{Chapter: 125: The Council of Archmages — The Dark Tide Rises}
Another ancient voice echoed in the ethereal chamber of the Grand Arcane Council. It belonged to a wizened wizard whose spirit had long since shed the burden of flesh, manifesting only through willpower and arcane authority. "It seems that it has only been tens of thousands of years since the last time [Karl's Hatred] was deployed to annihilate the Tros Tribe. Can it be activated again so soon without consequence?"
The speaker of the council, a being of supreme arcane power, paused thoughtfully. His voice, laced with incantational cadence, replied, "The weapon's full force is unleashed through bloodline resonance—it seeks out and exterminates all direct and indirect descendants of the marked wizard across 147 generations, provided they have not surpassed the fifth tier of magical awakening. While the artifact is currently in a state of partial dormancy and has not fully recovered from its last invocation, the mechanism remains operational. At this point, it should still be capable of exterminating all bloodline kin within fifty generations beneath the fifth level of magical ascension."
The words settled like a cold mist across the seas, eliciting quiet murmurs and exchanged glances. The air itself grew heavier with the weight of potential annihilation.
Delta, the recently resurrected wizard who had endured death and returned from the Void, floated calmly. His reconstructed form still radiated residual energy from the soul-forging rituals that had restored his flesh. Although his voice was steady, it carried the gravity of one who had seen the abyss.
"Do not be hasty," Delta advised, raising one skeletal hand slowly. "Even if our hatred toward the Jarnser Civilization burns deeply, the decision to use [Karl's Hatred] must not be taken lightly. That artifact is a relic of extinction, a final judgment. It is a hammer that should only fall once all other options have been shattered. Its use should only come when we are certain, beyond doubt, that the enemy cannot be engaged through conventional or strategic means."
Though he had once advocated for harsh retaliation, Delta's time in death had sobered his vengeance. He understood that resources like [Karl's Hatred] were not weapons of conquest—they were declarations of galactic genocide.
His words rippled through the minds of the councilors, silencing some of the more hawkish voices. Even those who had initially supported immediate retaliation reconsidered their positions. After all, Delta had suffered the most, and if even he recommended caution, then perhaps the path forward required a more calculated hand.
A contemplative silence followed, broken only by the ever-turning astral gears above them that marked the passage of celestial time.
Finally, the Speaker inclined his head. "Very well. Let it be entered into the sacred record: [Karl's Hatred] shall not be used... for now. Instead, we shall reallocate high-tier arcane resources toward intelligence-gathering operations. I also propose the ceremonial preparation for the Awakening of the Ancestor—should this evolve into a conflict beyond our current understanding, we must be ready to consult the oldest and most powerful among us."
"I second the motion," a voice declared.
One by one, the other councilors echoed in affirmation.
"Seconded."
"Agreed."
"Motion passed."
The atmosphere shifted—less hostile, but no less tense. The world was changing, and the ancient powers of the wizarding homeland knew it.
Then, as if struck by inspiration, the Speaker turned toward Delta once more. "In light of your considerable sacrifice—both your life and the valuable intel you've risked to recover—I propose compensation. Upon the successful subjugation of the Jarnser Civilization, let two trillion of their population be siphoned. Their life force shall be extracted to craft high-grade soul-raising potions to replenish and enhance your damaged essence. This shall be our formal apology and repayment for your suffering."
There was a momentary silence.
The number, two trillion, hung like a blade suspended in the air. The value of so many lives compressed into vials of glowing soul liquid was staggering—but not uncommon in the long and bloody history of Wizard World
After a heartbeat of consideration, the other members nodded one by one. For an eighth-tier wizard, whose death could disrupt planar balances, this was not an unreasonable request.
"I second the proposal," came the first affirmation.
"Seconded."
"Second."
"Unanimous," the Speaker intoned.
A thin smile curled Delta's lips—not out of joy, but grim satisfaction. The laws of magical civilizations were harsh, their ethics alien. The Jarnser had dared to reach beyond their realm and strike at the heart of wizardkind. For that, their people would become reagents.
Two trillion souls would not just restore him. They would fuel his next ascension.
With those potions, he could transcend the plateau he had been stuck on for millennia. He would become more than a wizard—perhaps the next Arch Wizard, or even something beyond the framework of sorcery.
Though only one-tenth of his power remained, he did not tremble. He was a master of ancient contingency rituals and layered soul-binding wards. Within his internal sanctum were thousands of protocols waiting to be triggered. Even if another unknown attack came, he would survive.
The congress knew this well. None offered him assistance—not out of callousness, but respect. No warrior of the arcane liked to be treated like a wounded animal.
Among their kind, true power was measured not just in strength, but in how well you faked weakness while setting the stage for absolute retaliation.
"A thousand-year-old turtle becomes a ten-thousand-year tortoise," the Deputy Speaker muttered with a smirk. "Delta will endure."
The saying, old and ceremonial, earned a few light chuckles. These ancient Wizards—some of whom had existed since the age of elemental storms—were masters of patience and survival. They had cast aside flesh, traded emotion for calculation, and stored their consciousness in starbound archives. Death had long ceased to be a limit. As long as even a single echo of their will remained, they could return.
And many had. Some even multiple times.
After the laughter died down, the Deputy Speaker stepped forward, his spectral form shimmering with starlight and sigils.
"Let me speak plainly," he said. "The other side has crossed the final line. They have not merely engaged in espionage or resource disputes. They attempted to dominate the mind of an eighth-level wizard—this is a violation of our very essence. It is not just an act of war. It is blasphemy against our arcane sanctity."
Gasps, growls, and magical pulses of outrage flared across the council.
"They have forced our hand. Let us not wait for their fleets to darken our skies or for their weapons to pierce our runes. Let us strike first and remind them that the wizarding homeland is not a passive realm of sages—it is a citadel of vengeance forged in gigaannum of war."
"I second the motion!" barked one.
"Agreed!"
"Seconded!"
"Let the blood be paid with blood!"
"Raise the banners of voidfire!"
"Awaken the Titans!"
Therefore, the plan to attack the other side's homeland was approved by many congressmen on the spot.
The course of history tilted once more. War had not yet begun—but the spell to summon it had already been cast.
*****
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