The vaulted hall of the Central Magic Empire still hummed from the shock of the recording. Moments of stunned silence had cracked into heated voices as the twelve Star Saints circled the revelation like wary celestial predators. Then, like thunder cutting a calm sky, one of the elder saints finally bellowed a single name.
"César!"
The shout rolled through the star-forged chamber and made César's ears ring. He had expected resistance, but not this raw, urgent summons. He turned at once and answered, steady despite the pressure.
"They are real," he said simply. "They're real, every one of them."
Saint Merlin, whose reputation alone could still command obedience from minor lords, leaned forward. His tone was sharp—equal parts disbelief and rebuke. "Are you certain, César? Are you absolutely sure that among those twenty thousand mortals there are no magical constructs, no wizards, no hidden artificers?"
César lifted his chin, the glow of the crystal at his feet trembling in his palm. "Certain. They are mortals—many of them farmers until a month or two ago. No magics, no enchantments. They use a weapon we do not recognize, a technology that can be produced in bulk."
That last phrase landed like a blade. Conversation in the hall stuttered and split. For millennia magicians had been the arbiters of power on the continent. Scrolls, wards, and spells were the backbone of civilization; the Star Saints—twelve august pillars of that order—had never imagined their rule could be threatened by mere iron and will. Now César's words implied that the established order was at risk: ordinary people, armed with mass-produced tools, could stand toe-to-toe with the mages.
"Mass-produced?" a saint asked, incredulous. "You would have us believe they have weapons made by the tens of thousands? That untrained farmers could wield them and annihilate the elite troops of an empire?"
"Yes," César repeated, and in his voice there was no theatrics, only the echo of the battle they had just watched. "They wiped out half a million orcs with fewer than a hundred casualties. There were no mages among them. They fought with what looked like engineered devices—guns, bombs, and machines—deployed in patterns that rival any tactical formation."
That was the turning point. The hall split into two currents of thought, each pulling fiercely. One side trembled with righteous fear: mortals possessing an engine of war, and in such numbers, threatened the prestige and safety of the mage class. The other side tasted opportunity: imagine armies drafted from common fields, trained quickly, armed cheaply—an expendable phalanx to throw at invasions from the Outer Doors or to hold the line against horrors beyond the world.
"Destroy them," said one of the elder saints, voice like grinding silk. His mask sported a filigree of golden scales; his eyes beneath the mask burned red with contempt. "For centuries we have shaped the order that keeps peace and cultivates wisdom. I will not permit filthy commoners to hold a weapon that can topple us. If you will not cast the forbidden rite, then let me. I will incinerate their kingdom."
He pounded the air with the flat of his hand, a small motion, but it carried a thunder of resolve. The hall echoed with assent from those who feared loss of status. These saints spoke of forbidden spells—the great annihilations, the cataclysms cast only in the gravest of threats. To use such sorcery would be to burn a nation from the map, but they considered it a price worth paying to preserve the hierarchy.
A younger saint, cooler and more measured, countered. "And if we strike first, we might lose more than one nation. If this method of war can be copied, we should not destroy it blindly. We should study it, control it. Imagine having armies of ordinary citizens who can be trained to stand against incursions from the Outer Doors. We have the knowledge to wield an edge over such weapons—if we understand them. This is an opportunity, not merely a danger."
The debate grew volcanic. Some spoke of purity and lineage; others argued pragmatism. The monstrous scale of the weaponry—its ability to be manufactured by the dozens, then the hundreds, then the thousands—was the crux. If a peasant could be pressed into service and outfitted with these instruments, the very notion of magical superiority eroded. For the first time in ages, magicians felt precarious.
César, who had presented the image, waited, his patience wearing thin. He had not come to the capital to stir arguments; he had come to warn. "You do not understand the stakes," he said slowly. "If the Tongsley Empire learns to produce these arms, if they are traded or replicated, the balance will tilt. Mortals will not always remain grateful to their mages. Once they hold the tools of war in their hands, they will demand autonomy. They may even turn those arms upon us."
At the mention of the Tongsley Empire—a neighboring power whose coffers and forges were extensive—eyes shifted. The suggestion was clear: Tongsley had the industrial capacity to copy anything they saw. If the Ross Kingdom's weapons reached Tongsley workshops, then every front would erupt. Whole provinces could be lost before mages could respond.
"We must act," declared one voice. "We must send an emissary—someone of stature who commands respect and offers both the mercy of diplomacy and the quiet hand of investigation. Send a noble, so that the Ross Kingdom will welcome them and reveal their secrets."
The more bloodthirsty saints objected. "No," they spat. "Send a Star Saint. Let them know the price of defiance. Or raze them entirely. The longer we deliberate, the more their weapon spreads."
César interjected with an idea that calmed the storm for a beat. "If we go ourselves, it might inflame them. They will feel insulted or emboldened—either result is dangerous. We need a bridge: an emissary who carries the weight of nobility but not the thunder of the stars. Someone whose presence flatters a mortal court and makes it easy for them to open their doors."
A murmur passed through the chamber. For the aristocratic mind of the saints, sending a duke or high noble seemed a gentler approach: an invitation that would flatter mortal pride rather than crush it. It would give the mages the chance to study and, if necessary, co-opt the technology.
"That's it," said a saint with a wicked smile under his mask. "Send the Duke of the Golden Lion from the Tongsley Empire. He has ties to the Ross Kingdom. He will speak of trade and alliance. Once he is inside, we can learn whether this is a single nation's art or a broader revolution."
A cold counterpoint came from the scale-plated saint—still trembling with hatred. "Do not be naive. Nobles are flattery. The mortals will use that honor to bind their heads. They are vile. We must show them their place!" He clenched his hands until the knuckles whitened beneath his robe. "I will never see mortals seated among us as equals. They are greedy and brutish. If the Duke comes and fails, then the forbidden rite should be ready."
The dialogue spiraled. They argued the ethics of subterfuge, the right to knowledge, and the risk of contamination—magical or moral. Yet, beneath it all, the question remained: how to react to a mortal revolution that had arrived in the form of mass-produced destruction?
Finally, reluctant consensus coalesced. They would not send a Star Saint; they would not immediately cast a cataclysmic forbidden spell. Instead, the Council decided on a political solution that could hide their claws: dispatch the Duke of the Golden Lion from the Tongsley Empire as an envoy—a man of prestige who could approach the Ross Kingdom without invoking the ire of a people suddenly empowered.
"Let him extend our goodwill," one saint said. "Let him charm them with trade and respect. But let him also deliver our subtle message: we will watch, and if they misuse such power, we will not hesitate."
César felt both relief and dread. The plan bought time, but time could seed the spread of weapons. He dared to add his final warning. "Study them fast. If they can mass-produce, their secret will not stay hidden long. If we wait too long, we will face a world changed irreparably."
As the Council moved toward a formal decree, the scale-plated saint glowered and spat his disdain, but even he could not stop the wheels already set in motion. A Duke would go. Diplomacy would be the mask, and investigation the blade beneath it. For now, that was all the Star Saints could do: balance their fear, their pride, and the new reality rising like smoke from the battlefields.
Outside, the world continued to turn, and the Kingdom of Ross—where farmers had become soldiers and war machines had been tested—remained ignorant of the gaze now fixed upon it. The age of obvious magic had been shaken. A quieter revolution, forged in steel and gunpowder, had begun to seep into the bones of the continent—and the Star Saints, for the first time in generations, were scrambling to answer a question they had never expected to face: how to rule when power could be made in a factory and carried in the hands of a common man.
-------------------
Visit our Patreon for more:
Get membership in patreon to read more chapters
Extra chapters available in patreon
patreon.com/Dragonscribe31
----------------------------------------------------- .