{Chapter: 126: The Breach of Jarnser
The treatment was successful}
The dawn of the following day brought with it no peace—only fire, steel, and the distant murmur of a world beginning to collapse.
From the boundless skies above the fractured firmament, the wizarding world made its move.
Without warning, without diplomacy, and without mercy, a full-scale invasion was launched upon the homeland of the Jarnser civilization. The skies cracked, as if mourning what was about to come, and the very air trembled with the scent of arcane power.
Although Jarnser's sentinels had received troubling signs days before—disrupted ley lines, flickering lights in the atmosphere, murmurs among the stars—they had not expected this: an outright assault by a force so deeply steeped in magic and might that it overwhelmed their preparations entirely.
Within mere hours, the outer defensive perimeter, reinforced with barriers forged from technology physics, was ripped open like parchment caught in a storm. The protective veil surrounding the world, a crystalline net woven from a thousand generations of psychic and mechanical genius, fractured with an audible groan that echoed across the continents.
"Boom..."
The heavens responded with violence. A deafening thunderclap split the sky as streaks of blue lightning burst into existence—arcane chains etched with ancient sigils, forming a radiant latticework against the clouds. These glowing chains, formed of pure magical intent, began to contort unnaturally. Space twisted in resistance, but the pressure mounted.
Across the sky, translucent, tumor-like bulges emerged in midair, pulsing ominously. The blue chains resisted, trying to push them back, but each moment saw the chains bend further, strain harder, like muscles snapping under a weight they were never meant to bear.
And then came the breach.
The warning sirens of Jarnser, silent for over a millennium, howled once more. Ancient defense systems roared to life. Telepathic pulses reverberated across the minds of every citizen. Automated messengers screamed warnings from the sky.
In the cities, panic erupted like wildfire.
Civilians dropped their belongings mid-task, abandoning shops, gardens, fields, and schools. Children cried. Elders shouted for loved ones. The skies, now tinged with a deepening shade of crimson, bathed the world in an eerie twilight.
People ran, clutched together, seeking refuge in deep shelters carved beneath cities and cliffs. These bunkers, designed long ago during the Time of Falling Stars, now bore the weight of survival once more.
The Jarnser Defense Coalition responded with calculated speed. Golems activated from slumber. Psychic troopers blinked into defensive positions. Anti-magic batteries aligned toward the skies. From every fortress and stronghold, the warriors of Jarnser took their posts.
But the enemy had already arrived.
With a sound like tearing silk layered over screams, a jagged rift split the heavens—a gash so sharp and unnatural it burned the eyes to look at. Space itself recoiled from it. From within this rupture, three figures emerged.
They hovered several meters above the capital plains, each clad in distinct robes, each exuding a terrifying, cold serenity. They did not float so much as command the air beneath their feet to obey. The one in the center, tall and crowned with a halo of anti-light, surveyed the land.
He ignored the swarming Jarnser troops below, their mechs locked and loaded, their eyes burning with determination. His gaze pierced through clouds, structures, and mountains—seeking something more.
And then, he spoke.
But his mouth never moved.
A telepathic voice boomed across the continent, audible not in ears but in minds and souls.
"From this moment forward," the voice declared, "we—champions of the Wizarding World—formally declare total war upon the Jarnser Domain. There will be no further pretense. No parley. No truce. Only one of our civilizations shall remain afloat in the World Sea. The other shall be erased—its legacy dust."
A stillness followed.
A heartbeat of pure dread.
Then, the order came.
The Jarnser High Command, having already calculated the risk of such an event, unleashed a pre-emptive full-scale response. Coordinated attack signals were issued. Millions of mechanical minds processed targeting protocols. Billions of psychic pulses surged with lethal intent.
The world itself screamed.
From every direction, the skies lit up with energy beams, projectiles, psychic javelins, and gravity implosions. A tempest of destruction surged toward the trio in midair.
But the figures did not flinch.
The leading wizard let out a small, mocking laugh. Then, without lifting a finger, a pitch-black void eye opened on his forehead—an unnatural aperture that devoured light and reality.
His companion, an elder figure with ethereal wisps of ink streaming from his shoulders, grinned. "They're cautious. None of their top champions showed up. They're testing the waters first."
The third, a younger, apathetic Wizard with empty, hollow eyes, shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We're not here to win the war today. Just to begin it."
Then, all three began to dissolve.
Their bodies unraveled into intangible clouds of darkness, forming three orbs of writhing black mist—each radiating a maddening presence.
From these orbs, tendrils of black gas began to seep. They slithered across the sky and plunged into the soil of Jarnser like drills made of nightmare. They spread quickly and silently, ignoring all barriers, passing through attacks, material, and even psychic defenses with no resistance. It was as if they existed on a higher layer of reality—untouchable, unbothered.
Every weapon, every spell, every strike simply phased through.
High above in hidden fortresses, Jarnser's elite psychics and generals watched the unfolding chaos through mind-linked monitors. And they felt a deep, primal fear—something was deeply wrong.
The black gas was not simply a toxin. It was a corruption of space itself. A spiritual sickness.
Without hesitation, the psychics acted. Great torrents of spiritual energy surged down from the heavens like rivers of flame, attempting to obliterate the black spheres.
But the moment their energy made contact, the psychics recoiled in horror.
The black mist responded. Invisible tendrils surged up the energy streams, carrying a corrosive affliction with them—something that infected not the body, but the soul. Panic set in as some of the most powerful minds in the world felt their spiritual cores begin to rot.
They cut off their power flows instantly, abandoning parts of their very being to avoid further infection.
And still, the spheres floated, unshaken, pouring more and more of their toxic gas into the soil of Jarnser.
Then, a voice arrived. Calm, commanding. The voice of the Supreme Strategist—one of the six Elders of Jarnser.
"The space surrounding those entities is compromised beyond repair. Do not attempt to purify. Prepare to sever it. Deploy the Gallen Blade and cut them out of the continuum."
"Yes, Commander!" the psychics chorused in unity.
Far below, the Gallen Blade—a space-cleaving mechanism forged from a dying god—was activated. A faint hum turned into a roar as it locked onto the corrupted zone.
Back in the command tower, the Supreme Strategist stood alone, eyes locked on the replay feed of the incursion. His expression was one of profound confusion, not fear.
"Why...?" he muttered. "Why go through such effort—risking your lives to penetrate our world—just to infect a space with your curse?"
"What are you trying to achieve?"
He watched the footage over and over again, searching. Pausing on frames. Analyzing the curvature of the spheres. The flow of the gas. The angle of the breach.
But he saw nothing.
And outside, above the trembling world, the sky bled darker still.
The war had begun.
---
Forty years had passed.
Time had eroded many things—kingdoms had fallen, alliances had crumbled, and stars had risen and faded across the vast continents of the magical world. But here, in this shadow-draped wooden cottage nestled deep within a gnarled forest that most had long since learned to avoid, nothing had changed.
Not even the man sitting cross-legged behind the crude table made of blackened bonewood.
Dex, still as eerily youthful as he had been decades ago, glanced up with disinterest at the two figures before him. His voice, flat and devoid of warmth, broke the long silence like a shard of ice cutting through flesh.
"What is your purpose?" he asked coldly, expression unreadable. "If you have one, speak. If not… leave."
There was no welcome in his tone, not a sliver of politeness. It wasn't rudeness—it was apathy. Indifference honed into a blade sharper than hostility. His sharp gaze remained fixed on them, as if bored yet quietly measuring their worth.
The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly, the thick air pressing heavier on their shoulders.
He hadn't changed in the slightest. His attitude, his posture, even the flick of his eyes—it all screamed of a philosophy carved deep into his bones: "Let them come to me. I don't chase clients. I trap them."
Dex's business strategy had remained infamous across generations. It had even earned a dark nickname from those who dared whisper about it in the black markets and backroom taverns: "Waiting by the Tree to Catch a Rabbit – Killing the Pig in the Woods Method." A grotesque idiom born of folklore and cold-blooded economics.
To Dex, there was no need to promote his services. He offered no discounts, no warm greetings, and certainly no mercy. He simply waited. Sooner or later, someone desperate enough would come. They always did.
And today, it was Charles.
The man stood stiffly, sweating despite the cold wind that crept through the rotting seams of the cabin. Before he spoke, his eyes drifted down to the person he had half-carried across continents to reach this damned place—Saya.
Saya, pale as paper and barely breathing, lay sprawled on the floor like a discarded doll. His skin was clammy, and his soul… flickering.
Charles swallowed hard. His lips moved, but no words came for several seconds. He had heard of Dex before. Who hadn't?
The rumors were endless:
"You'll cry once, despair twice, and regret being born three times."
And yet, they always ended the same way:
"But it works."
Even those broken and cursed beyond salvation whispered, "He'll fix it. But you'll wish he hadn't."
Still, Charles had no choice.
He bent one knee, then the other, until he was bowing with his head low to the dust-choked floorboards. His voice trembled with desperation and resolve.
*****
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