Below from Shalkar, through the cool crust of Elemental Earth and the warm mantle, traversing the churning molten heart of the Elemental Plane of Magma, lay a dormant expanse of forests and greenery greater than the continental home of the Regent and vaster than the entirety of the Britannic Mageocracy’s total landholder.

To the American Empire bubbling forth in the north, this continent of greenery was the heart of a terrifying Black Zone where even darkness fears to tread. Even during the Age of Discovery, where men from every civilisation sought to breach its walls of wood, they made no further progress than the coasts, succeeding only where the canopy receded and gave way to rich tablelands.

Now, again and again in the golden age of Spellcraft, with its Golems and cataclysmic Towers capable of uprooting mountains, no local or imperial state possessed the means to breach its walls.

Therefore, only select intellectuals of academia knew of its existence, romantically dubbing the Black Zone Amazonia, after the fabled city of the men-napping sorceresses who ruled an island kingdom in the old tales of the weaver, Homer. The exoticism was because the Spanish wayfarer Francisco de Orellana, one of the first Humans to attempt to map the outskirts of the Wall of Woods, returned deranged from his expedition, raving about svelte obsidian goddesses wielding the power of the Elements, simultaneously weaving webs of barbed silk from a plethora of lithe limbs. While few believed the delirious explorer in the Age of Discovery, subsequent expeditions by the Mageocracy and, later, the Beast Tide itself all but confirmed what darkness Amazonia’s canopies hid for its timid neighbours.

For those living above its shadow, the Peruvian monarchs of old call the Black Zone ukhu pacha, “the world below”, the realm of death, home to the Underworld Goddess and her endless army of demons.

Ergo, this Ukhu Pacha was a world that no Humans had ever ventured into, at least to the knowledge of Percy Song, brother to the Regent of Shalkar and the most wanted war criminal in the modern history of post-revolution China.

Presently, unfortunately, the grand scion to the House of Song, cousin to Dragons and—for a brief moment—Vessel to a Kirin, could not spare the luxury of contemplation. This was because the young would-be war hero turned treasonous Necromancer was being hunted by a ten-limbed Svartálfar wielding a butcher’s hook in one hand and a flayer whip in another.

“Salt Barrier!” The Abjuration had manifested before Percy even finished the final syllable. Since the day of his abduction, his prowess as a Spellcraft Mage had grown by leaps and bounds. Ironically, this was not through the practice of the esoteric craft of the Imperial Magic System but by the rejection of the system he had been taught and the connection to something more fundamentally elemental.

A wall of Elemental Salt shot up from the white sand, traversing the shifting terrain of a duelling arena not too dissimilar to the one he had used in Fudan, catching the bisecting slice of both blade and whip.

The Svartálfar was stopped momentarily, though its spell resistance soon broke down the wilful energies pulling phenomenon from the Prime Material.

“Orior ulu el-lizhishellia!” The Dark Elf snarled, his facial features contorted by the six extra pairs of compound eyes that framed his forehead like jewels of a crown, each scarlet and malevolent, alien and full of malice. This particular creature, Percy knew, went by the name of Char-bur, meaning “The Cunning Venom”. The Rune of the Nine-legged Spider was carved upon its chest, marking him as the favoured Fang of Phyr Quar-Tath, Mistress of the Long Night.

Percy sensed his will manifest as the invocations for Dagger Swarm quickly manipulated the shards of broken salt into something deadlier. With a life of its own, each shard sought out the joints and the unarmored flesh of the Fang, their serrated edges burring with micro-vibrations that would shred armour with the ease of piranha swarm cutting through flesh.

“Futile effort—!” The Dark Elf laughed, swatting aside his spell with a wave of his suddenly extended whip and its multiple flail heads, taking the rest of the attack head-on with its magical fortitude.

Percy struck the floor and rolled, spontaneously sending up a great cloud of salt particles to obscure his passage. An inch from his face, the butcher’s hook with a honed edge passed by his face, its enchanted edge cutting a gash across his striking cheekbones even though a layer of crystallised salt protected him.

The crowd roared.

Above the two combatants, the great dome resembled the interior of a hornet’s nest layered by arches and balconies so ornate and beautiful that a Human architect would weep at their obsidian perfection. Less than half of the viewing platforms were filled—though the sound of their cheers, jeers and cruel laughter was amplified just enough by the cathedral lattice to encourage the fighters.

Percy took flight.

He ascended barely a few meters before a great web enveloped him, covering all escape angles.

“Dimension Door!” The spell was near-silent, punctuated only by a final grunt.

With a swiftness that would have impressed even his sister, Percy Song left behind a salt-constructed clone of himself and reappeared a dozen meters away, winded but safe.

The Fang leapt, changing directions so fast its body was but a blur as Percy erected another shield, barely blocking a strike that would have left his guts on the arena floor.

As the hot feeling of blood and iron filled the interior of his mouth, he felt a dark rage boiling inside of him.

Why was he not in China, being hailed as the scion of a Kirin?

Why was he not dazed and happy in Mei’s lap?

Why was he here, fighting God-forsaken, unholy monsters from the myths?

With a snarl of his own, one more animalistic than the spider-fiend’s accursed glee, Percy Song tore at the bubbling mana inside his Astral Body and allowed it to flow free once more. Negative Energy, more than he had ever conjured in his tenure as a Mageocracy Mage, filled his conduits with chilling ice.

His pupils turned to ivory, then suddenly became black as jet.

“WORLD OF SALT!” The spell that made his father famous came easily and with far more potency than his predecessor’s craft.

The salt that erupted with Hai Song as a locus was pure white with a harmonious tinge of peach-blossom pink—but the rapid expansion that came forth from Percy was like black ice, jagged and spiteful, full of malevolence and hunger.

As before, Char-bur burst into the rage of his Elemental Domain, stepping through the salt, crunching and crushing his manifestations.

The Spider Fang’s lips curled. “By olath drathir, I claim you for my Mistress!”

Percy raised a salt-encrusted arm.

THUNK—! The butcher’s hook sunk into his forearm, piercing his armour and skin, bone and muscle until it stopped an inch from the base of his jugular. The flensing whip raked his armour, tearing off chunks of salt and flesh, sending a great flare of agony up his quivering torso.

“Got you, little flea!”

“Congratulations,” Percy felt the dark exaltation of his heart palpate despite the necrotic energies eating away at his life force. “Here’s your reward.”

His mind twisted, conjuring up spells without words in a language no humans could speak. Its origin was a race of Demi-divine beings that Humans had worshipped for aeons until they were usurped by a greater race with an even greater appetite for rapine and usurpation. The legacy of that race should have been his—as was his right—but even that had been taken from him, leaving him with only the scraps of what should have been the power to swallow worlds.

Without warning, his littered field of salt turned malignant.

An observant Necromancer would have dubbed the effect Life Drain, a staple of Necromancy taught to neophytes, though this was something so potent that it resembled the higher-order spell, Vampiric Touch.

Yet, no Necromancer, not even the Masters of Soul Craft, could imagine that every grain of Elemental Salt could somehow be infused with the effect of an already complex, difficult-to-control spell.

What Percy Song created was something more innate. It was an effect that was as natural as it was unnatural. What its victim felt directly was the hunger of a direr being that selfishly desired nourishment for itself.

The Fang sensed that it was in danger almost instantly. Skittering on all eight legs, it sought to make distance from its target.

“Tendrils of Salt!” Unfortunately for it, Percy had fought enough of the monster’s kin to know their reactions by now. Before Char-bur, his owner had put him through the paces by pitting him against arrays of crawling, fang-bearing creatures wielding everything from tree limbs to elemental magic. So often were these duels since their arrival in the underworld that Percy had stopped keeping count and focused solely on his future survival.

Apart from that, what sustained him was the burning resentment and raw hatred. He felt fuelled by that broiling mass of hunger and darkness that cooked his organs and made him wake every few hours covered in sticky, cold sweat, cursing at a familiar face.

Gwen Song.

His sister.

A creature he hated with every conduit of his being.

With the tendrils bringing to life the Elemental Salt that had worked its way into the carapace of Char-bur, Percy Song, the Fang of Sobel, now feasted upon the vitality of his victim. With the tenacity of an old Empress Kirin feeding upon the Essences of mortals by the millions, he drained all he could from the howling spectacle of the rampaging Spider Fang.

The whiplash broke his skin.

The twisting hook broke his arm.

Like mince from a butcher’s block, gibbets of Percy’s meat landed in the arena yard's white sand, celebrated by the howling audience above them.

Then… the strikes slowed.

His salt armour staunched his bleeding.

His flesh healed.

While his opponent grew lethargic, the agony kept him wide awake.

Salt lowly formed from the joints of the Spider Fang’s limbs, paralysing its movements.

From its despairing eyes, moisture turned to salt.

The thud in Percy’s head slowly faded just as the audience’s hoots grew quiet.

With gravitas, he made the final motions of his father’s Signature Spell.

While fully alive, for such was the vitality of one of these Dark Elf war engines, its limbs fell apart, leaving only its thorax, or perhaps torso, and its humanoid parts intact on the arena floor.

Walking a half-circle around his victim, Percy picked up the fallen flail and felt its enormous weight in his hand.

“Greater Enhance Strength.” He willed his body to gain the strength to participate in the great joy that would soon come to him. “Got me, you say? Hahaha…”

His laughter echoed across the arena, answered by the cruel mirth echoing all around him.

Percy Song raised the enormous flail.

The heads, he saw, were not metal barbs but living grubs.

As each tiny head connected with soft tissue, they would instantly bore downwards, cutting out little meat cookies. Even now, they squealed and squirmed an inch from his face, beseeching their new master to provide them with fodder.

What a weapon, Percy thought to himself.

The weight was pure pleasure as he swung downwards.

Again.

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And again.

And again and again.

Percy drew a song of pleading and pleasure from his victim to entertain the masses.

In the fevered heat of his burning mind, he was already imagining what he would do to his perfect sister’s flawless pale skin.

image [https://imgur.com/2Q3gE3J.jpg]

Under the ornate overhang of an operatic canopy, a duo of feminine figures watched the spectacular butchery below.

Elizabeth Sobel, Void Witch and arguably the most infamous and wanted war criminal in all of the Prime Material, could only confess that she felt oddly impressed.

“The game is yours, again.” The female voice was melodious, like the sound of soft, dripping rain after a thunderstorm over the rainforest. “I am not often wrong, Sobel, and yet your creature has proven that fact, over and over. I feel almost mocked.”

“You have stronger creatures yet,” Sobel felt herself smile as genuinely as one in her position could in these difficult times. “I ask only as before that your Highness afford my ward a tiny sliver of victory.”

The figure opposite pursed her richly hued lips in thought, delighted as she had been when Percy exceeded their expectations the first time. For these long-lived creatures, surprises were a pleasure in itself.

Sobel smiled back.

Phyr Quar-Tath, Mistress of the Long Night, was one of the seven Web Weavers who held sway in the underworld that is Che’ell-Cressen—The Web Spire, and she was intrigued.

Here, opposite the Tree of Tryfan on the world’s opposite, sat Amazonia, home to another tribe of timeless guardians tethered to the World Tree as janitors of the Axis Mundi. Just as the denizens of Tryfan were the Ljósálfar—the beings of Light—the Svartálfar were their cousins, tasked with the same existential creed.

Yet, the Svartálfar seemed to be beings of a different breed entirely.

In the shallow eyes of mortal Humans, the obvious observation was that one was warm ivory, and the other was violet ebony. For a Mage who had tasted the Essence of a near-infinite array of mortal and immortal species, however, Sobel understood that the two species were fundamentally different.

She had yet to consume a Ljósálfar like the Bloom in White or her partner in Spectre, but from her feasts of the Hvítálfar in the ages past, she could tell that these were vibrant, placid beings of arrogance with a deep connection to the spiritual space of the Axis Mundi.

Comparatively, the stock that the World Tree took to create the Svartálfar was more aggressive and malignant, genetically inheriting a natural inclination to cruelty and sadism that was difficult for her rational mind to process. Below the roots of their Great Tree also slumbered an ancient Black Wyrm as old as the Summer Queen herself, with a temperament just as cruel and wicked as its Vessels.

When Sobel had questioned her Elven ally, the immortal had explained with scholarly diplomacy that perhaps, this was itself the way of the world. The Svartálfar was a counterbalance to the Ljósálfar—though over the aeons, the Light Elves had devolved into the Hvítálfar, just as the Hvítálfar furthermore degenerated into the savage Träälvor, the Elves of the Woods.

Comparatively, the Svartálfar perished often, and their ranks were refilled just as often.

Perhaps the counterpoint was for the Svartálfar to become the new masters of the Prime Material until they, too, degenerated, and such cycles of death and regeneration would continue, and the world would turn.

Sobel had her own theory, for she knew that her immortal partner had come to the Svartálfar millennia-times-millennia ago and began changing its people to comply with their natural inclinations.

Thus, while the same Bloom in White ruled Tryfan during the Age of Dragons, the Svartálfar princess standing beside her was, at best, a millennium in age. The political reality of the Great Web Spire and its fierce, cannibalistic competition made longevity impossible, a trait that her Elven partner deemed dynamic and evolutionary.

“Better that I make my miscalculations here,” Phyr Quar-Tath touched her long, slender fingers to her chest, each gloved with gossamer and finely encrusted jewels her vast menagerie of servants dug from the depth of the Elemental Planes. “Your ward has invigorated me, Elizabeth. For this, he should be rewarded generously.”

“The usual Elixirs will do,” Sobel brushed away the vague attempts leading to the eventual conversation of acquiring Percy as a collector’s item. “My ward is rather excellent, is he not?”

“He has certainly proven himself,” Phyr Quar-Tath signed wistfully. The Dark Elf’s appearance was like an uncanny porcelain doll’s, equally alluring and unsettling. Tall and lanky, there was a predatory hostility to the graceful body of the Dark Elf that made Sobel on edge and hungry. “To think the Vetash of my finest gladiators would be so brutally… dismembered by a mortal larvae.”

“Humans mature fast,” Sobel returned the good grace of her conversation partner. “He is already an adult.”

“He can be bred?” Phyr Quar-Tath’s silvery brows perked up. Sobel understood implicitly that the Mistress of Long Night was not interested in a mortal’s pliant flesh. Rather, the possibility of breeding a small army of Percy Songs would provide a century of entertainment. Unfortunately for the Mistress of Webs, it wasn’t Percy’s seed that made him special, but a series of unfortunate events.

When Sobel had initially disassembled the boy’s mind and told its secrets to her Elven partner, they had both marvelled at discovering a pitiful wretch simultaneously so miserable and mistaken.

Firstly, Percy Song had the rare misfortune of inheriting a constitution magically cursed by the Kirin Tribe of yore from Humanity’s enslaved past, where its people existed as fodder for malevolent Draconic beings. His abilities had manifested, and he should have died in quick agony; only the timely arrival of a Kirin Amulet had prevented his salvation.

It was a curious thing, for not even her immortal friend, who had spoken to and had a tacit agreement with Li-Rin, the Drought Queen herself, knew that a fragment of the Kirin’s Core existed outside its slumbering tomb.

Ergo, rather than Gwen Song, who should have been consumed or, at least, driven to madness by the seduction of an ageless Demi-god, it was the very unfortunate Percy Song who had inherited the Kirin’s insurance policy.

And it wasn’t even the whole Amulet! Sobel could only feel astounded because the only reason the Kirin could assert a sliver of its consciousness was that Percy’s grandfather was stupid enough to undo the wards put in place by the old sorcerers who bargained with Li-Rin while subverting the desires of their Draconic allies.

And so, misfortune on a scale of generational stupidity conjoined with present-day tomfoolery to lead Percy Song to the sealed tomb of Li-Rin, becoming key and fuel for a resurrection originally meant for her Elven mentor.

Only the boy’s misfortune didn’t end there.

He was the brother of Gwen Song, the most fortunate sorceress known to man.

And Gwen Song, from her inexplicable induction into the realm of Demi-divinity by the Rainbow Serpent to her sheltering under Henry and Gunther to her mystically-assisted destruction of Faceless, was as chosen as they come.

And EACH of Gwen’s fortuitous encounters would push Percy into new valleys of despair, for her association with the Yinglong naturally meant that a Dragon-kin famously known for its powers of Divination saw a way to put the girl to use.

And when that girl put herself to task… she walked herself and her Ordo Bath girlfriend right into Percy’s moment of ascension and snuffed her brother’s ambition with the same starkness as he was now exercising on the twitching body of Phyr Quar-Tath’s Vetash.

It was almost… artistic.

“Well, that’s Dragons for you…” Her Elven compatriot had used their failed ignition of Tianjin as an Undead Front as a lesson. “Though tapping into so much providence is taxing. Moving forward, we can be assured that the Yinglong will slumber for a long time… even by our standards.”

What intrigued Sobel more was why and how Percy Song was able to produce her personal Sigil in the moment of his desperation. Only the executives knew her personal Sigil, them and the late Faceless. That was why she had taken him alive, a forgone fact that she had not informed the very upset and hilariously antsy Gwen Song. Regardless of her choice of the perky little blonde priestess or her ingrate brother, she would have taken Percy.

However, watching Henry’s little pet squirm had given Sobel a rare pleasure that would only be exceeded if she could turn her husband’s creature against him. That was also why she had left the blonde alive, for a Gwen mad with grief was far more dangerous than one that possessed a weakness Sobel could pluck at her leisure.

Considering the outcome, Sobel felt an unhappy nostalgia for her faceless scion.

If Faceless could have assumed the guise of the little blonde, and if Faceless could assume the guise of Gwen herself, they could destroy Shultz and de Botton…

Sobel felt her fingers tingle at the thought. Such a complete revenge against her husband was now so out of reach that it was only a fantasy—but an enthralling one to be sure.

In any case, she did not find the answer she sought from Percy. Even with a thorough Soul Scry that could have left the boy a drooling buffoon, she found no answers. This was also why she had kept the boy alive, though what came next was far beyond her expectations.

The boy was…entertaining.

Percy Song was easy on the eyes—that Sobel had to concede, and his boyish charm made her think of simpler, bygone days. More importantly, perhaps because of the Kirin, or perhaps this was his true talent, the boy was a prodigal user of Necromancy. While travelling together to her various appointments, she had taught the boy some spells, wondering if he would attack her, only to find that Percy Song absorbed arcane proficiency like a sponge. With the simplest invasive demonstrations, he could replicate the spells her husband had designed for her exclusive use.

Most of all, Percy Song’s inexplicable capacity for various Schools of Magic reminded her of… herself.

That and the burning hatred the boy possessed for Kilroy’s kitten was wordlessly astounding, becoming a kind of psychic fuel that pushed him into realms of mastery impossible for a child his age.

Was the boy a Revenant? Sobel found herself thinking more often than not—had the boy ironically received the same blessing as his sister from a dead Kirin?

Unfortunately for Percy again, the sister is far more than a Vessel now.

The Rainbow Snake was now tethered to the Gwen Song’s Tree, and that symbiosis wasn’t something even her partner had expected.

A woman.

A snake.

A tree.

Henry had often said those words, and it wasn’t until Sobel became the premier partner of their humble leader that she understood what those words meant. And it wasn’t until Gwen Song’s bewildering success that she realised the role played by The Bloom in White could be substituted by a young woman of fortune.

And in the boy’s hate.

His night terrors.

His whimpering.

His depraved capacity for cruelty.

His madcap sprees of murder.

She found a little piece of herself.

She found his madness endearing.

“You can breed him, but it won’t give you the results you seek,” Sobel replied diplomatically. “Unlike your daughters, talent isn’t assigned or inherited for Humans to the degree of the High Born. And their offspring, even if you make the impossible possible, will be sterile.”

“Spoilsport,” The Dark Elf pouted, then opened her mouth just enough for Sobel to see the hidden fangs drip with malice. When truly upset, the Svartálfar could split their beautiful faces to reveal their true selves, a sight that could birth nightmares. “Lend him to me for a few cycles then.”

“I will politely decline,” Sobel raised her chin and slightly inclined her face. Against the Svartálfar, politeness is always backed by threats of ultraviolence. When her Elven friend had first introduced her to the denizens of the Web Spire, she too had to prove herself in the arena. Of course, unlike Percy, Sobel’s singular display had been so total and unnecessary that she had never been invited back. “Kindly do not ask me again.”

The ruby-hued eyes of the Svartálfar blinked at her, its compound pupils rapidly expanding and contracting. Sobel maintained her smile as she watched a tremor of rage run up the Elf’s body. Yet, she felt no need to release her Aura of Desolation, for Svartálfar had long and perfect memories, and the entire city had turned out to watch her first and last demonstration of power.

“I tire,” the Svartálfar stepped back, brushing back a strand of loose, Mithril-hue hair that had escaped her ornate headdress. “Hand-maidens!”

A flock of silk-garbed Svartálfar appeared from the shadows, their eyes firmly affixed to the floor.

“We return to the Spire,” the Mistress of Long Night gave the command, and her entourage instantly moved to make ready her transit along the complex corridors of the city. “Summon the Master of the Pits. We will acquire a new challenger for our guests.”

Sobel bowed. She didn’t need to, but it was polite.

The Svartálfar bowed her head in turn. There was no need, but violence respected violence in the Elven hive.

With the Mistress of the Long Night gone from the private box, Sobel watched her ward triumphantly retreat. In his earlier flights, he had to be attended by the infirmary. Now, he could walk away with the usurped life force of his foes, his back straight and tall, and his gore-soaked mien in desperate need of a shower.

She sent a sliver of will toward the singing crystals framing the balcony, and a row of rich purple curtains in heavy silk drew close, granting her privacy. She retrieved a Long-Range Divination Engine from her Storage Ring, one that all the executive members of their spectral task force possessed. A special invocation and a drop of her blood later, the seemingly ordinary device unpacked itself to reveal several Mandalas far more complex than the capabilities of Human Spellcraft.

A dozen HDMs were given to the circuitry, and then, with a flash of silvery Conjuration, her latest missive arrived.

It was a note, accompanied by what looked to Sobel as an edition of the METRO dated a week ago.

“For your new boy,” the note read in perfect, pleasure-inducing Ljósálfar cursive, a language half-lost to the younger Hvítálfars. “I very much anticipate his wonderful future.”

“You knew I never had a boy…” Sobel muttered sourly, amazed that her Draconic constitution could still feel discomfort. “I was forced to birth a thing.”

She picked up the paper and scanned the contents.

Gwen Song.

A new Tower.

Shalkar and The Fifth Vel.

Lei-bup, High Priest to the Mer, shoulder to shoulder with a Rat-kin.

Hilariously, the Red Dragon boy skulked at the right of the group picture, right of Gwen’s smiling cousins.

A wonderful moment of happiness and prosperity.

The Tower would be a problem—though it wasn’t her problem. Another one of their members was tasked with its removal, though Sobel had little faith in their mortal allies with their mortal limitations.

She turned the page to three.

A double spread was there, in full colour, with the Regent in an ivory Elven dress, displaying the bearing of a Salisbury facsimile to the Bloom in White. Gwen Song, her striking eyes full of ambition and hope, her flawless complexion bright with Shalkar’s future. Gwen Song, her bosoms a little too pushed together, her tucked tummy perfectly inviting, her long legs made longer by a train of living material sung into being by a Druid.

Here was not a worrywart with an abducted brother.

Here was the model entrepreneur of the year, the Morning Star of the Mageocracy, ready for her ascension.

It was perfect.

“Percy, well done,” Sobel spoke to the curtains, knowing her voice would reach her ward. “Come, child, I have something to reward you, something truly delightful and to your taste.”