{Chapter: 111: The Calm Before the Storm}
And the war had only just begun. By the standards of wizards—beings who measured time in centuries rather than years—it wasn't even foreplay. It was nothing more than a warm-up. The first tremors of a greater cataclysm that had yet to unfold.
Despite the minimal bloodshed so far, the gears of the wizarding world's war machine were already grinding at full force. Logistics, enchantments, repairs, summons—every department was working around the clock. Responsibilities once handled by a single division were now doubled, even tripled, as contingency after contingency was drafted, debated, and deployed.
Beasts born of ancient spellcraft—Warcraft, forged from the marrow of the earth and the breath of storms—were being revived, adjusted, and optimized. These magical organisms, massive and fearsome, were not treated as treasured creatures but as expendable assets. They would be hurled at the enemy lines like pebbles into an ocean—meant to stall, distract, or weaken before the true weapons were unleashed.
And this was just the beginning.
The current state of affairs was expected to persist indefinitely. Those familiar with the arcane histories knew all too well: world wars in the realm of wizards did not burn fast and fade. They simmered for centuries, sometimes millennia. It was not uncommon for a single war to stretch across entire ages, consuming dozens of generations of ordinary folk in its unrelenting blaze.
This disparity in the experience of time was one of the many reasons why wizards harbored disdain for mortals. For wizards, a century-long war might be a drawn-out game of chess. For ordinary humans, it meant a dozen lifetimes spent under the shadow of conflict—entire bloodlines rising and falling before the war's midpoint even arrived. What wizards called patience, mortals experienced as apocalypse.
The rift between the two was not merely one of power—it was existential. Wizards saw the world in epochs; mortals saw it in breaths and heartbeats. Their thinking, values, and priorities were forged in wholly different crucibles.
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At the Heart of the World — The Wizard Council
Deep within the arcane citadel that hovered above time itself, where gravity bowed to will and space curved around the ancient wards, the Wizard Council convened once more.
The hall was silent but alive with power. Dozens of spheres of radiant light hovered around a colossal table shaped like a starburst—each sphere representing a different Wizard or magical authority from across the realm. Some shone with tranquil blue light, others with fiery red, and a few pulsed with shifting hues, as though their minds refused to be defined by a single element.
But today, something new stood at the center of the council chamber: a towering light screen, easily the size of a castle wall, broadcasting vivid images drawn directly from the battlefield.
The screen flickered between viewpoints, revealing devastated mountain ranges, fleets of floating war machines silhouetted against blood-orange skies, and roiling storms of arcane energy spiraling into the heavens. It was not a dramatization—it was a live feed, woven from the eyes of summoned familiars and enchanted surveillance runes scattered across the warfront.
A black-misted orb hovered forward, its presence chilling the air. When it spoke, the temperature dropped by a few degrees.
"The enemy's war constructs," it began, "are disturbingly similar to the spacecraft designs recorded in the remains of the Coron civilization. Their primary offensive methods rely on kinetic projectiles and focused energy discharges—what mortals might call 'rays' or 'plasma beams.'"
The voice was calm and analytical, yet those listening could sense the undercurrent of concern.
"While their individual units are weaker in both attack and defense than the infamous Star of Alsop, their numbers are far greater. Mass production seems to be the key here. The manufacturing trails bear the same hallmarks as the silicon-based technologies once wielded by our previous enemies—simple in structure, efficient in purpose. It resembles how we mass-produce Warcraft for the frontlines: functional, swift, and terrifyingly scalable."
The entire council grew tense. The mention of mass production stirred grim memories.
The black mist continued. "If this Jarnser civilization has had time to build in secret, if they have had time to prepare... then the full strength of their armada could be unimaginable. I do not say this lightly. I sat at the helm of the defense during the Coron War. I watched as a hundred thousand ships arrived in our skies, blotting out the sun. That civilization sought to erase us through sheer volume. It is not unreasonable to assume the Jarnser plan the same."
This orb was not merely a commentator; it was the commander of the entire wizarding war effort—a being who had guided the realm through its last existential conflict, centuries ago. Even now, he sat on one of the Stars of Alsop, a massive arcane fortress orbiting the edge of the realm, directing strategy in real-time while projecting his consciousness here.
The others remained quiet. His words carried the weight of history, and none would question him lightly. He had seen civilizations rise and fall. His voice was forged in fire, tempered by centuries of battle.
Many present had fought in the Coron War alongside him, or survived its long shadow. They had watched entire continents crack, skies burn, and oceans boil. They understood that survival wasn't a matter of strength—it was a matter of preparation and the ruthless ability to adapt.
A Wizard composed entirely of thunderclouds spoke, her voice rumbling like a summer storm. "We must assume they are hunting us, just as the Coron once did. The Jarnser civilization may have developed this entire strategy based on our known countermeasures. The first wave may only be a test."
"Exactly," the commander replied. "And let us not forget: any civilization that thrives by consuming others, by preying on realms like ours, never comes unprepared. They come with cards hidden up their sleeves. They bait you into complacency and then bring out weapons capable of rewriting the rules of war."
Silence fell again, this time heavier.
For a moment, even the ever-burning torches along the council walls seemed to dim.
What haunted them most was not the power of the enemy's weapons—it was the unknown. The fear that something was waiting behind the curtain. That one false move could invite extinction.
Underestimating the Coron had almost been the end of them. The only reason the wizarding world still existed today was because its leaders—immortals tempered by unimaginable loss—had learned from every failure.
It was not luck that saved them from annihilation. It was paranoia, strategy, and above all, patience.
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Far beyond the council chamber, in the outer circles of the realm, a shadow stirred.
Dex's true body—the ancient demon bound in forbidden sigils and slumbering for what felt like eons—had never crossed the outer cordon. His instincts, guided by the inherited memories of countless forebears, warned him not to.
He knew what kind of monsters sat at the Wizard Council's table. He knew the horrors they had survived, the civilizations they had seen crumble into dust. They were not easily tricked, nor easily moved.
If the war was to be won—or survived—it would not be through pride or haste.
Only the truly patient would live to see the end.
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