The Central Magic Empire was not like other kingdoms. At its core stood a body of supreme authority—the Council of Representatives. Unlike noble assemblies or royal courts, this council was composed entirely of twelve beings, each one a Star Saint, the pinnacle of magical achievement on the continent. To mortals, these twelve were like living stars, radiant and untouchable, their decisions shaping empires and rewriting destinies.
Normally, such figures would speak only of matters that touched the fate of nations, invasions of demons, or ancient catastrophes resurfacing. Yet on this day, something strange filled the great hall of stars: they were quarreling loudly, their deep voices clashing like thunder in the heavens.
And what was the subject of this quarrel?
Not a god.
Not a demon.
Not even a powerful artifact.
But—a single mortal kingdom.
If outsiders had been present, they would have laughed in disbelief. How could the rulers of magic, beings who could collapse mountains or call down stars, argue about a mere country of farmers and soldiers? And yet, the reason was clear to the twelve: they had just watched a recording that shook their understanding of reality.
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The Video That Sparked It All
Ten minutes earlier, César, a young but respected magician and disciple of the legendary Saint Merlin, had placed a magical crystal before the council. From the crystal, an image bloomed like light spilling across the wall. It was not a painting nor illusion, but a true memory—a video captured by spellcraft during a battle.
The battle was none other than the clash between 20,000 troops of the Ross Kingdom and half a million soldiers of the Orc Empire.
To the Star Saints, who had lived through centuries of wars, such numbers were not uncommon. Normally, this would only end in a massacre: the small human army crushed beneath the tide of orcish might. But César had insisted otherwise, and so, reluctantly, they watched.
One of the masked saints, clad in a flowing robe of deep purple, spoke first. His voice was as vast and hollow as the sky:
"César, even if your master is Merlin, do you truly believe we have time for trifles such as this?"
Like the others, he sat cross-legged upon floating crystal pillars, his faceless golden mask gleaming faintly. Around them stretched an endless starry sky, woven by illusion, making each of them appear not as mortals but as twelve luminous constellations gazing down upon the world.
César, standing below, looked very small in comparison, a man standing before the heavens. But he did not back down.
"No, honored saints," César said, voice trembling but resolute. "This is no trivial matter. You must see what I have seen. I swear to you, this is not a jest."
A bearded saint turned his golden mask toward César, his deep voice rumbling.
"If you say so, then speak clearly. What is so strange about this war?"
A woman's voice, soft and charming yet echoing like song, followed:
"Yes, tell us, César. Do not waste our time with suspense."
César inhaled sharply, steadying his breath. Even now, as he recalled the video, his heart thundered with disbelief.
"This," he declared, "is the recording of how 20,000 mortal soldiers—farmers not long ago—defeated an army of 500,000 orcs. They suffered fewer than a hundred casualties while exterminating their foe entirely."
The saints stirred, some shaking their heads.
"Impossible," one muttered. "A handful of scrolls can give mortals the edge against larger foes. But such total victory? It is unheard of."
"Yes," another added. "Our scrolls and wards often fall into mortal hands. They can rout armies, yes, but not without mages, not against such numbers."
The purple-robed saint spoke again, his tone sharper.
"César, do not think that invoking your master's name shields you from rebuke. Tell us, what trick is this?"
But César raised his head, eyes shining.
"No trick. No sorcery. This army of mortals used no scrolls, no magical weapons, not even the aid of a single mage! Most of them were nothing but common farmers a month or two ago. Yet they annihilated the orcish horde."
He gestured to the crystal, which flared once more. "Please, see for yourselves."
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The Battle of Ross Kingdom
The projection unfolded. From a bird's-eye view high above, they beheld the earth itself trembling under the march of half a million orcs. Their black tide rolled across the plains, armored bodies gleaming, banners whipping in the wind. From the sky, it looked like an endless ocean of blades and fangs.
Across from them stood the humans—so pitifully few that even the stars pitied them. Barely 20,000 men and women, huddled upon a rocky mountain ridge, their defenses thin and fragile.
A saint sneered. "Is this what you've brought us? A slaughter of humans by beasts?"
César's face grew grave. "Yes. A slaughter. But not the kind you expect."
And then the battle began.
The first wave came swift and brutal: 50,000 griffin cavalry, black wings blotting out the sun as they dove upon the mortals like talons descending from the heavens. Every saint expected the human line to shatter instantly.
Instead, the earth thundered.
From the human positions erupted a storm of sound, a deafening roar unlike any spell or chant. Countless flashes of light streaked upward, trailing smoke. Bullets tore through the sky like shooting stars, ripping griffins and riders apart. The cavalry fell in droves, corpses raining from the heavens.
"What—what sorcery is this?" one saint gasped, leaning forward.
César's voice trembled. "No sorcery. No spell. This is mortal firepower."
Next came the orc infantry, a black tide surging uphill. But as they advanced, explosions blossomed in their midst, fireballs tearing through ranks, hurling armored bodies high into the air. Every blast killed ten, twenty, sometimes more. The saints could only gape as hundreds died in every instant.
Still the orcs pressed on, their savage discipline driving them forward. But when they struck the human lines, another storm awaited them. It was as though they had run headlong into an invisible wall—one made not of magic, but of steel and thunder. Rows of orcs collapsed, cut down mercilessly by endless volleys.
The saints could only watch as 100,000 orcs fell within minutes.
Panic spread. The horde began to falter, the tide retreating. And then came the final horror.
From behind the human lines, dozens of massive steel beasts rumbled forth. Shaped like monsters of iron, they rolled on heavy tracks, belching smoke, their cannons spitting fire. They crushed fleeing orcs beneath their weight, blasting apart the rest with terrifying ease.
The saints leaned closer, silent.
The video shook, cracks appearing in its magical frame. Then it tumbled downward, ending abruptly in darkness.
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The Silence of the Stars
When the image faded, silence reigned.
The twelve Star Saints—beings who had lived through ages of war and wonder—sat unmoving, their starry forms dimmed. They had seen kingdoms rise and fall, gods descend, and demons unleashed. But never had they witnessed mortals, without magic, obliterate half a million elite soldiers.
For the first time in centuries, the Star Saints had no words.
César stood below them, chest heaving. His voice cut through the silence.
"Now you understand. This is no trick, no sorcery. These mortals have grasped a power outside the reach of magic. A power that can change the balance of the entire continent."
His words echoed, unanswered.
Above, the twelve stars flickered uneasily.
And so, for the first time, the Council of the Central Magic Empire faced a truth that chilled even them: the age of magic was no longer theirs alone.
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