{Chapter: 109: When the Countdown Ends}
Furrowing his brow, Charles tilted his head, uncertain. Where was the enemy? He hadn't seen any signs of an approaching force. No vibrations echoed through the tower walls, no movement flickered on the horizon, and the arcane surveillance systems embedded throughout the tower's exterior hadn't raised a single alarm. Not a single spell had been triggered to detect an intrusion, nor had any defensive wards activated.
He frowned, pacing across the smooth obsidian floor as the faint sound of the tower's ambient magic hummed beneath his feet like a living heartbeat. "Strange… the countdown should've marked the beginning of combat. So where are they?"
But just as his thoughts drifted toward concern, a violent ripple tore through the space around the [Alsop's Star. Mobile Destroyer], the flagship of the arcane fleet. A sudden distortion, like a jagged tear in a silk curtain, opened mid-air—and from it, a space wormhole emerged, yawning wide like the open maw of a predator.
And then came the light.
A beam—massive and pale white, easily tens of meters thick—erupted forth from the wormhole like divine judgment descending from the heavens. It blazed across the darkened void, its power so pure and overwhelming that it flooded the space with a ghostly white hue, bathing every structure, every surface, in an unearthly glow. It surged directly toward the [Star of Alsop]'s heart—its core reactor.
Anyone witnessing it would have thought this was the end. A single, blindingly powerful strike meant to destroy the mighty vessel in an instant.
But the [Star of Alsop] did not flinch.
It did not even pause.
Like a king walking into the wind, it advanced with calm, unwavering momentum.
The beam collided with the dark exterior of the ship's magical barrier—and vanished. The surface of the barrier shimmered, pulsating with rings of black energy, then rippled with ethereal distortion as the attack was exiled into the unknown. The spell matrix woven into the barrier—ancient, powerful, tested through millennia of war—had absorbed the entire impact and redirected it somewhere far beyond the current plane of existence.
In practical terms, the damage was negligible. A few arcane reserves lost. Nothing more.
---
Dex, watching from the ground far below, didn't even lift an eyebrow.
He sat lazily atop his alchemically-constructed dirt bike, one leg propped up, a lollipop in his mouth, helmet hanging from his handlebars. He spun the wheels idly with one foot as the ghostly afterglow of the attack reflected off his crimson-tinted goggles.
"That was flashy," he muttered, unimpressed. "Kinda reminds me of that failed fireworks show back at the Devilbone Carnival."
He leaned back, placing his arms behind his head with a relaxed grin. Though he was physically present here, Dex had long since come to terms with the fact that his current form was nothing more than a puppet—an avatar—projected through his own brand of soul magic. If the beam had struck him? He would've vanished in an instant. But so what?
He could make a dozen more avatars before breakfast.
This was a game to him.
Let others scream and panic. He was here to enjoy the show.
The might of wizard-kind was not something to be feared—it was something to be witnessed.
The [Star of Alsop] was a prime example of why their civilization had endured millennia. Its creation had demanded the combined knowledge of high sorcery, forgotten runes, and the bloodline contributions of elder. Its hull was more magical than metal, and its spells had survived storms in the Astral Sea and fire from entire star fleets.
One measly energy cannon was nothing.
---
Above, in the main bridge of the [Star of Alsop], the host commander observed the enemy's strike with calm detachment. A sallow-skinned man dressed in flowing robes, his features sculpted with millennia of weariness and wisdom, lifted a single hand—and pointed.
A soft murmur rippled across the bridge.
In response, thousands of runic cores within the ship ignited to life. Thousands of witchcraft towers aligned across the ship's flanks rotated and locked into formation. Layers of sigils spun into complex geometric patterns midair.
A colossal counteroffensive spell began to take shape.
As energy surged across the ship's hull, it drew from ley lines buried in the planet itself. A spell this massive required coordination not just across ship systems but through the minds of hundreds of ritualists chanting in unison deep within the central sanctums.
Charles, still inside one of the Witchcraft Tower, felt the weight of that spell bloom like a sun inside his chest. His knees trembled.
Even the residual aura—just a whisper of its true power—felt like it could snuff him out of existence.
He staggered back, sweating.
"So this… this is the true power of the arcane fleet…"
It was humbling.
And terrifying.
Only now did he realize that the countdown he had watched with such curiosity wasn't a timer marking the start of physical battle—it had been the moment when both sides entered one another's magical and weaponized detection ranges. In truth, the enemy was likely still light-years away in terms of raw space.
But in this world… distance didn't matter.
Magic and war had evolved beyond the need for close quarters.
---
The enemy had made the first move.
Now it was the wizards' turn to respond.
---
"...I'm just a maintenance wizard," Charles muttered to himself, sinking into a nearby chair. "I oil gears. I scrub runes. I wash the floors of summoning chambers when the slimes escape."
His voice was hollow, but his eyes… they sparkled.
Not with fear—but with ambition.
He knew his place now. He was but a speck among giants, yes—but giants needed specks to function. This was the starting line of his journey, and though he could do nothing now, one day, he'd be the one commanding the sky. He had years ahead of him.
If he survived this war… he'd rise.
---
And then, finally, as both sides completed their opening moves, the space between them cracked open like a splitting sky—and the two armies beheld one another for the first time.
From his elevated perch, Charles looked through the Witchcraft Tower's viewing array and saw them. The enemy.
They were not beasts. Not warlocks. Not even humans.
They were machines.
Giant suspended mechanical vessels that hovered through the void with terrifying grace. Metallic hulls glinted in light, ships shaped like shuttle-like dreadnoughts stretching kilometers in length. Sleek, brutal, and inhuman.
Their numbers dwarfed the dozen [Stars of Alsop] deployed on the wizard side.
Hundreds—no, perhaps thousands—of enemy warships floated across the starfield in perfect alignment. Their hulls shimmered beneath translucent blue shields layered in overlapping defenses, as if daring any attack to strike them. They moved with such precision, it felt more like watching a migrating metal hive than a military force.
And yet…
The wizards did not fear.
They had weathered worse.
And above all else, they had something the enemy lacked—will.
*****
You can support me by joining my Patreon and get upto 60 chapters in advance.
patreon.com/Eden_Translation