I might have done goofed.

Didn't seem like a mistake at the time, and even after seeing the results all splayed out behind me, I can't rightly explain how things could've gone so wrong. Had a whole lot of Qinks I had to get away from, so I fired off a few shots with the Ranger Nagas, the big old hand cannons I done claimed off of Ronald Jackson's corpse. They got a real bark to match their bite, a big, booming retort that'll carry for several klicks here in the badlands, which I figured would wake Abby from their hibernation and get them right hopping mad enough to come out and see what's what. After the fatty's big hunt that got them Proggies all riled up in day's past, I correctly assumed that they'd send Abby out in full force to clear any and all interlopers out of their territory.

Which didn't seem too bad since I was already on my way out and wanted to make sure them Qinks were too. My plan worked, but that's the problem see. It worked too well, because as I skate across the badlands playing pied piper for Abby, I glance back to see an endless horde of Abby following along behind me and just chomping at the bit to get at my flesh.

Endless is obviously an overstatement, but there's more Abby there than I can kill, which is really saying something considering I'm armed to the teeth with 8 Aetherarms and a whole lot of grenades and Molotovs to really clear house. Problem is, that horde behind me ain't just a mob of chaff that'll keel over in a stiff breeze. Swarmlings and Spitters can be lethal sure, but only when they get in kinda close, and therein lies the rub. Swarmlings gotta get into melee range, while Spitters can shoot up to 40 metres, but aren't all that accurate even when they close as 15m, so it ain't like they all that deadly. Still dangerous though, so ideally you want to kill them before they reach their optimal range. Problem is, if you turn your weapons on them, that gives the bigger, more dangerous Abby free rein to close that distance too, and you most certainly want the big 'uns dead right quick.

Like the bulky, ant-headed, knuckle dragging Burrow Hulks all a lumbering behind me. They got the profile of a gorilla and the shoulders of a bugbear, with armoured carapace to boot. Add in their muscular builds and that lets them smash through steel gates and solid stone with their wide, arcing swings. Heavy demolitionists that can take a licking and keep on ticking, that's a Burrow Hulk in a nutshell, and there are at least 50 scattered about the horde behind me and moving surprisingly quickly for their bulk. Still slower than most Abby in the crowd though, even slower than the puffed-up Beetle Behemoths carrying whole loads of Swarmlings and Spitters inside of their massive, hollow gullets. Usually, slow is good, because that means they're easy to outrun, except I'm not trying to get away from the horde. I'm trying to lead it away, which means I gotta stay close enough to keep them Burrow Hulks interested without getting got by the faster Swarmlings and Spitters.

Least there aren't any Screeler Wasps mixed into the crowd. They're the rapid response force, the first line of defense for the Proggies of the Divide who get scrambled only when there's danger nearby, so it's rare to see them along the border of the badlands. Rare to see Burrow Hulks too, except when Abby comes out in full force for an attack in the Spring, which brings us back to my mistake. I knew them Proggies was feeling mighty touchy after taking a beating from the fatty's cadre, but I didn't think they'd throw everything at me, including the kitchen sink. Got your Swarmlings, Spitters, Beetle Behemoths, and Burrow Hulks like I already mentioned, but there's also plenty of Ankhravs scattered all about in hiding, just waiting for me to skate close enough before they emerge from the dirt and try to swallow me whole or spray me down with the Acid attack.

Like the one I spot burrowing through the ground to move into position about 50 metres ahead, and I propel myself right towards it atop my Floating Disc. The sudden burst of speed catches it off guard, but while Ferals are downright cunning when they want to be, they ain't ones for critical thinking or restraint. That's why the Ankhrav bursts out from the ground even though it ain't entirely ready just yet, as evidenced by how it throws back its long, multisegmented body like it's taking a long, deep breath. It does this to prep its lungs or whatever, so it can whip its head forward with mouth agape like a striking snake to spray that Acidic Breath which can completely melt a full-grown man in three-seconds flat.

Fortunately for me, I knew it was there and was ready and waiting for it to appear. The Whumper gives off its signature 'thwhump' and sends out a solid bar of invisible kinetic force that's so dense it warps the air as it passes and takes the Ankhrav clean in the gullet. Blows its neck and head clean off it does, and I propel myself even faster to avoid the resulting shower of Acid that comes raining down from its severed neck. The Ankhrav is already dead, but it just hasn't figured it out yet, so it writhes in pain and sprays Acid like a hose that's been left on full blast to cover the foremost Swarmlings that been nipping on my heels. The chittering wails of rage and suffering are like music to my ears, and I can't help but smile as I hold my left hand out and direct a mid-spread beam of Detect Abby in search of my next Ankhrav. I've already done this five times tonight, and each time it puts the horde on their back foot, but they still keep on coming as I zig and zag about the horde.

Since they keep falling for the same trick, I'm gonna keep doing it, because truth be told, there ain't much else I can do. Sure, I can throw an Entangle Grenade behind me to slow the Swarmlings and Spitters for a minute, but there are more than enough of them to fill up the entire 6m radius and still keep coming after me right quick. No point in wasting resources willy nilly when I could use them to greater effect later on, but the problem is there's too many of them for me to do anything besides shoot and scoot. Not to mention how I want them chasing after me instead of running off to lick their wounds or worse, veering off to go after Aunty Ray and the girls. Spotted one group of Abby closing in on them about a half hour ago, but wasn't nothing I could do about it except trust my family to handle themselves while I keep the bulk of our unwanted visitors away from our doorstep.

And there are a whole lot of visitors, far more than I could've anticipated even with how riled up them Proggies were. It's been 4 or 5… maybe 6 days since we parted ways with the Qinks, but Abby is still dogging our heels and trying to invite us back to meet the parents, while I'd really rather not. Eager as I was to be a daddy, I ain't looking to father no bug, especially not a green one that'll embed itself into my flesh and tear itself out when its born. That is the stuff of nightmares, and I would only wish that on my worst foes, like Mia Pugliano who I've yet to find, but I ain't ever gonna give up, so she best watch her back. Was a reason I said I'd bring her up to the Coral Desert though, because gobbos and their ilk are typically smart enough to take prisoners when they can, whereas Ferals are a hotheaded bunch who might accidentally eat her on the trip back.

Or me as it were, because these bugs ain't holding nothing back. No, they coming at me full force, so I gotta jink and jank my way about the rocky badlands to avoid getting hit by the spiny Spitters behind me. Luckily they ain't all that accurate, and I had the foresight to buy an armoured plate carrier that can slot plates into the back too. Two bibles and a Darksteel plate is more than enough to stop the thorny spikes they spit out, though that's assuming they hit the area the plate is covering. Which so far they have done so about three times, which is both good and bad. Good in that I'm still uninjured despite tempting fate for the last 30 minutes or so, and also good in that I've avoided the whole superstition of 'third times the charm'. Ain't 'three strikes and you're out' either though, and I can't help but remember how my daddy had this thing about fours.

Because in Qinese, the number four, 四,is pronounced, "Sì", like 'Cesarian', which is a homonym for death, 死.Now personally, I'd say that's just about the dumbest basis for a superstition there can be, words that sound like other words, but that's how it is with the Qin. I wouldn't say I'm much for superstition either, but I still avoid walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, or opening umbrellas inside, because Lady Luck do be a fickle mistress, and I don't see no harm in doing what I can to stay on her good side.

For the same reason, I would like to avoid getting hit a fourth time, so I put some extra zip in my zoom by propelling myself a little more often than necessary so I can zig and zag while keeping up my speed. Skating close to another Ankhrav, I'm almost thrown for a loop when it don't pop out right away, and instead waits until I pass to make up its mind and come on out to say hi. Rather than try for anything fancy, like shooting blind behind me or turning around for a skeet shot, I just put the pedal to the metal and accelerate away as quick as a blink, and smile when I hear that same chorus of chittering screams as the slow and stupid Ankhrav sprays its Acid over a bunch of its smaller allies. Guess not all Abby are made equal, as this one do be a little soft in the head, but I'll take whatever wins I can get considering the odds stacked against me.

I will say this though. I might be cold, tired, and thirsty as all heck, but you can't beat the views of the clear night skies here in the badlands. Can see why my parents tried to make a home out here, because this place would be perfect if it wasn't for the ravenous neighbours.

Who I'm getting real sick and tired of chasing me around, but I gotta hold their attention for a little while longer yet. That don't just mean dangling myself out in front of them like a tasty treat, because when dealing with Abby, you gotta give them the carrot and the stick. In equal measures preferably, and a few dead Ankhravs ain't gonna cut it, so I do a quick check to make sure all my guns are locked and loaded before reaching for a Molotov with a Mage Hand. One cast at base Cantrip levels, as I'm saving my Big Spells for a big finish, and I don't need enhanced floaty hands to grab bottles, hold ammo, and load guns. While the Mage Hand holds the bottle, I take hold of the flintstone lighter I also took from Ronald Jackson, though he was still alive when I pocketed this particular piece.

A lovely piece of stonework it is, as it done been carved to look like what the old timers call a Zippo. Technically it's called a flint-wheel ignition lighter, or also known as a windproof lighter. Its just a rounded, flint rectangle with a metal frame to encase the edges while leaving room enough for bare fingers to touch the rock itself, complete with a clasp that lets you flick open the top third like its an actual lighter instead of solid stone meant to be the material component to a Cantrip so useful I gotta wonder why anyone would use a lighter to start with. "Ignis," I Intone, holding the sibilant S at the end to really draw it out, and just like that, I bring forth a tiny flickering flame over my thumb pressing down on the flint lighter. One which sets the alcohol-soaked rag ablaze in a warm, orange glow, and I allow myself a moment to warm my fingers before grabbing the bottle and chucking it behind me at the densest bunch of Abby I can see.

The definition of spoiled for choice is what that is, and while some of them Swarmlings manage to scurry out of the way, I hit a big Burrow Hulk dead on and cackle as it flails its heavy knuckles about in panic and smacks the shit out of a second Burrow Hulk beside it. Gives it a good glancing blow it does, and not being creatures of deep, introspective thought, its battered companion doesn't stop to consider why its immolated brethren might be feeling so panicked. Instead, it gives as good as it gets and smashes its fist into the flaming Burrow Hulk's face to send it hurtling into he masses of Swarmlings running along beside it. Those that don't get squished get splashed instead, and set ablaze to start the screaming anew and set off a similar chain reaction amongst the smaller Abby in what I would say is a Molotov well spent.

Ain't much in the grand scheme of things, as I doubt I killed more than a handful of Swarmlings alongside the one dead Burrow Hulk, but you gotta take your victories where you can. More to the point, the other Burrow Hulks are down right steamed to see one of their own fall so easily, especially when I cut hard left and open up with the Whumper to pick three more out from the crowd. Including the one that done its neighbour in, because it was looking hungry and distracted and might well have stopped for a snack before ambling off in a different direction, which we can't rightly have now can we?

To that end, I light another Molotov and lob it at a group of Spitters that are getting a touch too close, and unlike the Swarmlings, these ones are too dumb to scurry aside. Lights them up good and sets them to screeching, but not all of them as the focused survivors send a hail of spines shooting my way. Too many spines for my liking, but I weather the storm well enough while wishing I had readied a Force Barrier to protect me. Problem is, unlike Shield, which is tethered to the Caster same as my Mage Hands and moves along with me as I zip on by, Force Barrier is anchored to a specific location in physical space. Makes it much sturdier and harder to break, as the Spell doesn't need to account for movements or nothing, but it does make Force Barrier a whole lot less useful than it could be when you killing on the go.

And unfortunately for me, the unlucky four strikes true as a spine strikes my front plate at an awkward angle and shatters to send razor-sharp shrapnel out in all directions. Most notably towards my face, which takes a fair few fragments that stings something fierce. Growling in muted pain and anger, I turn about and skate away while plucking them fine slivers of spine out of my chin and cheek, including one that I can see poking out just a little bit under my left eye. A few centimeters higher and it might well have blinded me, because don't nothing kick off an infection like a pointed barb that's been stewing in a Spitter's gullet for the better part of a night.

When it rains, it pours, an adage that is true in more ways than one, because while I'm busy picking spines out of my face, I'm not looking ahead with Detect Magic to find Ankhravs lying in wait. As luck would have it, I skate right into the path of one that is craftier than most, as it emerges in a shower of dirt, dust, and rock with its Acid Spray all locked and loaded for bear. Ain't no rustling jimmies to warn me of its presence, because wasn't nothing there for me or the magic to see, as this Ankhrav was better hidden than most, trusting in its explosive strength to see it free and clear of those last few inches of earth instead of surfacing just enough to loosen the dirt before settling back in to wait.

All so it can catch me unawares and hose me down with Acid, but while a premonition of what's to come is always helpful, fast reactions and long hours of practice have gotten me out of more tight spots than I care to count. Don't even gotta think as I whip the Whumper around and hip-fire a Compressed Blast right into its neck, beheading the many-legged armoured worm same as every other Ankhrav I done baited tonight. Aiming and shooting comes second nature by now, and even though slow is smooth smooth is fast, there are times when there's no substitute for pure speed of hand. Or foot, as it were, as I propel myself past the dead Ankhrav and just barely avoid the spray of Acid raining down from overhead, marking two more close calls in a long string of them ever since I set out to play bait earlier tonight.

Them's the breaks though, and I can find time to cope with all the fear and stress later on after the fact, assuming there's still an after once all is said and done. That's just how it is when you go up against Abby, because sometimes you flop well only to get sucked out by the turn and river. Can't win 'em all, so you just gotta grit your teeth and keep on carrying on. Other times, you decide it's time to stop playing nice and to break out the big guns, which in this case happens to be the twin hand-cannons that I done kicked this all off with.

Namely the Ranger Nagas in all their resplendent shiny steel glory. Where the tiny Model 10 is almost comically undersized and the Rattlesnake sits smug in hand, I gotta work to wrap my fingers around the dark wooden grip, one that's sized for a larger man to use with both hands. Me, I prefer to go guns akimbo, because why carry two hand cannons like the Naga if you only ever gonna shoot one at a time? Just feeling the heft of the gun in my hand is enough to lift my spirits and send a tingle down my spine in anticipation of what comes next as I thumb the hammers back one after the other and do a quick spin to turn a full 180 degrees on my Floating Disc without slowing my momentum none.

With my left gun pointed at the sky, I take aim with the right and gently depress the trigger to fire a Bolt. That sharp, explosive crack is deafening even with Hearing Protection going strong, and music to my ears as the Metamagicked Bolt pierces through a half-dozen Swarmlings in a line before slamming home into a Burrow Hulk and blowing its sternum wide open with ease. That there is the Penetrate and Siege Metamagics working in tandem, and it's even more effective against bugs than you think because they keep their armour on the outside of their flesh, rather than the inside like Armoured Orcs or Bugbears would. Don't ask me why Siege Metamagic doesn't do shit to flesh or fat, but will crack bone and chitin with laughable ease. It do though, and that's all that matters as I ride the recoil until the gun in my right hand is pointed at the sky, which I counteract by lowering my left hand to take aim with my second shot.

Left and right, bang and double bang, I deliver death unto Abby one supercharged Bolt at a time. That there is the beauty of 45-60 rounds, which are only a little bigger than the 44-40's of something like the Sturm and Kitiara Longsword favoured by Captain Jung, and more than twice as big as the 22-10's I use in my Model 10 and Rattlesnake. These single-action revolvers pack a whole lot more punch though, with 50% more Aether than what is considered the standard limits of a Spell Core, and believe you me, the Naga's make every extra Grain of crystal count. It don't cut clean through the horde, but them Bolts pierce plenty of holes in the line as I fall into the rhythm of raise and thumb one gun, then lower and shoot the other, only to rinse and repeat time and time and time again. All while skating backwards on my Floating Disc and doing a big circle around the horde to really clump them up together and maximize the impact of each and every Bolt.

12 shots is all I get before the guns are empty, so I do another 180 and get to pushing myself off the ground to pick up all the speed I done lost. At the same time, I flip open the cylinders and hold the guns in place while my Mage Hands pop out the spent brass and set to reloading my weapons as quick as a blink, at which point I turn about face to do it all over again. Letting loose with a whoop of challenge and delight, I unload on Abby with Bolts and frustrations alike, screaming at them in wordless rage and celebration to keep myself from thinking about how close they getting with their talons and spines. 12, 24, 36, 48, I keep careful track of how many shots I burn through, and call it quits at a nice, even 60, mostly because I can't see no more Burrow Hulks to shoot at and using the Nagas on Swarmlings is like serving fine dining to a hoggi. You can do whatever you like, but I for one would call that wasteful, especially when I won't be bringing none of these Abby corpses home to cook down into Aberrtin.

Or Cores, as the badland bug Ferals tend to be really lacking in that department. Their Proggies have got their bug biology down to an exact science, so much so that most of these bugs don't need no magic to do their jobs effectively. Which is just win-win for me in this situation, because it means I probably ain't missing out on no Spell Core profits by leaving all these corpses behind, and I don't gotta be dodging Spells alongside of spines and Ankhrav ambushes to boot.

With the Burrow Hulks all handled, I turn my attentions to the next biggest targets, the scuttling Beetle Behemoths doing double duty as a ferry for all the smaller bugs they got concealed inside their gullets. While you might think the Nagas would do some real work on them tightly packed Abby carriages, it's actually the opposite. Since Siege Metamagic don't do nothing to flesh and blood, all them Abby packed tight inside of a Beetle Behemoth's gullet means the Nagas won't be much more effective than the Model 10, which uses 10 Aether compared to 60 meaning you get way more bang for buck. The real winner for bringing Beetles down would be the Whumper of course, but even though Blastguns are also 44-40 on paper, their shells are larger due to the simple fact that a Blast Core don't work the same as a Bolt Core and requires a longer, fatter shell to compensate. Means among other things, I can't carry as many Blast shells as I can carry 22-10 cartridges, so I get to plinking away at Beetle Behemoths with the Model 10 as I skirt death by skating about.

Or at least that's the idea until one Beetle Behemoth implodes after I empty the Model 10 into it, leaving me grinning from ear to ear as I piece the facts together. It ain't just Swarmlings and Spitters being carried about, but roly-poly exploders too, which are a real menace when it comes to bringing down walls and gates. Out here against one lone shooter though? They ain't nothing more than high value targets, because killing one means killing tonnes instead of bringing down a big beetle and leaving the passengers largely untouched. As such, out comes the Nanfoodle, the most expensive Aetherarm I got, whether it be in terms of the value of the weapon itself or the cost of the ammo it uses. Takes a 44-80 cartridge, or double the standard load, which is so dangerous I don't actually keep the gun loaded for bear if I ain't using it. Luckily, it uses a 10-round box magazine that's really easy to slide in, and I give it a second to Prime and set the polished, golden Orichalcum Etches to glowing with a dark, ethereal blue.

Real spooky stuff that is, but not to me, as I raise the rifle and ping off a Fiery Bolt that lights up the night as it arcs through the air and punches clean through a Beetle. It looks none the worse for wear, at least for a little bit, but as the seconds go by, the plumes of smoke coming out of the hole the Firey Bolt left behind only grows thicker and darker. That right there is the Burning Metamagic at work, which sets the target aflame even if it don't got nothing to burn. Can even start a fire on a non-flammable surface, but only where the Bolt hit directly, and the flames will sputter out as soon as the Spell's duration comes to an end. With a living target though? That Ignite will cook it alive from the inside out until it ain't living no more.

Now, Burning Metamagic ain't to be confused with Ignite, which is something that takes some effort to wrap your head around. The way I remember it is that Burning sets your target on fire, while Ignite is for setting other things on fire too. What I mean is that without Ignite, a fire set by Burning will completely snuff itself out as soon as the Spell is over and done with. Doesn't matter if the fire spread into a pool flooded with oil that's been set ablaze by the Spell. It still counts as Magical Fire, or rather Ectoplasm masquerading as fire, and so it all goes poof once the Spell ends. The heat and damage all remains behind, and if temperatures got hot enough to ignite something in a mundane fashion, then those flames will persist too, but otherwise, you got until the Spell ends to burn it all down.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Not so with Ignite Metamagic, because that there is the real fire starter you want in your Metamagic. It's actually named for the Cantrip, the one I done used to light the Molotov earlier, because prior to that Spell's creation, there wasn't no easy way to actually start a fire with magic. Hence why Zippos still exist, because inertia is one hell of a force for people to resist, and because they're pretty cool to flip open, flick around, and just generally fidget with. Either way, the Ignite don't do much of anything at all for that first Beetle Behemoth, which keeps on running for a few more steps before collapsing in a heap once it realizes it's dead.

Yeah, Beetle Behemoths don't got much in the way of the brain department, and the Swarmlings and Spitters housed inside don't waste no time ripping their way out of the corpse. A couple of them might've been cooked to death inside, and few more catch fire on their way out, as Magical Fire is still fire which can be put out. Don't rightly see how effective the burning is when it comes to catching secondary kills, as it's not like I can stop the fight to study it all in depth. Instead, I push those lacklustre results firmly to the back of my mind as I tag another Beetle Behemoth with a Fiery Bolt to much the same effect.

The third Beetle though? That one's got a Roly-Poly passenger hitching a ride inside, as I discover firsthand when the Behemoth explodes in a crackle of eldritch electricity that shocks everything within 6 metres of the Burster and sets their corpses to smoking something fierce. All while the Beetle's corpse is set aflame mind you, making sure that anything that survived the Electrical outburst and was merely stunned ain't gonna survive for much longer. Beautiful work that, and the Burning and Ignite Metamagicks do wonders as the fire spreads to every passenger inside the exploded Beetle.

Well worth the expense I'd say, and I go fishing for Bursters as I turn my Nanfoodle on every Beetle Behemoth in sight. Some topple over after a little more running same as the first two, but a good number of them explode same as the third, in all different flavours to boot. Acid explosions does a whole lot of collateral damage, not necessarily lethal but enough to really ruin an Abby's day, while Frost explosions are kinda whatever until I realize that the ambient temperature is low enough that the Frost is instantly killing whatever it touches. Freezes them right up it does, dropping their core temperatures so low they can't even survive as they topple over dead as a doornail just like that.

End of the day though? I gotta say that ain't nothing can compare to the beauty of flame, as them Fiery Roly-Poly Bursters explode in a glorious cloud of orange yellow flame. Gets me to howling with laughter it does, my mirth echoing out across the badlands and downing out the shrill chorus of bug-mouthed shrieks. It's almost an addiction, like hitting three sevens after going all in on deuce-seven bluff and getting called by someone who didn't have no business calling, a bright spot in this otherwise dreary and exhausting day. Really lifts the spirits to see them plumes of flame erupting across the reddish-brown dirt and setting so many Abby ablaze, and I take a deep breath of the fresh wind in my face and pretend I'm having an old fashioned, all-American BBQ like the one I done threw after coming home from New Hope and before I started work for Carter.

Crazy to think it ain't even been a year since then, when it feels like so much more time has passed. A lot has happened though, and ain't nothing like trauma and heartache to age a man right quick. Brings the mood down it does, so I get right back to shooting Beetles and hoping to hit jackpot while planning out my next move. Hitting the big boys is good and all, but it's really the Swarmlings and Razorscythes I gotta clear out, because they'll chase me to the ends of the earth and keep me from sleep until I'm clear over the border of the badlands and maybe even keep at it until I'm well past New Hope. Problem is, I can't spot the Razorscythes all that easily, not with so many Abby abound, and strapped as I am, I don't got ammo enough to clear out all theses Swarmlings and Spitters. Not by half, and 4 Widened Fireballs won't be enough to make up the difference either, assuming I'm willing to spend all my Aether on bringing this horde down.

Which is never a good idea, and not just because you always want to keep some Spells handy just in case. No, the reason why I don't want to throw everything at the horde is because using all of your Aether leaves you feeling like you done run a full marathon with a sixty-kilo pack strapped to your back. Ain't ideal even in the best of times, and these are far from the best, as I'm running on 2 hours of sleep in the last 24 and will need to go another 12 at the very least before I can rest. As such, I'd ideally would like to use no Aether at all, while less than 2 Fireballs worth would be the strictest limit else I'll be struggling to keep my eyes open and mind focused for the rest of the day. Would also love to not blow through all my ammo, because even though I came prepared, I don't got no bottomless bags of ammo stashed on the wagon, just regular crates like everyone else.

Will take some doing, but I got the inklings of a plan that might do the trick, or at the very least get me most of the way there without too much expense. This ain't me being cheap. Well, it kinda is, but that's not the only reason I'm pinching pennies out here in the badlands. No, I want to keep some reserves in the tank and ammo in my pouch because there's something about all this that don't smell right. I ain't talking about the fetid, sour stench of burnt Abby cooking off behind me, but about this whole series of events in general. I get that I kicked over a serpents' nest by firing off my Nagas the night we parted ways with them Qinks. I was ready and willing to handle whatever may come, and truth be told, I think I handled it pretty well. Now, when we only got about a day and a half of hard travel from being home free, we find this Abby encirclement just ready and waiting to sweep us up in their net? A widespread, coordinated effort to catch intruders ain't nothing out of left field, but I'm thinking that if Abby wanted to try so hard, they'd have done it long before we made it this far west.

Or in other words, there's something rotten in the state of Denver, and I don't like it much. Maybe it's time I put out a little more bait, but not for Abby, and fish for something other than big booms with the Nanfoodle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Firstborn was a child unlike any other, but this could only be expected from the scion of a lineage like the Zhu Family.

That was how Qian saw it, and he lamented his posting in Major Mu Bai's cadre which had him serving the whims of a spoiled silkpants like Prince Gong. Why the Sword Saint allowed the young Prince so much leeway, Qian would never understand, for it was common knowledge that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. Prince Gong could use more than a fair few beatings to be sure, perhaps even a lashing for conduct unbecoming of a soldier. That was the crux of it all, for the young man was naught but a soldier, a low-ranking Novice without any semblance of the Officer he pretended to be. Or training for that matter, which the Major was supposed to provide, except he left the Prince to his own devices and allowed him to run rampant and do as he pleased for the most part.

Frustrating is what that was, especially when it cost good soldiers their lives. On their journey north through the badlands, Qian had bent over backwards alongside the rest of his fellow Scouts to see the cadre through these inhospitable lands without any incident or mishap. Of course, they were aided by the fact that they were following in the wake of the Golden Pheonix, the gold standard for all Novices to aspire to. As such, when it became clear that she was not having an easy time traversing through the badlands, Qian had brought it up to his superior in hopes that he would bring it up with the Major who might see fit to lend aid to their beleaguered comrades, but it was not to be. It mattered not that the young Prince's father had donated all manners of weapons of war which would make a trip through the badlands almost trivial; no, rather than play the part of hero coming in to rescue his supposed lady love, the Prince insisted on maintaining a veneer of secrecy like he was here to play a game and surprise her.

A toad lusting after swan's flesh if there ever was one, and if the young Prince ever managed to conquer the Golden Pheonix, then every Vanguard on the Frontier would truly see what it means to plant a flower in cow shit. Thankfully, the Golden Pheonix had a good head on her shoulders and backer capable of butting heads with Elder Chong Sang and keeping the playing field level, meaning the young Prince could not simply bully her into compliance and had to rely on his natural charms and wit. Or rather lack thereof, meaning he would never succeed in winning over the Golden Pheonix, which was just as well because she was far too good for a worthless mongrel like him.

The Firstborn though? When the General first stylized his nephew as the Imperial Dragon, Qian had scoffed in disbelief. So what if the boy had been born a few days, weeks, or even months earlier than his peers? How much of an advantage could that afford him? Certainly some, but not enough to matter, because they were still children in the end, untested and unvarnished by the rigours of war and survival. It wasn't like the First Wave, who arrived on the Frontier as little more than children themselves, but those who survived aged quickly, while those who did not, stopped aging altogether. It was simple as that, and while this first generation of Frontier-born children showed much promise, Qian did not believe that even the blood of the General could give rise to a child as spectacular as he claimed the Firstborn to be.

Especially considering this so-called Imperial Dragon was Federation educated. Americans were notoriously lazy, temperamental, and stupid to boot, a loud and boorish nation of proud and arrogant simpletons still riding the high of their victory from over 70 years ago without having secured a meaningful victory ever since. They lost in Goreyeo, whose inferior people recently remembered their place and returned to the fold with hands cupped in supplication. The Americans also lost in Cuba, followed by a disgraceful defeat in Nanyue, then Laos, and Khmer before being unceremoniously rousted from Lebanon. While they might have been a superpower during the Second World War, the Americans were no longer the soldiers they once were, and their disastrous record of defeats was proof positive that they would not be of any consequence whatsoever without their vast stockpiles of Aetheric Bombs.

Weapons that would not exist here on the Frontier for decades yet, and as such, it was now the Republic's time to shine bright. The Americans relied on their wealth and vast stockpiles of devastating weapons to bully the other nations of the old world, but here on the Frontier they were of no consequence. At least, that's what Qian's trainers had led him to believe, but history had proven otherwise as the Americans settled far and wide with great success. It was a combination of their war-like nature and their advanced knowledge of Aetheric technology which allowed them to achieve such success, that and their shameless ability to take advantage of citizens of other Nations. It wasn't an American gunsmith who put guns in the hands of every American soldier and civilian; no, it was a Dutch Gunsmith who toiled day and night for the vast riches the Federal Government plied him with. It was not an American Arcanist who laid the foundation of their factory town over in Riverrun, but a Frenchman who'd been seduced by an American harlot who kept him in town until he died. Their greatest Scout was not an American, but a Qinese traitor who turned away from the cause for reasons unknown, a mystery that might well never be solved.

Yes, traitor though he might have been, Corporal Ming's skills could not be denied, and as such, Qian could not help but admire him. Even 4 years after his death, there was not a single Scout in the Vanguard capable of matching the man's record, one which belied belief if not for the sheer logic behind it all. It was all too easy to track the man's movements over the years by simply going over his record of service, one that had been copied and stolen away without the Federation's notice by a traitor clerk who was all too happy to be paid a pittance for the work. More impressive than Corporal Ming's service record however was his ability to train his son, a skill that was sorely needed because Qian and his fellow Vanguard had only been taught to survive, and knew not how to pass along this knowledge to the next generation.

Not so easy a task, teaching that is. While they put all Novices through the same training regimen the First Wave had gone through, there was so much more to teaching than directing someone to run drills or showing them how a task was done. Teaching was a fine art, and a good teacher worth their weight in salt, for there were not many Sword Saints like the Eight-Eyed Swordsman who kept churning out prospective Sword Saints and promising soldiers with each and every class he taught.

A shame his students were so lacking in moral fibre though. A teacher for a day, a father for life, and yet young Ao Tian saw fit to betray his teacher to lick the boots of Prince Gong instead. A losing prospect if there ever was one, because while Elder Chang Sang was most certainly a brilliant man, his son was far from an impressive individual, so who would care to place their future in his chubby fingered hands?

The General though? If he could bring the Imperial Dragon back to the fold, the then future of the Republic would be bright indeed. The Firstborn was a better soldier than most of Qian's peers, all veterans of almost two decades now and yet still falling short in comparison. How many Vanguard would brave a horde of this caliber on their own, even with as many guns as the Firstborn carried? Not many, not even Qian, who watched the Imperial Dragon go about his work from afar. It was poetry in motion, an artistry of slaughter and bloodshed that few could match, and Qian watched with bated breath as young man half his age single-handedly took on a horde and whittled it down to almost nothing.

No, not single-handedly, but with four hands, switching between them to shoot, reload, and utilize his equipment as if he'd been born with them, like the benevolent, four-armed Devas of the Upper Heavens who aided the Venerable One in his quest to secure the Middle Realms.

It was all textbook work, so flawless Qian was certain the recording he made would be used in all future classes. First, the Firstborn took down the toughest Yao Guai, then the largest, setting off dazzling explosions with his Fiery rifle that was a weapon fit for kings. From there, he turned his attention to the masses as he set fires and gunned down the runners two or three at a time. It was slow work, but he kept at it without wavering, killing Yao Guai after Yao Guai with his most efficient pistols without appearing all that rushed about it. All while racing about atop a Floating Disc at speeds that would shame the race champions of years past, a feat that showed off the quality of his bloodline. The Zhu's were plotters, schemers, and yes, Diviners, but they were born to the magic in ways few others were, privy to secrets gathered over countless generations dating all the way back to the Republic's humble beginnings as Tian Zi's newly founded Empire. It was one thing to see the General stride into battle and unleash flame and fury both; to see this young Imperial Dragon do the same was a wonder to behold, and a sign that the Heavens were still on their side.

For surely, the Firstborn was another future Archmagus in the making, and therefore another candidate to become an Immortal Monarch too.

It was not that the Firstborn was an exemplary Spellcaster. In fact, as far as Qian could tell, the Firstborn relied on his magic as little as possible. Likely due to his age and restricted limits, which was why he rationed his Spells like water in the desert. What magic he did use however, demonstrated a level of control and understanding that went far beyond even Qian's peers, much less the boy's own, and it was that understanding which hinted at his future as an Archmagus. The way he maintained a Floating Disc at such high speeds without so much as a wobble, or utilized his Mage Hands like he'd been born with them, with almost no discernable difference to be found between his real hand and Conjured ones.

Yes, the boy only had one hand. It was clear from the flows of Aether coming off his right hand, one that glowed even brighter than the Mage Hands floating alongside him. Which was only to be expected, as they'd all seen and heard the General's fury when he learned that his flesh and blood nephew had lost his hand to bandits and thugs whilst under the Ranger's protection. For a time, many Vanguard wondered if they would soon march to war with the Americans, but the General showed much restraint by simply raiding them instead, a warning of what might come if they should fail his nephew again.

A warning that went unheeded when the Federation Exiled the Imperial Dragon from their central town of New Hope. A town the boy and Corporal Ming helped build from the start, which hearkened back to the Federation's roots of stealing and plundering that which did not truly belong to them. Turnabout was fair play however, which was why the General stepped up the raids in recent weeks and even had something planned for the days after Christmas, but Qian had set out for the badlands before that was to take place and was eager to hear news of their success.

All of which begged the question: why was a phenomenal talent like the Firstborn, this Imperial Dragon destined to soar in the Heavens above, still showing loyalty to a foreign government that was clearly using him as a foil to get under the General's skin?

It made no sense whatsoever, and Qian lamented the Republic's loss as he watched the young man work, skating three wide circles around the horde of Yao Guai over the next hour which meant he was soon maintaining his Floating Disc with Concentration now, but you wouldn't know it from seeing him. He made it look so easy, flitting about this way and that when others in his place would need to sit down and close their eyes to wholly focus on maintaining the Spell. That wasn't all he did though, as he shot, reloaded, and shot again, using his limited ammunition sparingly but still sounding out a symphony of shots that seemed to never end.

And when the young man struck, he did so without warning, throwing out two grenades which sprouted in a mass of writing white grasses to slow and snare the Yao Guai caught in their grasp. The vines were not all that strong, as even the smaller bugs were able to struggle free, but the Firstborn cared not for the piercing talons striking at his heels as he skirted all too close to the edge of the horde and back again. He was gathering them up, forcing them to bunch together so he could throw out a Widened Fireball and kill as many as he could in one go.

Or at least, that's what Qian thought, until the boy threw out another Entangle Grenade, then a fourth followed by a fifth to form an almost ring of white grasping grasses that did little to nothing at all. It slowed the Yao Guai down to a crawl, which would be useful if he meant to escape, but he did the opposite in fact. Skated a short distance away before hopping off of his own volition, and Qian's heart stopped to see it happen. Had the boy lost Concentration? No, his dismount was far too smooth for that to be the case, and more to the point, he'd done it intentionally else he wouldn't turn to face the horde with a smile while chanting his Spell beneath his breath. A smile that was clear as day in Qian's enhanced vision, augmented by Eagle Eye and Darkvision both, and he could not help but hold his breath as he watched the Imperial Dragon face his death.

The recording. That was the least he could do, to mark this moment down in history and share it for all to see as a warning against hubris or an object lesson in what one man could achieve. One or the other, with no in between, and Qian prayed that it would be the latter for the Republic desperately needed a man like the Firstborn to lead them forward into the future.

And what a future that could be, one Qian could almost see as the Imperial Dragon's Spell took shape before him. Not Fireball, but rather another Entangle, as white grasses emerged from the ground in a convex semi-circle before him, like a bowl meant to catch the horde and keep them from spilling out. Little good that would do him, as the Yao Guai ploughed straight through, only to be met with bottles blazing as the young dragon howled with glee and threw lit molotovs over his Spell to land on the other side. When he ran out of molotovs, he brough out his guns and started shooting and killing while dancing about the badlands and reaping Yao Guai lives like plucking petals off a flower.

It made no logical sense, none whatsoever, because there were far too few Yao Guai emerging from his Entangle. Even if you allowed for the fact that his Spell would be hardier and more difficult to overcome compared to the grenades, that couldn't account for how few Yao Guai were emerging. Nor were they getting stuck inside, or killed by the fire even, and it took some thinking for Qian to understand what he was witnessing. The Firstborn hadn't cast an Entangle Spell, but a Spiked Growth, a similar Spell that had the addition of razor-sharp barbs to disembowel anything that passed through its dark and thorny mass. Same as Qian, the Yao Guai hadn't even stopped to consider the possibility, just barrelled on through expecting it to be as harmless as the previous Entangles, only to be proven woefully wrong after the fact.

And the fire? That was there for two reasons. First, to obscure the fact that Yao Guai were dying in droves to the Spell with smoke and flame, and secondly to destroy the corpses inside of the Spell so that there would be room for more Yao Guai to pass through.

How did he keep the Spiked Growth from burning to ash? It was a Conjuration Spell, meaning the growth could be interacted with, hacked, swept, or yes, burned away, and yet it maintained its pale, white growth without any sign of the flames touching upon it. A mystery to be sure, but whatever trick the Firstborn used here, it was working spectacularly and killing Yao Guai in droves. Dozens of Yao Guai every second at the very least, with few if any making it out to the other side as they impaled themselves on those spiked thorns and died before ever emerging again. Far more effective than Fireball, and it proved that the strength of a Magus lay not in their Spells, but in how they utilized their Spells to maximum effect.

Qian continued his vigil and watched the Imperial Dragon cut the horde down to size, doing the work of a full cadre all by his lonesome with little more than a single Second Order Spell. Now there was a true dragon of a generation, a Novice Qian would happily salute and take orders from, for the future lay not in his hands or the hands of the First Wave. No, they were only here to lay the foundation, one the Frontier born would make use of, and there was none better to lead them all than the Firstborn of their generation.

Qian watched and waited, and watched some more, awestruck by this demonstration of excellence from the younger generation and unable to tear his eyes away from it at all. The Spell only lasted 10 minutes from start to finish, and there were still plenty of Yao Guai left, but less than half their numbers compared to when they started. Perhaps even less than a third, and the Firstborn might well kill them all if he cared to cast Spiked Growth a second time, but much like the General, he left nothing to chance. The moment his Spiked Growth dissipated, the Firstborn upended a readied potion and drank deep before melting away into thin air and escaping as easily as turning a hand.

Gaseous Form, a Third Order Transmutation Spell known far and wide for its effects, and an expensive potion to be sure. Qian almost wanted to applaud the young warrior's preparation and execution, except he had been tasked with shadowing the Firstborn and the potion had allowed him to escape Qian's notice too. Not even Detect Magic could track a gaseous blob about, but the potions had a notoriously short duration, so he simply watched and waited for the young warrior to reappear. It took several minutes to find the Firstborn again, and when Qian laid eyes on him, the young man's head was poking out from over top a ridge to watch the horde as they skittered about the badlands with their will to fight driven out of them by the sheer slaughter that'd taken place. It was not fear which stayed their tempers, but prudence, as they scented their dead and knew there was much work to be done in recovering their biomass to be recycled anew.

Qian imagined he understood how the Firstborn felt, seeing so much of his work gone to waste as the horde feasted upon their fallen only to scatter to the winds. A shame that, but one could not allow greed to overcome them. Better to live and fight another day, for there were always future gains to be made. A lesson the Imperial Dragon had yet to learn well enough, for he stood there watching for longer than prudent. Even if the Yao Guai had not sensed his location, it would not remain so forever, and Qian silently urged the man to leave while he still could. The minutes passed in agonizing silence as he alternated between the Imperial Dragon and the remaining horde, watching for any signs of realization from either side and dreading what might come to pass if the Firstborn was caught unawares.

When in truth, Qian should have been more worried about himself. "I distinctly recall," the Firstborn drawled, sounding out from close behind Qian alongside the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer being cocked, "Saying somethin' along the lines of how if I saw a Qink, I was gonna shoot a Qink. I remember it very clearly, though I do believe I kept the language a little cleaner than that. Am I goin' crazy, or do you remember it too?"

It took some effort to parse the Imperial Dragon's meaning, and Qian slowly raised his hands in a show of surrender while he did. "Yes," he replied, keeping his head bowed and voice low. "This one remembers."

"So I did say that?" The Firstborn even sounded surprised, but it was all an act. "Oh good. Thought my memory was playing tricks on me." Sucking his teeth, he added, "Problem is, if you remember it too, then the fact that you here means you ain't takin' me serious, and we can't have that, now can we?"

The threat was clear as day, and Qian swallowed hard to hear it. The Imperial Dragon was not one to hesitate however, so if he wanted Qian dead, he would have already shot. A clever man, using his Gaseous Form to scout his surroundings and find Qian watching him from almost 200 meters out, then setting up an Illusion in his line of sight to distract him. "Whatever questions you may have," Qian said, speaking slowly while keeping still as possible, "I will answer them." It was no betrayal to supply answers to the Imperial Dragon, a man who might not currently serve the Republic's interests, but would surely return to the fold in time.

That's what he told himself at least, and he thanked the Heavens above for his prudence when the Firstborn replied, "Lucky me. Looks like I done found a sharp one. That makes this easier then." Though his back was turned to the other man, Qian still shivered to hear the smile in the Firstborn's tone as he added, "Means I won't have to make this messy, but make no mistake. All's I need is a reason, and not even a good one, so pick your answers carefully."

It was the tone of it all, the threat of unbridled violence delivered so calmly and casually without hesitation that convinced Qian the Firstborn was most certainly of the General's blood, a Zhu to the very core. Calm, cold, and cruel as could be when the situation warranted it, as befitting of a Spider in service to the Venerable Tian Zi, those shadowy overseers who wove webs within webs to keep the various kings and princes of yesteryear in line. The blood showed true, and no amount of Federal propaganda would ever change that, though it had moulded him into a man who hated his own people enough to declare war on them. So perhaps not a Deva then, but rather an Asura, another race of four-armed Heavenly Beings, but far less benevolent and much more prone to war and bloodshed, making it a more suitable title for the formidable killer and Imperial Dragon, Zhu Hao Wei.

No longer would he be the Yellow Devil like his father before him, a mocking title foisted upon them by the Western Devils. Instead, henceforth, he would be known as the Four-Armed Asura, a moniker that would soon spread far and wide across all of Fuyuan, assuming Qian survived long enough to make it home and tell his tale.

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