{Chapter: 99: War Drums Stir in the Silence}
"Second!"
"..."
A brief pause followed, yet it was not filled with doubt—only a heavy, unspoken resolve. Seeing that the rest of the council had reached a unanimous consensus, the radiant ball of white light suspended above the altar—the one who had first voiced the grave intelligence—fell silent. No further persuasion was needed. No extended debate. Agreement had been achieved not through words, but through the weight of experience and ancient duty.
Thus, within a span of five short minutes—a heartbeat by the standards of a civilization as ancient as theirs—the call to arms had been made. The world's pre-war mobilization had officially begun.
No one hesitated.
Not a single entity among the dozens of ancient consciousnesses lingering in the luminous spheres spoke up in fear or restraint. None wavered at the mention of their unknown and powerful enemy. No voices rose in opposition, questioning the cost of war or weighing strategic gains and losses. That was because, deep in their cores, every one of them understood the fundamental truth of existence: facing a beast that bares its fangs, you must strike first—or be devoured.
To wait was to perish.
To hesitate was to lose.
Even if the enemy was stronger, more advanced, or elusive, it did not matter. They had survived too many calamities—fought through the Age of Crimson Moons, endured the Starfall Plague, and sealed the devouring void beasts that came from the Broken Sky. The wizarding world had always persevered.
Why should this time be any different?
The will to fight was carved into the soul Wizard.
So they moved. Like gears of a colossal machine dormant for ages, the war engine began to stir. Orders were whispered across the plane, through sigil-networks and leyline threads. Sleepers were awakened in their crystalline tombs. Forgotten weapon caches were unearthed. Arcane forges, long dormant, began to breathe fire once more. The skies darkened with the smoke of preparations, and the old banners of the Mage-Lords were once again unfurled.
The Wizarding World was rising—not just to defend itself, but to remind the cosmos that it had never truly fallen asleep.
---
Meanwhile… far from the turmoil brewing at the Heart of the World…
It had absolutely nothing to do with Dex.
The demon was lounging under the shade of a crooked stone pillar, which leaned lazily on the cracked shell of an ancient tortoise fossil. He had since returned to his own preferred pace of life—leisurely and chaotic, with a good dash of mischief. The events unfolding in the wizarding stronghold were, in his mind, more of a fascinating play than a call to arms.
After feasting on the roasted lizard head yesterday—delicately charred and spiced with powdered sulfur root—he'd felt completely satisfied, both in stomach and in spirit. The abridged memory crystal he'd handed over to that overly serious wizard, Hosorn, was already working its mischief.
Did Dex consider the consequences?
No.
Would he ever?
Absolutely not.
Whether the wizarding world triumphed, or the Jiaenser civilization won the coming conflict, it didn't matter to him. Dex had long since decided that he would never tie his fortunes to the fate of any one world. He played both sides like a master gambler, placing small bets everywhere while watching others struggle to survive.
And truth be told, he liked war.
There was something inherently artistic in the chaos of battle, the cacophony of clashing civilizations, the song of steel and spellfire. It thrilled him in ways few other things could. For a demon with centuries of boredom behind him, war was entertainment—raw, unpredictable, and soaked in the delicious suffering of souls.
Ah yes, the souls.
The lizardmen from Jiaenser—modified, fortified, and veiled in psychic energy—might have been tough nuts for the wizards to crack. But Dex? He practically drooled at the thought. He was a connoisseur of souls, an epicurean of the ethereal essence. Where others needed complex rituals and tools to extract a single fragment of memory, Dex simply reached in.
Within an hour, he had unraveled the entire life of the lizardman scout named Grenvar—from hatchling to infiltrator. Dex now knew the architecture of the enemy's world, the command hierarchies, the energy constructs they called vessels, and even the taste of their ration meat (which he rated a 4 out of 10).
He could, if he wished, teleport over to Jiaenser, don a mimicry illusion, and walk among them as a native. Their customs, their dialects, their artificial etiquette—it was all his now. But instead of going himself, he chose to stir the pot from the sidelines.
After all, why spoil the fun?
With that knowledge, Dex deliberately crafted a crystal packed with just enough spicy truth to alarm the wizards, but not enough to ruin the surprise. A proper war, he believed, should be fought between equals—two titans clashing with full force. Surprise attacks and sneak raids won't allow him to make money.
"Let them meet on the battlefield," he muttered to himself with a grin, tapping his claw on the dirt. "Let their cries echo to the stars. That's when the soul energy really starts cooking."
It was then, amidst his daydreams of blood-soaked glory, that Dex felt it.
A faint ripple in the fabric of the world.
It pulsed from the planet's core, subtle but unmistakable. An old technique, ancient and thorough—meant to scan for foreign presences, for outsiders, invaders, and entities not bound to the planet's soul. It was the kind of world-wide search field that could expose infiltrators across planes.
Dex didn't flinch.
Instead, he smirked and raised his hand.
From it bloomed a contract sigil—a writhing symbol etched in abyssal script. It shimmered with the deep black fire of a demonic pact. Bound into this sigil was the soul mark of Hosorn, the wizard who had unknowingly signed a favor contract in return for Dex's assistance.
That small exchange? It was a masterstroke.
Because now, when the scanning field passed over Dex, it didn't see an outsider.
No, the mark screamed "native!" in a dozen metaphysical languages. The world's own recognition system saw Dex not as a demon, but as a recognized agent. An honorary citizen. A local.
The spell slid past him like wind through mist.
Dex tilted his head upward.
High above, in the skies of the wizarding realm, the heavens shifted. A translucent curtain descended—grand, massive, and rippling like a dome of glass. It shimmered with layers of protective enchantments, a planetary barrier designed to seal the realm from incursion.
The dome lowered like a colossal bell jar, casting shadows across continents. Creatures looked up in awe and fear. Wind howled. Magic trembled. The world was being sealed tight.
Dex chuckled softly, folding his arms behind his head as he lay back on a patch of moss.
"So they're serious… very serious."
The war had not just begun—it had been announced to the stars.
And Dex?
He was the only spectator with a front-row seat and a foot in both camps.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the thickening scent of tension, anticipation, and looming bloodshed.
"This will be fun."
*****
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