[Kortyar's Pressure Matrix]
This was the source of that pressure-based attack.
It originally came from the strategic weapon known as the Pressure Transmission Apparatus developed by the Kaylon Civilization. After the Kaylon Civilization was annihilated, the Wizarding World, as the victor, naturally inherited their technological legacy.
A wizard named Kortyar further improved and refined the original design, breaking away from its limitations and creating a much more versatile weapon.
Its function was simple yet terrifying—it amplified pressure exerted by any object and transferred that force to other targets.
The model installed on the Aelthorpe Star could generate a physical pressure twenty times greater than the ship's own weight and direct it toward any area within a 1,300-kilometer radius.
And the Aelthorpe Star itself? A colossal metallic sphere forty kilometers in diameter, weighing over thirty times the mass of solid steel of the same volume. The pressure it could produce—countless billions of tons—was devastating. Just a single blunt-force collision was enough to obliterate nearly any opponent.
Even the space warships of the Gaiensar Civilization, along with their weaponized mechanical swarm insects, couldn't withstand this kind of raw, brute-force assault. It was something even more fundamental than energy beams or traditional physical attacks. Their defense layers were instantly crushed like paper being pierced through.
After sending a message back to the Wizarding World warning that the war was about to escalate, Hewlett Holtz closed his eyes and ceased involvement in other affairs, returning to his habitual meditation.
He didn't know when the full-scale offensive would begin, but as one of the key combatants, he had to remain in peak condition. Meditation was the best way to maintain that edge.
And just as Hewlett had reported to the Wizard Council, things progressed much as he had predicted.
Following a period of investigation and analysis, the Gaiensar Civilization's fleet returned with a vengeance—this time with a ferocity and barrage of firepower far beyond what they had displayed before.
Main cannons on battleships roared relentlessly. Tens of thousands of attacks were launched each second from their formation.
They even unleashed attack methods that had never been seen before. Clearly, they were out for payback.
Watching the barrage streak across the sky above, Saya, now in his thirties, no longer looked the least bit nervous. Smiling, he turned to the man beside him and said, "Looks like things are about to get serious."
Over the past twenty-some years, he had long since stopped overseeing the revival of magical beasts and had joined the front lines alongside Charles.
He knew that compared to logistics, this was where promotions happened faster—and where true experience could be earned.
Charles, also nearing forty, gave a casual smile at Saya's remark, his expression somewhat nostalgic. "It's been over twenty years. I've spent two-thirds of my life in this place. I really hope I get the chance to go home and see my parents and siblings someday…"
Though both men were nearing forty, they still looked like they were in their twenties—a sign of unusual youth even by wizard standards.
Unlike most half-human, half- wizards, they had lived through wartime, a period when materials were plentiful. Despite having some special bloodlines transplanted into them, they showed almost no inhuman traits in appearance—a rare bit of luck.
What puzzled them, however, was their inexplicable craving for bamboo. Not just a preference—they practically lived on the stuff. They'd once suspected something had gone wrong with that martial art they trained in, but its name, The Black and White Iron-Eating Beast, implied that if something had gone wrong, they'd probably be eating metal, not bamboo—so they crossed that off the list.
Hearing Charles's words, Saya fell silent.
As wizards, they knew they'd eventually be separated from their mortal relatives. But still young in years, he couldn't bring himself to adopt a cold indifference. He felt guilty for not being by his parents' side, for having to watch them age from afar.
With a sigh, Saya said, "Your parents are only in their sixties, right? Mine are just in their seventies. If this war ends sooner than expected, maybe we'll still have time to spend a few years with them. At least we'll have fulfilled our duty as sons…"
In the Wizarding World, ordinary humans had an average lifespan of about 150 years. With access to magical potions provided by their sons, living to 300 wasn't out of the question for their parents—so his words weren't entirely baseless.
But Charles knew that was just the ideal scenario. Realistically, it wasn't going to happen.
The war had just begun in earnest and had already lasted decades. If it went on, three to five hundred more years wouldn't be unusual. No amount of magical supplements would let ordinary people live that long…
Still, he didn't point out the flaw in Saya's reasoning. He simply raised his cup and toasted with him.
---
At the Academy of the Silent Heart, our handsome and dashing Orsaga had, due to the rising tensions on the battlefield, finally lost his title as the scavenger.
Gone were the good old days when he could casually pick up treasure left and right.
Now, lying on his back in the field of Deathblossoms with one leg crossed over the other, he was deep in thought— 'perhaps it was time to expand into a new line of business.'
After all, he still had decades left in this world. He needed something profitable to pass the time.
Though he wasn't opposed to the classic demon pastimes—looting, burning, pillaging—he knew those were sure to earn him too many enemies. And he didn't yet have the power to rampage freely through this world, so that option was off the table.
After some consideration, Orsaga muttered with clear annoyance, "Guess it's time to fall back on the demon's true calling…"
And what was the demon's true calling?
Well, if you took away the looting and pillaging, all that was left was trickery, deception, and fraud.
And so, from that day forward, a sign appeared outside the Deathblossom field:
Demon Brand Wish Shop
And next to it, a full list of services offered—from rare spellcasting materials and exotic meditation techniques, to cosmetic treatments and full-spectrum healing. If you could pay with your soul, they'd do almost anything.
It looked sketchy as hell, like one of those shady roadside stalls you'd be stupid to trust.
But Orsaga had no intention of changing a thing. The path outside the field just happened to be one of the main entrances to the academy—wizards and apprentices passed by frequently.
Sooner or later, someone foolish—or desperate—would give it a try.
Like an old fisherman by the river, he just had to sit and wait for a fat sheep to walk up and get sheared.
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