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Upon hearing the voice, the several dozen students from Durmstrang instinctively turned to face the direction it came from.
The speaker was a grizzled man in his fifties or sixties, sporting a thick beard that covered most of his lower face. For a wizard, this age didn't quite qualify as elderly—most of his beard was still black—and his build was exceptionally robust and muscular. He wore alchemical armor that resembled a power suit, though it had clearly been modified to reflect his own unique style. The design was wild and unconventional, but it seemed to have suffered damage—particularly the chest plate, which bore strange signs of corrosive deterioration. At present, he was unable to retract the armor back into his body and had to remain in a fully armored state while awaiting repairs.
Standing beside him were nine others, likely his teammates, judging by their formation and camaraderie. When they noticed the newcomers looking their way, a few of them offered friendly nods or brief smiles by way of greeting.
"Everyone, follow me. We'll first complete your identification registration, then issue your military tags," said Professor Carlisle.
He gave the group of retiring veterans a crisp gesture of respect, then signaled his students to clear the plaza and led them toward a doorway set into the base of a towering city wall.
"They're members of the Abyss Battlefield's permanent garrison," he explained as they walked. "They're elite wizards, carefully selected from the top graduates of magic academies around the world. Each school chooses its most outstanding students upon graduation to undergo trials here in the Abyss. Those who choose to stay can join the garrison."
"The garrison is divided into three main forces. The Watchers are the entry-level troops, made up of new recruits led by veteran instructors. The Vanguards consist of soldiers who've earned enough merit or have served for at least three years. They form the backbone of the Abyssal force. Finally, there's the Abyssal Inquisitors—this legion is made up of the most elite spellcasters in the entire battlefield. They're tasked with eliminating newly emerged Demon Commanders and responding to unexpected emergencies."
"Besides the garrison, there are also non-permanent personnel like us—researchers, students from Abyss Summer Camps, and others who come here for various purposes. But their numbers are small. The Abyss Gate Fortress isn't a place where you can just wander around freely. I expect each of you to restrain your curiosity and avoid causing any trouble."
"And don't underestimate the garrison soldiers here. Every single Vanguard has combat capabilities that surpass even elite Aurors. This is where the best of the magical world gather."
"Professor Carlisle, did you ever join the garrison yourself?" one curious student asked. They all knew that Professor Carlisle had spent several years here before taking a teaching position at Durmstrang.
"I joined the Watchers after graduating," Carlisle replied. "I was promoted to Vanguard in my second year, but I had to leave after losing half my leg in combat. Though it eventually grew back, I found alchemical gear research at Durmstrang to be just as rewarding. Still, coming back here—it does stir up some nostalgia."
"You lost half a leg?" someone blurted out in surprise.
"Oh, yes," Carlisle nodded with a rueful chuckle. "I accidentally stepped on a stone that turned out to have a hand. It grabbed me, crushed my leg, and tore off my right calf. Those Abyssal demons aren't the kind of bastards you can take lightly."
Professor Carlisle led them through a long stone corridor. At the far end of the wide passage, to their surprise, a modern electric light was glowing overhead! Perhaps the most basic forms of technology remained unaffected by the magical magnetic field. Still, the sight felt jarringly out of place—like a clash of aesthetics that left them momentarily stunned.
The interior of the fortress city was vast, yet it hadn't been expanded using spatial magic. Throughout the city, magic had been deliberately minimized—replaced wherever possible with mundane alternatives. When they received their personal military ID tags, they were also handed a copy of the Fortress Code of Conduct, a required reading—one they'd be tested on. Among its rules was a clear statement: the use of magic within the Abyss Gate Fortress was strictly regulated.
For one, the natural ambient magic here was virtually nonexistent. The demons were constantly draining the area's free-flowing magical energy. After battle, spellcasters had only two options for replenishing their magic: either retreat to the rear zones for full recovery or use high-purity mana crystal ore they had in reserve.
Secondly, excessive spellcasting increased the ambient magical density, which in turn triggered demon clustering behavior. Such surges disrupted overall strategic deployment and endangered personnel operating in the field.
After centuries of development, the battlefield had evolved beyond a training ground for elite spellcasters—it had become a colossal mining operation, supplying the magical world with a steady stream of high-grade mana ore. Without profit involved, no one would have tolerated the war dragging on for this long.
Though the true origin of the Abyss Battlefield lay in the fact that the interdimensional passage could never be fully sealed, the Abyss World remained an existential nemesis to their own. The Awakened Ones of old had done everything within their power to close the gate, but the lingering rift could now only be healed by the world itself. Meanwhile, the Abyss continued tearing at the other side, attempting to reopen the passage. It was a tug-of-war between two worlds—one that humans could not influence or halt.
After being formally registered at the fortress, the students were assigned to a shared dormitory camp. The large room was filled with double-decker bunks, just enough to cram everyone inside. Though the living conditions were a bit rough, for students who had never experienced collective dorm life, the novelty of it made up for the discomfort.
Over the course of three days, an environmental adaptation period helped correct many bad habits they had brought from the magical world. For the first time, the students came to understand how vital mana was to a spellcaster's survival. What had once seemed like an infinite resource they could recklessly burn through was now painfully finite. The sensation of "each spell costing more than it gave" left a deep impression on them. In times of scarcity, people finally understand the value of things—even the coarse grain that not long ago wouldn't have been fed to a dog becomes a treasured commodity.
Magic, they realized, was the lifeblood of a caster—the very foundation of their existence. Without it, they were no better—and often worse—than the non-magical soldiers who still bore the burden of defending their homeland.
Harry had a particularly hard time adapting. His sensitivity to ambient magic was sharper than anyone else's in the fortress. He craved places rich in magical energy—it gave him a sense of freedom, like a fish gliding effortlessly through water. Here, however, he felt like that same fish, tossed into the center of a scorching desert. Even breathing felt painful.
His Mana Lungs, which once could replenish his reserves in a breath or two, now struggled. The meager ambient mana was barely enough to moisten his metaphorical lips.
"A pack of rogue demons has appeared northeast of the fortress—estimated numbers: around three hundred. Five Vanguard squads of ten will escort you. Boys, girls—ready to meet those damned bastards face-to-face?"
Professor Carlisle kicked open the dormitory door, wearing only a sleeveless compression vest. His long hair, tied in a high ponytail, swung behind him as he made his stylish entrance, delivering this grand announcement to the students who had just finished adapting to the harsh new environment.
"You've got two minutes to get ready. Report to Training Ground Seventeen."
(End of Chapter)