{Chapter: 122: Heart of Jarnser}
Ten Years Later
The war, which had once been a calculated conflict confined to strategic objectives and ideological posturing, had now morphed into a cataclysmic struggle that scarred entire star systems. What began as a meat grinder between civilizations had evolved into an all-consuming, interstellar inferno. Skirmishes gave way to sieges, battles escalated into bombardments, and eventually, entire places were sacrificed in the name of supremacy.
As the years dragged on and hatred calcified into doctrine, both sides—arcane and technological—resorted to deploying increasingly devastating weapons. The battlefield, once a thriving terrestrial moon within the Varnak Cluster, was now a wasteland churned daily by weapons whose power rivaled the fury of collapsing suns.
Mass drivers, quantum lances, entropy bombs, and mana storms ravaged the land without mercy. Each sunrise brought another cycle of annihilation, and by noon, the soil was plowed again—not by tools, but by megaton-grade weaponry and forbidden spells carved into reality itself. Every square meter of terrain was a tomb; ninety percent of the original soil was gone, vaporized into the atmosphere or atomized into oblivion. The scent of burnt ozone and charged particles replaced that of nature, while the wind carried not whispers, but radiation and necrotic gas.
Here, in this living graveyard of steel and spellcraft, poisons thickened the air like morning fog. Radiation curled in shimmering veils above the surface. The oxygen itself seemed corrupted, seething with latent mana and chemical toxins. For an ordinary lifeform, stepping onto this battlefield meant instantaneous death—no scream, no struggle, only the flash of death's embrace.
Yet the forces that still fought here were far from ordinary.
Magical beasts, mutated and augmented beyond recognition, prowled the devastation. Their hides glowed with enchanted sigils. Their hearts pumped synthetic ichor laced with eldritch substances. Limbs replaced by mechanized appendages clicked and hummed with arcane servos. They were born in vats, shaped by both alchemy and circuit-board, baptized in torment, and sent to war with no concept of retreat.
Beside them marched the cybernetic constructs of the Jarnser civilization—autonomous machines outfitted with soul processors, cognitive hex-core drivers, and the eerie flicker of synthetic consciousness. These were not drones; they were purpose-forged weapons with names, memories, and missions. Some even sang songs in binary, mourning their fallen brethren in the static of radio signals.
Within a floating command citadel nestled above the battlefield, the Commander of the Jarnser Civilization stood still, staring at the holoscreen before him.
The room buzzed quietly, filled with the ambient hum of spell-converted electricity. Holograms of data blinked across a glassy table, shifting and realigning every second. In the center of it all, suspended like a sacred relic, floated a single point of light—Alsop Star.
The screen displayed endless streams of analytics, projections, spy reports, intercepted communiqués, and dark web rituals. Each string of data pointed to one singular, terrifying conclusion: the enemy commander of this theater—the beating heart of the Wizarding World's resistance—was located on Alsop Star.
The analysis had taken years. Agents had been sacrificed. Information bought with blood and betrayal. Magical signatures cross-referenced with ancient divinations. Faint echoes of command protocols deciphered from the souls of fallen wizard elites.
Now, the answer lay bare before them.
And yet, hesitation gripped the Commander.
He paced slowly, his military boots echoing against the polished obsidian floor of the command chamber. His metal hand, a result of an early encounter with a curse-beast, twitched slightly. The fingers clicked together, releasing a puff of steam. He stared at the star map again, his sharp eyes shadowed by wariness.
"Alsop Star…" he muttered. "The den of snakes."
For other civilizations, this information might be nearly useless. Knowing where the enemy commander was didn't equate to being able to eliminate them. On battlefields ruled by the extraordinary, decapitation strikes were rarely successful. Powerful individuals, especially those of the Wizarding Council, had layers of magical protection. Even attempting such a strike often led to immense retaliation, as the very fabric of fate twisted to protect its champions.
Any direct assault would trigger alarms not just on Alsop Star, but across the entire magical sphere. Decoys would be deployed. Counter-mages would rally. And if even a whisper of danger reached the commander, the planetary protections would lock down like a celestial fortress.
And then there was the commander himself.
Anyone able to lead such an extraordinary campaign, in such an environment of magical chaos and relentless warfare, could not be a weakling. No one would follow them. Not magical beasts, not sentient golems, not proud wizard clans. Leadership in this realm was earned through power—raw, undeniable, world-breaking power. If he wasn't one of the most dangerous beings in the galaxy, he wouldn't be wearing the sigil of the Wizarding Council.
Yet, the Jarnser commander smiled.
Because his civilization had an option few others did.
Not brute force.
Not overwhelming firepower.
But infiltration through the mind.
Deep within the archives of Jarnser technology lay a forbidden relic—a convergence of psychic warfare, memory imprinting, and arcane biology: Jarnser's Heart. A device, a weapon, a presence. No outsider knew what it looked like. Some said it was alive. Others claimed it was a cursed artifact gifted by a dying god. Its origins didn't matter. What mattered was its power to bypass all known magical defenses… by striking from within.
It could corrupt dreams, fracture loyalty, and even overwrite identity. It didn't break walls—it dissolved foundations. And it had only been used thrice in the history of Jarnser.
Each time, it rewrote the course of war.
The commander's eyes narrowed.
"If we succeed… if we sever the head of this serpent… we can cripple their morale, shift the balance. Perhaps even force the Council to negotiate terms."
He paused.
"But… can he resist the Heart?"
Doubt whispered to him now. What if this commander wasn't merely strong—but transcendent? What if his mind was a fortress built within a labyrinth, guarded by elder contracts and memory wards? A failed attempt would alert the Wizarding World instantly. It could backfire.
And the price of failure wasn't just defeat—it was exposure.
Silently, he turned to the console. With a flick of his finger, a transmission beacon activated. A private, encrypted line to the Garnser homeland. The request was simple but heavy with implications.
"Authorize emergency session. Psychic Council. Priority-Alpha."
As the message was sent, the commander sighed and leaned against the reinforced glass overlooking the devastated surface below. Fire and ash danced like falling snowflakes.
'I might earn less glory this way,' he thought, closing his eyes, 'but I'll survive. Let the Council carry the risk. If they succeed, I'll applaud them. If they fail, I'll simply say I warned them.'
It was a cold calculus, but war had stripped him of sentiment long ago.
Let the Heart beat once more.
*****
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