{Chapter: 113: Psychic Council}
Irel-Vin cleared his throat, then said, "We implement the Burned Earth Protocol. We isolate one of their frontier dimensions, trigger a simulated civil war through planted information, and launch a slow-rolling fleet incursion to exhaust their resources. The aim is to force them to either overcommit and reveal their core defense systems... or lose ground and appear weakened. Both outcomes favor us. But sadly this outcome is currently out of reach"
"In this case, I have a proposal that I would like to ask for your opinions."
The large chamber of the [Psychic Council] remained silent for a moment as the words echoed. Then, slowly, the three senior congressmen seated in the elevated front row exchanged glances, a brief telepathic consensus passing between them. Their aged, cybernetically enhanced eyes glowed faintly as they regarded the speaker. One of them leaned forward, voice crisp but measured. "Tell us."
The man who stood in the central podium—Supreme Commander Tyrek-Shaal—met their gaze without flinching. Though he stood before the highest authorities of his civilization, he displayed no fear. His expression was solemn, and his words, when they came, were laced with dangerous implications.
"I believe we have reached the limit of what passive observation and preliminary engagements can offer us. Continuing on this path is no longer beneficial. If anything, it is actively undermining our strategic edge. Our soldiers—our people—are becoming complacent. They are beginning to see this war as routine, a background noise."
A quiet murmur ran through the room, but no one interrupted. Tyrek-Shaal pressed on.
"That is a critical danger. War must never become mundane. A soldier who no longer fears or respects battle is a liability. Our society thrives on progress, innovation, and calculated risk. Therefore, I propose a controlled escalation. Not because we must win now, but because we must sharpen our resolve. We must shed blood—ours and theirs—to reignite the fire in our people's hearts. Let the war cease being a distant storm and become the very thunder in their ears."
There was no attempt to hide the brutality in his tone. The implication was clear: orchestrate controlled sacrifices to fuel public hatred and national race unity. Manufacture urgency, breed loyalty through fear, and let martyrdom become a tool.
In many other civilizations, such words would be cause for alarm or condemnation. But here, in the towering heart of the Jarnser civilization—where the philosophy of evolutionary ascendance governed policy—the proposal was met with cold analysis, not moral outrage.
A long silence followed. No one objected.
Finally, the lead councilor nodded slowly. His fingers, adorned with neural rings and psychometric tattoos, folded across his lap. "Begin preparations. May the stars illuminate our path."
The room grew still again as the proposal passed unanimously.
Tyrek-Shaal allowed himself a small, grim smile. With this approval, his authority had expanded tenfold. The gears of escalation would begin to turn—and he would be the one to command their rotation.
---
Far from the polished steel towers and sterile halls of high command, a very different scene unfolded.
Dex, a demon of indeterminate age and mischievous disposition, was scavenging along the outer perimeter of a contested sector on the battlefield. Amid ruined constructs, abandoned bunkers, and the carcasses of war machines, he moved with practiced ease, his long coat fluttering with every nimble step. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly beneath the brim of a dented scavenger's hat.
Dex is working as a garbage collector on the edge of the battlefield, making a living by picking up garbage.
To outsiders, he looked like a rogue or a vagrant, but those who understood the deeper mysteries of the galaxy knew Dex was more than a trash picker. He was an observer, a survivor. He didn't fight wars—he profited from their aftermath.
Dodging an errant blast from a skirmish half a kilometer away, Dex slid down a mound of collapsed plating, expertly flipping a melted power core into a sack strapped to his back. But suddenly, his movements paused. A shiver ran down his spine.
He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing. Nothing had changed visually—no alarms, no sudden explosions, no sirens. But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"Hmm... that's not good."
Dex raised his gaze to the sky, watching the warships of the Jarnser fleet hover in ominous silence above the haze-choked horizon. It wasn't sight or sound that warned him. It was his unique gift—an instinctual, always-on sixth sense that warned him of events that might impact his survival.
His innate ability was reminding him that something different was about to happen here.
This is not future vision, but an ability similar to the sixth sense, which works 24 hours a day 7 days a week. It can predict to a certain extent anything that may affect him, and vaguely sense whether that thing is beneficial or harmful to him.
And right now, that ability was screaming.
"Something bad is about to go down. This is really hard. I'm just a harmless little demon trying to make a living in this cruel universe… by picking up trash…"
His gaze landed on one specific warship, sleek and angular, with a design that seemed newer than the rest. His eyes, attuned to magical and technological shifts, picked up on the faintest shimmer—a barely visible haze spilling from beneath the vessel's hull.
He squinted, focusing, and the sight became clear.
A swarm.
Not of beasts. Not of ships. But of machines—tiny, near-invisible mechanical insects, spreading like a tide across the battlefield. They moved without sound, without warning, consuming everything in their path. Where they passed, the terrain faded away—not destroyed, not burned, but devoured atom by atom.
Soil, metal, stone, blood flesh—nothing was spared. They was disappearing at a speed visible to the naked eye, as if it had been eaten out of thin air without leaving any residue.
Even more disturbing was their replication rate. Dex watched with mounting dread as they continued to eat matter and energy, a single nano-bug split into two, then four, then sixteen. Within seconds, the swarm multiplied exponentially,... In just over ten seconds, their number increased dozens of times. The originally invisible bodies appeared like a silver mist under the huge number…
Because of their overwhelming numbers. A metallic mist rolled across the land.
Dex's lips curled downward. "Oh great. Now they've got a Gort clone. These damned nano-plague bugs eat everything... and—wait. Did they just devour a soul?"
He observed a dying scavenger scream in silence as his very essence was stripped away. Dex winced.
"Oh yes. Soul-eaters. That's just wonderful. It's really hard for me to be a garbage man…"
He tapped his foot, deliberating. Then, without another word, his body flickered and vanished in a silent burst of shadow and wind.
He was gone.
Not out of fear—though he did have a healthy respect for self-preservation—but because he knew what would come next.
The wizarding world would not ignore this.
They would respond. Swiftly. Violently.
And if he lingered in the blast radius, even he wouldn't walk away from what was coming.
High above, in orbit, war drums began to beat in the silence of space, and the balance of the war shifted—for the first time in twenty-five years.
****
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