{Chapter: 115: The Silent Pressure}
For all the pride the Jarnser took in their survivalist ideology, they had underestimated the ancient, battle-forged cunning of the wizarding world.
Although he already knew that this trick alone would not pose much of a threat to wizard civilization, he still felt a little uncomfortable when he saw them easily get rid of this weapon. After all, in the conventional sense, this was already a killer-level method, and it was no problem to get rid of a few low-end worlds with one of these bugs.
"So then," the commander murmured, eyes narrowed, "what are the observation results?"
He turned toward his adjutant, expecting a concise report, but before the younger officer could utter a word—
"BOOM!!!"
The entire command deck shuddered with the force of the blast. The sound ripped through the atmosphere like a hammer against steel.
Reflexively, the commander snapped his gaze to the right, where one of the auxiliary flagships—an enormous vessel standing hundreds of meters tall—was instantly compressed by an unseen force. In mere moments, the towering battleship crumpled like paper under divine weight, its steel frame flattened to a height of just a few meters. Soldiers, consoles, and metal machinery were pressed together into a grotesque sculpture of death—a twisted iron coffin from which dark crimson blood seeped out in thick rivulets, painting the outer hull with macabre artistry.
The explosion's flames were peculiar—silent and constrained, as though wrapped in an invisible field. Fire didn't spread; it simply existed within a frozen radius. Only the sound—terrifying and absolute—escaped to rattle the eardrums of all who could hear.
Face pale and jaw set tight, the commander barked, "All warships within two sectors—retreat immediately! Begin evasive maneuvers! Prioritize crew safety and fall back to formation Delta-Tau."
The sudden attack had all the characteristics of a nightmare: no visible projectile, no detectable energy spike, no hint of what triggered it. The enemy's method, frequency, range, and strength—everything was unknown.
And unknown meant deadly.
As the armada pulled back into defensive alignment, no pursuit came from the opposing side. The fleet of the wizarding world, spearheaded by dozens of floating [Alsop Stars], remained motionless—calm, as if the destruction of a capital warship meant nothing at all. Their formation was untouched. No ships advanced. No spells followed. They stood like silent observers, proud and unyielding.
The soldiers and officers from the Jarnser civilization were stunned. Even within the control rooms of their surviving ships, murmurings and confusion grew louder.
On the other side, the wizards were equally perplexed.
Most of them hadn't even been informed of what was just deployed. High-ranking Wizards looked at one another with furrowed brows, whispering conjectures, yet none could explain what had just happened. Their authority didn't grant them access to whatever arcane weapon had been used. It was a mystery—even to their own kind.
But one man noticed something.
From atop a far-off [Alsop Star], leaning against a crystalline railing with lazy interest, Dex watched the battlefield below like a man enjoying a quiet stage play. His sharp eyes sparkled not with confusion but understanding.
"Pressure," he muttered.
"Pressure... and spatial confinement."
Unlike many of the wizards present and the whole Jarnser armada, Dex wasn't just a passive observer. His blood had walked among different civilizations, seen both primitive and post-quantum magic, and understood the subtlety of forces that could neither be seen nor heard.
This wasn't a fireball or a blade of light. It wasn't even cursed plasma or divine lightning.
It was pure, absolute force—distributed across a broad area, applied evenly and invisibly, compressing everything in its grasp without warning. The bugs, the ship, the very space they occupied—it was all crushed as if by the fingers of a god. The mechanical insects' much-vaunted ability to absorb and devour energy and matter was rendered completely useless. After all, pressure wasn't energy—it was weight. It was reality, applied in abundance.
He exhaled through his nose and tilted his head. "Clever bastards…"
Still, he wasn't completely in the know. Dex didn't understand the exact mechanism of how the [Alsop Star] produced such a force. He had only wandered near the stations every so often, feigning curiosity, sometimes listening in on idle chatter between researchers and junior wizards. He'd never attempted to infiltrate them for intelligence—there was no need, and more importantly, no benefit.
He had always been a man who preferred to watch, not interfere.
Looking down at the torn battlefield, his lips twisted in something between a sigh and a sneer.
"Damn… I guess my garbage-picking days are over."
Once, after great clashes between civilizations, he'd comb through the wreckage for souls—broken, lost, and ripe for the taking. He'd feed off the aftershock of war, collecting relics, remnants, and fragments of power that others considered useless.
But not anymore.
Now, things were escalating.
Two giants had locked their gazes on each other. And while Dex wasn't their target, he knew that even shadows were scorched when titans clashed. The days of easy scavenging were gone. Vigilance would reign. Protocols would change. Debris fields would be shielded or obliterated completely. No more leftovers. No more unattended corpses.
No more free lunches.
He folded his arms and muttered bitterly, "Decades of work… ruined. I should have retired last cycle."
His voice was soft, almost wistful. Despite all the destruction, it was this—the end of opportunity—that truly broke his heart.
---
Far above, within the command core of one of the [Alsop Stars], the voice of a junior officer echoed across the crystalline control deck.
"Lord Hewlett, the enemy is retreating. Do we press the advantage and seize the vacant territory?"
Hewlett Holtz, the aged yet unnervingly calm High Commander of the wizarding world, stood near a panoramic window of silver glass, arms behind his back, robes gently swaying in the artificial wind. His eyes were unreadable.
He did not turn to address the officer. His answer came without hesitation.
"No. We hold."
A pause. Then he added with quiet firmness, "Occupying that zone is unnecessary. The goal was to demonstrate—not to provoke a rout."
A murmur of surprise passed among the staff.
Hewlett finally turned, his expression stoic. "Their retreat was not a weakness. It was a caution. The Jarnser civilization isn't easily wounded. They withdrew to analyze, not surrender. If we overextend, we invite entrapment."
The room fell silent at his measured insight.
"Maintain position. Begin sanitization of battlefield remains. And treat the surviving monsters—they still have uses."
Someone spoke up hesitantly. "Sir… what about the damaged sectors?"
"Reinforce them quietly. No announcements. And begin redistribution of energy nodes."
A faint smile crept across Hewlett's face—small, calculated, and predatory.
"The legacy of the Coron civilization… is finally bearing fruit. Let us enjoy the shade of the trees they planted."
Outside, the [Alsop Stars] shone like distant gods—serene, unyielding, and terrifyingly quiet.
*****
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