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{Chapter: 116: New Business}
[Power of Kotyaar]
That was the name now whispered with awe and fear by those on the frontlines. The origin of the devastating pressure-based assault wasn't a mystery anymore, at least not to the strategists and upper echelons of the wizards' command.
It all traced back to a lost relic of war—the [Pressure Transmission Mechanism], a marvel once developed by the now-defunct Coron civilization. In its time, the device was hailed as a revolutionary strategic weapon, capable of manipulating pressure through controlled space fields. But the Coron fell, their shining cities turned to smoldering craters in a conflict too ancient for most to remember clearly.
And as is the way of war, the victors inherited the spoils.
When the Coron civilization was extinguished, the wizarding world claimed what remained. Among the scattered remains and twisted architecture of a ruined world, they found the blueprints of the Pressure Transmission Mechanism. It was dormant, locked in a code that only a few could decipher. One of them was Kotyaar.
A recluse, a genius, and an anomaly even among the wizards—Kotyaar took the ruined legacy of the Coron and breathed new life into it. He refined the core algorithm, stripped the mechanism of its outdated limitations, and embedded it into a system compatible with modern magical architectures. Thus was born the modern iteration of the weapon: The Power of Kotyaar.
No longer bound to stationary platforms or ancient reactors, the mechanism could now be embedded directly into mobile warships—specifically, the titanic floating fortresses known as the Alsop Stars.
The [Alsop Star] itself was a terrifying marvel: a forty-kilometer-wide sphere forged from enchanted alloys and reinforced metals, designed not just to endure war, but to wage it from its very presence alone. Weighing nearly thirty times more than conventional high-density steel, its mere mass was a weapon.
And now, with Kotyaar's technology fused to it, the [Alsop Star] could focus that weight—its very existence—into a directed form of pressure that could be transmitted across the vacuum of space.
With a range of over 1,300 kilometers, the system could generate physical pressure equal to twenty times the [Alsop Star]'s mass and concentrate it in a precise area. The result was catastrophic. The enemy didn't even see beams or hear warnings. There was no shimmer of light nor the singing hum of mana-charged projectiles. Just sudden implosion, compression, and absolute silence—followed by the muted thud of crushed metal and oozing bio-matter.
Entire warships of the Jarnser civilization, many of which boasted energy-eroding mechanical insects as their frontline weapons, were rendered inert in a single strike. They were crushed before they had time to even raise shields. The bugs, designed to devour energy and matter, were helpless—because pressure was not something that could be consumed.
It was not energy. It was not fire or frost or arcane light.
It was reality pressing inward.
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After transmitting a formal warning to the Wizarding Council—advising them that the war's intensity was likely to escalate—Lord Hewlett closed the console with a soft wave of his hand. The lights in the command center dimmed slightly as he turned away.
Rather than convene with his advisors or begin war planning, he chose a more important task: stillness.
He walked slowly to a secluded chamber within the [Alsop Star]—his personal meditation chamber. Beneath the smooth black surface of the chamber floor was a convergence point of elemental energies. He sat cross-legged atop a shallow stone dais, exhaled slowly, and closed his eyes.
Silence settled like a velvet curtain.
Hewlett understood better than most that the greatest weapons in war were not guns, cannons, or enchanted machines. It was readiness. The calm before the storm. He didn't know when the Jarnser forces would commit to full-scale retaliation, but he knew it would come. And when it did, he needed to be as sharp as a god's blade.
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His premonition was soon proven correct.
Only a week later, sensors on the outer perimeter began detecting movement—fast, large-scale, and coordinated. The Jarnser had returned.
And this time, they came bearing the wrath of a wounded pride.
Tens of thousands of warships, layered in overlapping formations, emerged from subspace in synchronized unison. Their main guns roared like the howls of planetary beasts, launching a barrage so dense it made the space between stars flicker with artificial light. Waves of energy, electromagnetic pulses, and gravitational distortions surged across the void. It was less a battle and more an attempt to drown the enemy in every form of destruction known to science.
From the ground below one of the Wizarding World's peripheral outposts, a pair of soldiers stood on a tower watching the unfolding chaos.
One of them, Saya, narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly to the side, listening to the distant tremors echoing through the atmosphere. Despite the scale of the bombardment overhead, he showed no sign of fear.
"It looks like they're finally serious," he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face.
He turned to Charles, standing next to him. Both men had weathered their share of battles. Gone were their days of logistic assignments and rear-echelon duties. For the past decade, they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the frontlines, defending strategic points and escorting reinforcement fleets.
Charles, a quiet and thoughtful man, let out a dry chuckle. "Serious? Saya, I've spent two-thirds of my life in this godsforsaken war. You know what I miss more than peace?"
Saya raised a brow. "Your mother's cooking?"
"My little brother's singing," Charles said, a far-off look in his eyes. "He was terrible. Absolutely awful. Sounded like a donkey drowning in a swamp. But damned if I wouldn't trade this view right now to hear it one more time."
Saya chuckled softly, but then his expression turned more solemn.
Despite being close to forty, neither man looked older than their early twenties. Their faces were unmarred by age, preserved by magic and the unique advantage of having been born in a time when resources flowed and alchemy stabilized bloodline traits.
Unlike many half-human, half-specter wizards who bore mutated features—horns, gray skin, burning eyes—Saya and Charles looked almost purely human. Their luck, and their birth in an era where the infrastructure to handle their mutations existed, had spared them the fate of becoming outcasts.
Unlike most half-human, half-ghost wizards, they lived in a war period with an adequate supply of various materials. Therefore, even if they had some special blood transplanted, there were basically no non-human features in their appearance. They were one of the very few lucky people.
But behind their smooth skin and youthful smiles were decades of hardened experience. They were not green recruits—they were veterans wrapped in young flesh.
The only thing that continued to baffle them—despite years of contemplation—was their inexplicable love for eating bamboo. It had become their staple food, and they gnawed on it as if it were the most delicious delicacy in the world. They weren't just fond of it—they craved it. Meals didn't feel complete without at least a bundle of freshly cut bamboo stalks by their side.
Both of them had once jokingly speculated that it might be a lingering side effect of the martial technique they practiced in their youth—an obscure method known as the Indescribable Fist. More specifically, the version they had learned bore the unique title of Black and White Iron-Eating Beast Fist.
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