrived in North American or London, places where entrepreneurs had guaranteed rights backed by the Tower and the government, she could test the possibility of bringing more of her old world inventions to bear. In her old world, she struggled to gain a position higher than a Senior Consultant. Even when self-employed, her company was limited by size and affordable talent. Perhaps in her second life, it was possible to build something that spanned the continents.

"Miss." The Magus felt a feeling of revulsion as the girl chuckled narcissistically, wholly engrossed in her reflection. "Please take care of our product."

"It'll stay in one piece." Gwen cowed her technician by testing the armour's inbuilt heels, instantly raising her stature. Placing one foot ahead of the other, she tapped across the training hall. "Four inches? That's ambitious."

"Miss Song, if you're done, I shall go and aid Miss Li. Her CQB variant needs adjustments."

"Make sure her shoulders, breasts and thighs are matt-white," Gwen instructed the retreating technician.

With the flustered Enchanter retreating across the room, Gwen was quickly approached by Anita, looking very handsome indeed with her half-cropped hair and arrogant lips. The men's variant was bulkier, though Anita carried the look with dignity and pomp.

"Just to confirm." Anita pointed to her chest. "We're adhering sponsorship logos?"

"Indeed." Gwen inspected Anita's suit, pointing to either side of her chest. "We will affix our biggest sponsors at the front and back. Fudan's seal hangs over your heart; adjacent is Sinomach. Our major sponsor is Wang Enterprises and Centurion-M. Down here we have the lesser sponsors, Tonglv, SinoTrans, SAIC Motors, and finally Mao-tai Co."

Anita nodded like a chick bobbing to a mother hen.

"All in all, 11,000 HDM for each of us. Plus a bonus if we win," Gwen assured her companion. In truth, she and Lulan commanded four times the price but chose to subsidise the others. "Not bad, eh? Don't you love it when crystals fall from the sky?"

"No kidding." Anita counted her post-match income both hands. "If we win, the sponsorship fee will exceed three years of my allowance!"

"Afterward, don't forget to ride out your fame. Use it to build your brand." Gwen slapped the Mineral Mage on the shoulder. "Who wouldn't know Anita Wong after we scour Dalian of the Undead?"

"Ha!" Anita snickered. "You're thinking of Lulu. She's CCVC-1's darling at the moment."

"Do you desire greater exposure?" Gwen asked seriously. "We could probably manage it."

"Oh, Mao, absolutely not." Anita sighed. "I am no martyr. Famous and alive— that's my motto."

"Knock on wood." Gwen rapped on Anita's armour with her knuckles.

Anita made a Taoist sign to ward away evil. "So, what now?"

_Sch-Chik!_ Gwen un-deployed her stilettos, acclimatising herself to the balance shift. According to the spec sheet, the Keen Enchantment could punch through steel plates. "Let's check with the others. I want to see Richard and the boys. After our promo-shoot, we need to get dressed to receive our oversea guests."

At Gwen's behest, the reception was to happen on their home turf, the Waldorf Astoria on the Bund, where the House of M's Shadowmen could keep a pair of eyes on things.

This time around, major dignitaries included big-wigs like the Mayor of Shanghai, Magister Rong Yin; a sorcerer-bureaucrat whose many tasks included balancing Pudong against the PLA. Likewise, newly arrived was the American proctorship delegation with representatives from Stanford and the American Towers. Concurrently, as Shanghai's first international match in recent memory, the paparazzi were legion, enough to make the dog-packs ambushing Gwen and Lulan at Fudan seem like tame poodles.

"Gwen, may I have a word?" Walken's Message blossomed against Gwen's ear. "We haven't had any good opportunity to talk of late. I would very much like to hear your mind before your decisions go public."

"One second, I'll meet you downstairs." The sound of blow-dryers accompanied Gwen's answer.

When the girl arrived in the lobby of Gouding B1, Walken's breath seized. Since her return from Amazonia, the aura of personality his student possessed now encroached on oppressiveness. Perhaps it was the Lightning affinity, or maybe the girl had reached another essence-milestone; her presence captured the attention of onlookers, willingly or otherwise.

How exactly like a Dragon, Walken reflected as he circulated a mote of mana. Already, the residents and the concierge had ceased their activities to stand and stare.

"Do you like it?" His protégé spun her body mid-stride, expertly turning on one foot as the fishtail dress fanned out. When she crossed the floor, the girl blossomed like an Amaryllis, her hair falling about her shoulders. Unusual for an exhibitionist who shamelessly showed off her vain stalks, Gwen's present hem was modestly pinned, though the shoulderless upper portion appeared to overcompensate for her knee-length demurity. "It's an Alex Mu original. He's an up and coming designer the House of M is sponsoring."

"You're certainly becoming acquainted with the locals." Walken looked up at the ceiling, conjuring visions of his daughters to ward against Gwen's ostentatious fashion. "Are you sure you can bear to leave Shanghai?"

"And there it is." Gwen curled the corner of her lips. "I wondered when we'd have this talk."

"Call it curiosity, that and self-preservation," Walken confessed, switching to Silent Message. "You can't blame an old cynic, can you?"

"Let's sit and talk." Gwen pointed to the garden. The cafe next to B1's lobby wasn't very good, but it was convenient. "I am not going to ditch you in Shanghai if that's what you mean."

"You're not?" Walken followed. To the observers, the Magister appeared like an abandoned mutt who had just heard a whistle in the distance.

The two sat.
Outside, the paparazzi were ready with their optically-enhanced lumen-recorders. Walken sat with his back to the lenses, while Gwen flashed her teeth for her cyclopean admirers.

"Beware," Walken intoned gravely. "You're tier 7 now."

"I know." Gwen rested her face against the palm of her hand. "So, what would you like to know."

"Are you going to London?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice," Walken scoffed. "Now or in the future, no one will want to fight Gunther von Shultz."

"And in the not so distant future, no one will want to fight Gwen Song."

Walken's countenance twitched. So much for stemming her pride. The girl wasn't wrong, but her boisterous swagger was a magnet for future troubles.

"Sorry…" the girl stuck out her tongue playfully when she saw the vein bulging against his temple. "But yes, I WANT to go to London."

"Because?" Walken demanded. "Do you not have enough family here? Not enough crystals? Not enough influence? Do you have any idea what the PLA will give if you're willing to forsake the Mageocracy?"

"Who paid you off?" Gwen cocked her head, a lock of hair falling across her eyes like a dash of dark paint. "What's the going rate for Magister Walken these days?"

The Magister scowled. "I am serious."

"Alright." Gwen suddenly sat upright so that Walken had to avert his gaze. The dress, though elegant, wasn't at all lady-like.

"I spoke with Babulya, and she's in agreement that I shouldn't be caught up in the CCP's internal affairs. Yeye isn't going to stay a Secretary forever, and once he's out, either I fall in line, or they'll screw me out of everything. As for Gramps, I'd say he's ambivalent. For now, I am a boon, but knowing his inheritance plans for Percy— who knows? To the Party's upper echelon, too much wealth is a taboo. The Communists loathe the notion that power and wealth should be concentrated."

"Career-wise, I am well aware of my shortcomings. Fudan's a good university, but it's all second-hand knowledge. I've got Magisters who studied in England teaching me a facsimile of what authors in Oxford and Cambridge composed. With my limited time and intelligence, I am not sure if I'll ever reach my full potential. Magister Wen said that with my access to all schools, I should be making stride into Signature spells, like Henry, like Gunther and Alesia. Did you know that my late Master designed Gunther's 'hybrid School' of spells with the help of mates from Oxbridge? That's what I want..."

Stolen novel; please report.

Walken felt like slapping some sense into the girl— _designing new hybrid Schools!_ The waif was barely a noviciate theorist— and she wants to make new spells! Did she think spell-crafting for a rare Element-Affinity was akin to growing tomatoes? That one rubbed a few flowers together to engender hybrids? What half-truths had Wen been feeding the girl?

"You're not wrong." Walken thumbed his cup. "But in England, you won't have the support network you've built up."

"I'll have Gunther's buddies, and Lady Grey, and Elvia, my little Evee!"

_Is Elvia is all you care about!?_ Walken suppressed the complaint spewing from his chest. "Did Gunther mention Mycroft Ravenport?"

"He told me not to worry." Gwen toyed with a tuft of loose hair. "Lord Ravenport's Faction has their eyes on the Prime Ministership. If they make Gunther and the Middle Faction their enemy, it would make their objective near impossible. If need be, he'll mediate for me."

"And when Ravenport attains the Ministership? Where will you go then?"

"Gunther says the Tories still need the Middle Faction's support to retain a majority against the progressives. Think about it, Eric. Ravenport's left me well alone for almost two years now. He's never expressed interest in my existence. We don't even know if he's received the intelligence from Nephres. If I go, there's the questionable threat of a Purist avenger; conversely, the longer I stay here, the more I am painted in the CCP's colours."

"A man like Ravenport has patience you cannot imagine."

"All the merrier. In time, I'll eat the bastard head first if he dares to take revenge for what his son did to me. Hell's bells, maybe I'll pay him a visit. Maybe he should be worried."

"You're letting your Lightning do the talking." Walken furrowed his brows. "Your victories are getting to your head, Gwen."

"Why are you so against me going to London anyway?"

"I want what's best for you."

"You mean, what's best for you."

"I'll not deny it."

"I already told you, I am not going to leave you homeless."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Walken scoffed. "What do you owe me?"

"Well, things have changed. You stood up to Alesia, and she has left without turning you medium-rare," Gwen retorted. "Even Gunther said that you've paid for your crime in Sydney. For your involvement in Master's demise, we'll never see you as one of our own, but you know what? I prefer that we work as mutual beneficiaries. Our short time together has made me fond. I don't mind having you around."

Walken gulped, sensing a slight crinkle in his chest. "You don't?"

"I don't."

"Well..." the Magister realised too late that he was smiling. Gwen's Cheshire smile possessed a sickening infectiousness. "I— I am flattered."

"As you should be." Gwen sipped from her pearl tea. "Eric. I am not the idiot girl who was abducted from Singapore anymore. I entrapped the leadership of Tonglv into giving me one per cent of their gross. I started a credit company without spending a cent. I tripled the price of Jade without lifting a finger. According to my bio, I liberated a country..."

"Allied yourself with Dragon princes…"

"Ate a Beast Tide…"

"Saved a royal…"

"Got offered a place in his harem…"

"What?" Walken almost spat his latte in her face.

The girl's facade fractured as she grew suddenly scarlet. "Okay— please disregard that— I thought you knew?"

Walken dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, then took a moment to regulate his breathing.

"But Gwen, what can I do for you in London? I am afraid I'm not very popular with the Grey Faction, at least at the moment. Without a position, there are scant favours I may call on. As for academia, compared to the Meisters and Magisters at Cambridge, I shan't offer much in the Path of the Omni-Mage."

"Are you trying to leave?" Gwen's voice grew surly. "Have you tired of my company?"

"Just... pointing out the obvious." Walken despaired at his opponent's endless teasing.

"I want your counsel and your experience." The girl leaned in just enough so that her finger touched his hand. "I need someone to watch my back, who knows what tricks Ravenport may be up to, or Wen, or even Lady Grey?"

Eric Walken felt a tightening in his chest. Was the girl serious?

"Don't you know its unwise to trust me?" he confessed. "De Botton would skin you alive."

"No, she won't." The girl chuckled. "She'll flay you first, then baste you over a slow fire. Then Gunther will pick up the slack."

"I fear your trust." Walken felt a queer twinkle of delight constricting his heart, making his head buzz. Was this what the girl had done to her orphaned followers? He wondered. Was this what it felt like to be Lulan or Richard, utterly caught in the orbit of the girl's gravitational pull? "You're asking too much of a retired old man."

"Don't kid yourself. Your ambition's written all over your face," the girl mocked his attempt at humility. "Come on, Eric, you want the job or not?"

"The…" Walken snorted indignantly. "T-The JOB?"

"I need a majordomo." Gwen's presence seemed to magnify as Walken fought off her Draconic-aura. "You're my guy, right?"

"I most certainly am not your 'guy'." Walken forcibly reminded himself that he still had an estranged wife and two daughters, one of whom was ill. "And stop pouting like that, and sit properly. Your un-lady-like etiquette will most certainly cause tongues to wag. Lady Grey will have a fit."

"See? Helpful already." Gwen laughed. "So, will you think about it."

"You want… one of the Ten…" Walken huffed. He wasn't one of the Ten anymore, but still, he had his dignity and his pride. "To be your butler?!"

"Would it sound better if I gave you a title? When my— Ruxin's crystal mountain is deployed in London or the Americas, I shall be the CEO of a new multinational company. As my second and my ancient, you shall be my Inside Director, my whip. Our board will consist of major stakeholders, people like Gunther, obviously Ruxin, maybe another dragon or two to balance the books, and stockholders from major industrial sectors will serve as Outside Directors. Your job will consist of wrangling their support so that our interests can be prioritised."

Walken stared so hard that his eyes began to water.

"I am very interested in the communications sector," Gwen continued. "China isn't a good place for the development of long-distance communication technologies, but I have a very good idea involving the Divination Towers. That and I have a few notion involving wires and lighting-charged cores. From this baseline—"

The girl paused. Her conversation partner appeared Petrified. "Eric?"

Eric Walken breathed out; his warm coffee was now stone cold. As for his mind, a riot of possibilities played across his frontal lobe. He did not believe the girl had a means of cheap communication for the masses, and yet, Gwen had never disappointed when it came to generating obscene volumes of currency.

"You've got a few months to decide," the girl promised as she slid from her chair. Over the hedge, a dozen bulbs flashed, painting her complexion vivid ivory. "No rush, we've got an IIUC to win!"

The old "Shanghai Club", now known as the Astoria at the Bund, possessed an unrivalled chronicle. Constructed in 1910 to cater to wealthy Westerners, it subsequently survived the Qing Dynasty, the Sino Occupation, The Great Revolution, a failed coup, and then a Beast Tide.

Both inside and out, the Astoria was an art-deco, ultra-luxury colonial marvel whose price-point mocked the communist banners celebrating the workers' victory only four blocks away. One step past the footmen, anyone unwilling to burn at least a hundred HDMs at the bar should think twice before gracing its four-storey foyer.

For Fudan and the young Mages from Auckland and Pretoria, it was with great fortune that the House of M covered all expenses. Had Dean Luo been made to foot the bill, the poor man would have lost all his hair by morning.

_Tink! Tink! Tink!_
The shrill twinkle of English silver on elven-glass silenced the room.

"Students, advisors, and esteemed guests- we welcome you to this gathering for the International Inter-University Competition. TONIGHT— We kick off the second round of the IIUC. Before I reveal the Quest portion of our competition, let us celebrate our future Magus and Magisters, our talented young people whose very presence represents humanity's hope and dreams..."

The woman with a sonorous timbre was Magister Maryam Clark Jamison, a Stanford alumna of great renown. With her curly bob, creme-coffee complexion and almond eyes, the Magister's presence was awe-inspiring, as befitting a Mage of high station. For Gwen, this was the first African-American Magister she had seen, much less heard of, and so her first instinct was to silently Message Walken.

"Don't act the bumpkin," Walken's voice returned. "According to her file, Jamison heads medical Magi-tech research at Stanford, served as the Chief Medical Officer in Chicago, and now works as an external consultant for Pfizer-Klein. In terms of Factions, she's a neutral outsider..."

Gwen couldn't help but note that Walken was more enthused than usual. Upon the stage, the chief proctor continued.

"… You all know the Magister beside me— Mayor Rong Yin. Sir Yin, the pleasure is all mine," the healer finally finished after a five-minute pontification on the spirit of competition.

"Your modesty is very un-American." The Mayor of Shanghai, physically an unassuming man, chuckled, eliciting a round of laughter from the room. Once the noise died down, he pointed to the reporters surrounding the hall. "Alas, I am not the main attraction, not today. Stop pointing those devices at me— the stars tonight are these young men and women who will soon venture into the hell known as the Northern Front."

As if on cue, bulbs glowed white-hot.

"Well said, Sir Yin." The chief proctor flashed her pearly teeth. "Let me not steal the Dancing Light either. Without adieu, let's invite to the stage— Your Captains and Vice-Captains!"

The reception broke into wild applause. Of the hundred-meter long length of tables that had been set up, three pairs stood from their seats.

From Fudan's side, all eyes were focused on their resplendent vice-captain, whose daring, figure-hugging dress and four-inch stilettos elevated her head and shoulders above her captain. Arm-in-arm, the two proceeded down the extended entry onto the dais, half-blinded by the lumen-blasts firing from the recorders.

Pretoria's leading couple was equally eye-catching. Their captain was a flaxen-haired young man with a prominent jaw and clear, crystal-like eyes in a navy herringbone tuxedo. Everything about the man was tailored; even his measured walk suggested that his existence was brevity in itself. Attached to his arm was an olive-skinned beauty with auburn hair. In contrast to the tapered young man, the lady was outrageously voluptuous. Though she moved languishingly, it was as though every ounce of her sensuous flesh smouldered.

Finally, Auckland's duo turned head by virtue of their difference in height and girth. From what the audience could see, Auckland's captain had the body of a child and the face of a gruff soldier. Measuring just under four-foot-four, the captain from the Land of the Long White Cloud reached only the bosom of his partner. Compared to her captain, Auckland's vice-captain was a giantess with a sculpted body matching her Earth-Affinity.

Together as a trio, the group made quite the headlining spectacle.

"Let us begin with our far-far-away-team…" chief proctor Jamison intoned. "Captain Hertzog, please say a few words for the audience, the people of China, and your fellow contestants."

"Ek groed u, my liewe vriende." The young man's accent was apparent even through the translation stone. "We are delighted to be here and be given the opportunity to represent my country and my university. Though much has changed in my country since the days of my great-grandfather, I hope to prove to the world that despite the blessing the Britannic Mageocracy has bestowed upon us, the blood of our forefathers flows undiminished. Today, I am here with my vice-captain, Alizea Kock, my teammates Lencho, Mariete, Ella, Altus, Pieter, Izette, and Heila. Together, I hope that we shall provide the people of this land some solace from its invaders. From the depth of our hearts, we truly thank you for hosting us."

The Captain of Pretoria bowed.

"Wooo, snarky." Gwen had learned of the beef between the Boers and the British who came into South Africa salivating after its abundance of precious minerals and HDM mines. According to Walken, the result was that South Africa's Purists were dragged kicking and screaming onto the Middle Path. One by one, Gwen's gaze matched the names to the nodding faces and the waving arms.

"Six… seven— there's nine of them? Eric, did someone die?"

"No, there's ten of them. Hertzog missed the last one."

Gwen's gaze fell upon an individual she had disregarded. It wasn't surprising, considering his lack of presence. Now that her Essence-infused eyes focused, she saw a young man who could only be described as unfortunate. Where the rest of Pretoria had the chiselled look of young nobles with their Duchess noses, deeply sunken eyes and fair to olive skin; the oddball appeared as if a goblin shark and Voldemort had a lovechild. Gangly and yet somehow shrunken, the man looked completely uncomfortable in his designer suit, giving the impression that the wardrobe designer had stuffed a sphinx cat into a child's tux. As if sensing her gaze, the man raised his head. His eyes were a beautiful blue, but against his face and his pallid dermis, all Gwen could think of was Gollum.

"Wow." Gwen repressed her ingrained prejudice, then silently Messaged her instructor. "What is that dude? Is he demi-human?"

"I'll find out from Magister Jamison," her instructor replied. "Stop staring, it's rude. You'll see worse in England, I promise you. The upper nobility throws up some horrors now and then. I'll tell you that."

Unable to control her mirth, Gwen burst into a dazzling grin before removing her eyes from the unfortunate tenth member of Pretoria.

Next to take the spotlight was Auckland's mismatched combination from the buddy comedy "Twins".

"Kia Ora!" came a booming voice from a tiny body. "Rona Manaia from Turangi, Captain of Orkland, at your service. Oi am here with me mates and missus from Oceania and the Land of the Long White Cloud. With me here is our missus boss, Ruihi Keeti. As for the other fellers: from the left, that's Yue Bai from Sydney, the Wikiriwhi brothers from Whitianga, Maka and Timoti. Over there's Rongo and Otikoro, the big boi there is Whetu of Rotorua, next to him in the shade is Tua from Te Urewera. Finally, that choice young lady there's Opi from my hometown. It's good to be here with the bros, and we look forward to a good competition."

Yue waved at her captain, or perhaps she was waving at Gwen— Gwen couldn't tell. The little-red dress that Yue wore, however, was sure to raise eyebrows once the cocktails started flowing.

"The captain's a 'quarterling'." Walken's voice drifted across the room via the Silent Message. "It wasn't mentioned in his file. How quaint."

"What the hell is a _quarterling?"_

"Half of a Halfling." Walken's dad-joke flew over her head. "You're aware of what happens when a Demi-human and a human love each other very much, yes?"

"AH." Gwen nodded imperceptibly. The young man was barely up to her chest, but his hand and feet were enormous.

"And finally, a word from our residents!" Magister Jamison stalked around Gwen and Tei, cooler than a cucumber. When she passed Gwen, the chief proctor lowered her voice. "Miss Song, I've seen your uncut vid-casts, and I must say that what you refer to as CPR has turned heads and peaked interests in my field of expertise."

"I am happy to hear it." Gwen smiled at the decorated Magister, carefully observing the youthful, forty-something woman. "We've yet to find an avenue to publish our findings, you should know. Perhaps in the future, when I am abroad…"

"Of course." The Magister pursed her thick-lips. "Which one of you will speak?"

"Tei, work your magic." Gwen nudged Tei so that he began the usual cookie-cutter speech deemed acceptable at all official CCP events. Without blinking, he began to extol their un-repayable gratitude for the nation, his Clan, his parents, to Fudan. "… He's our official CCP spokesperson."

"You're not going to speak yourself?" The chief proctor measured the girl from head to toe with her amber orbs. "You've got a gift for oratory. Some would say that's a rarer talent than Magic."

"And a good speech must be delivered at the right time and in the right place. For now, I am happy to play the vase." Gwen held her gaze steady as the two women measured one another. "…Magister, I think you're up."

"We'll talk later." The caramel-complexioned Magister turned her face slightly from Gwen to face the crowd. As her voice rose to a crescendo, the multitudes stood to raise their glasses. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, allow me to declare the opening of the 2004 second round of the INTERNATIONAL INTER-UNIVERSITY COMPETITION! FUDAN! PRETORIA! AUCKLAND! YOUR MISSION, should you choose to accept: is to assist in the RECLAMATION OF SHENYANG!"