{Chapter: 110: Garbage Collector}
Feeling lightheaded. Groggy. As if the world around him had started spinning far too fast, leaving him lagging behind, dizzy and disoriented.
That was how Charles felt now.
The war between two mighty civilizations had reached a strange stage: not a full-blown clash of ultimate weapons, but a grueling, grinding war of attrition. The two sides had been in direct contact for several days now. Though neither had launched a decisive offensive, they had kept up a relentless stream of probing attacks and calculated harassment, a deadly dance of tension and aggression.
Every minute, every second, dozens—sometimes hundreds—of magical or energetic projectiles would streak across the skies above, like comets painted in wild neon hues. Each one was a potential death sentence, dragging long shimmering tails behind them as they arced toward the enemy.
Charles, stationed as one of the junior hosts of a witchcraft tower, found himself swamped with responsibility. His job wasn't to make decisions or lead strikes, but to keep everything working. Cooling systems, leyline harmonizers, protective barrier pulse regulators—he was the grease keeping the machine turning. And at this rate, he was burning out.
He hadn't slept properly in days.
The sky above remained crowded, like a canvas filled with hovering war machines, stretching to the horizon. The opposing fleets of magical constructs and mechanical cruisers loomed like colossi from myth, draped in shimmering shields and dark enchantments. Neither side had lost their primary vessels yet. The true capital ships remained behind lines, waiting, watching.
But they were not idle. Harassment tactics kept their vast magical and mechanical resources locked in constant motion. Each side was forced to respond, diverting focus and energy to deal with distractions. And below...
Below was hell.
The land itself had not even existed a few years ago. Born from terraforming magic and mechanical fusion, it now bore witness to a nightmare.
A planet-sized battlefield where billions fought.
On one side: the vast, chaotic armies of warbeasts and magical creatures, summoned and bred for destruction. Creatures with crystalline bones, leathery wings, eyes glowing with unnatural colors, and war-cries that shook the firmament.
On the other: psychic mechanical troops, emotionless, cold, calculating. Tall walkers, serpentine drones, bio-engineered battle frames controlled by advanced neural cores. They moved with precise, inhuman synchronization.
Magic surged and flared in volatile storms. Energy beams painted the landscape in apocalyptic shades. Mountains were flattened, skies scorched. Blood and hydraulic fluid flowed side by side.
---
Over the course of just a few days, the ground had transformed into a grotesque mosaic of corpses and wreckage. Pieces of broken machinery lay side by side with shattered fangs and torn wings. No patch of ground was untouched by death.
Step anywhere, and the squelch underfoot might be muscle or metal.
On the edge of this carnage, hidden under layers of illusion and silent enchantments, moved a figure unlike the rest.
Dex.
A demon. Traditional. Unassuming. Some might call him lazy; he preferred to say he was prudent.
Dex had not once engaged directly. Instead, cloaked in the camouflage his powers granted him, he drifted ghost-like through the battlefield. To the warriors below, he didn't even exist. And that was the point.
He wasn't here to fight.
He was here to collect.
Souls.
Not the strong ones. Oh no. Dex avoided those. Strong souls meant attention. They resisted, screamed, thrashed. They triggered alarms, warnings, retaliation. No, Dex targeted the forgotten, the overlooked: scraps of consciousness, the lost whispers of dead grunts and low-ranking monsters.
Like a scavenger on a beach, he plucked them up one at a time. One here, one there. Nothing to see.
Slow and steady. Never greedy.
His dirt bike—an unholy mix of machinery and metal, forged in the abyss and personally customized for stealth and comfort—carried him smoothly over gore-soaked plains. The wheels barely made a sound as they churned over corpses.
"What a dull day," he muttered, yawning.
He snatched a flickering green soul from the air without even looking, stuffed it in a pouch, and leaned back on his seat. High above, a warbeast exploded in a shower of acidic goo and flame. He turned the bike gently, avoiding the splash.
He started humming to himself. A tune from the old days, maybe something called "Good Days."
"Sometimes I wonder," Dex said aloud to no one. "Aren't I supposed to be the protagonist of something? You'd think by now someone would've challenged me. A hero with a sword or a righteous machine-god. But no... not even a side character with a grudge."
He sighed.
"Feels like I'm the only one taking a vacation in the middle of a cataclysm."
But that was fine. That was safe. Being boring kept you alive.
---
Back underground, in the labyrinthine complex of Silent Heart Academy—a hidden bastion beneath the frontlines—Different from Dex's carefree and casual attitude, Charles is dizzy and confused, and so is Saya, who is underground in the Silent Heart Academy.
He was dizzy, overworked, and terrified.
He wasn't even on the surface battlefield, and yet the sheer stress was enough to crack him.
He had been temporarily reassigned to help manage the transportation systems for the monster legions. It was supposed to be a minor logistical support task.
But nothing was ever simple in war.
The breeding chambers and deployment bays pulsed with activity. Thousands of monstrous entities passed through per hour, needing coordination, clearance, healing, sometimes sedation. Magical stabilizers had to be maintained, biosigns constantly monitored, targeting runes refreshed, summoning seals re-inscribed.
And that was just the morning shift.
The warbeasts were durable—far more so than any mundane animal. They healed quickly, sometimes regenerating entire limbs within hours. Still, not even magical vitality could keep up with the slaughter rate.
Thanks to their strong vitality, those monsters are not as delicate as ordinary wild beasts. Usually, as long as the injuries are not too serious, they can heal naturally. In addition, the [Star of Alsop] also carries a large number of monster healing equipment with the army, which greatly reduces their mortality rate.
But even so, Millions perished daily.
Saya watched wave after wave leave the deployment chambers, knowing most wouldn't return. He had to keep the lines moving. And yet, amid all the chaos, he kept catching his reflection in metal panels and thaumaturgic mirrors. He looked pale. Haggard. Hollow-eyed.
Was he really only twenty-four?
He looked older now. Ten years older.
But he clung to one thought: survival.
If he made it through this... if he endured... there would be rewards. Promotions. Respect. Perhaps, one day, command.
He had entered this war as a nobody. A maintenance lackey. But even the smallest cog could rise in a machine as vast as this.
If he didn't die.
If.
*****
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