The corridor opened before sunrise.
A line of white trucks waited on packed dirt. Each door carried the same plain blue circle. It was the symbol to mark medical or humanitarian units similar to the Red Cross or the Red Crescent; the personnel were non-combatants and should not be targeted. A pilot would see it from above and know it was the route to safety.
A corporal walked the line with a clipboard, knocked on each window, checked faces, and waved the truck forward. Two medics followed with a stretcher between them. The pace did not slow for anyone.
Armoured carriers sat off the road with engines running. Behind them, an ambulance idled, rear doors open. A fuel tanker waited with its driver outside, cigarette in hand, eyes fixed on the ridgeline.
This was the most time-consuming part of the operation. Securing the civilians through safe passages and out of the conflict zones.
A woman climbed down from the first truck, headscarf tight, a child on her hip, another holding her skirt. She kept her eyes on the soldiers. A private lifted one hand and pointed to the cleared lane.
Two men stood at the lane entrance.
One wore a standard kit and carried a sidearm.
The other wore plain clothes and no insignia. He did not look at the luggage. He watched the stream of people and the spaces between them.
A soldier near the lane leaned in. "How many so far, sir?"
The plainclothed man did not turn his head. "This is my third shift today. We stopped counting yesterday."
Families moved into the lane. Some carried bundles. Most carried children and nothing else.
The plainclothed man lifted two fingers.
A corporal stepped in, gentle at first. A hand on an elbow. A quiet word. One adult was guided out of the lane toward a canvas tent at the rear.
A man in a torn tunic jerked when the fingers went up. He spun and tried to run.
The plainclothed man flicked his wrist.
The runner's legs locked. He pitched forward and hit the dirt.
A medic crouched, checked his pupils, then looked up.
The plainclothed man gave one nod.
Two stretcher bearers lifted the runner and carried him to the tent.
Inside, a second master of mind magic pressed the tip of his wand to a temple, took what he needed, and stepped back. A lieutenant in a pressed jacket held a folder open and ticked boxes with a pencil.
"Sir?" The lieutenant prompted.
The mind mage's eyes went flat. "Confirmed."
"Origin?"
"Chad, he came with the refugees to seed trouble."
The lieutenant closed the folder.
Two soldiers hauled the confirmed man to his feet and marched him behind a sand berm.
Three shots followed, short and spaced.
A medic waited on the far side, not to save anyone, but to ensure the work was finished.
Back at the lane, an old woman wavered. A private caught her elbow and walked her to the water point. The line moved around them. The corridor did not stop.
On the ridge, the artillery commander watched a map board and a row of grids marked with a grease pencil. His radio crackled.
"Lane still open."
"Keep it open," he answered. "Nobody fires while civilians are inside the box."
A pause.
"Understood."
The commander turned to his crews. "Stand by."
When the last truck door slammed and the last child was pulled onto a bench, the call came.
"Clear."
The artillery sat where the flags of plain blue circles had snapped. Nets covered the guns. The crews moved in short steps, checked traverse, checked elevation, and checked the next grid. A test charge went off, low and dull, more felt than heard.
The commander lifted a hand.
The first salvo hit in a planned pattern. Targetted strongholds, bunkers and abandoned towns collapsed into dust and broken rebar. The sound arrived a heartbeat later, then filled the valley. The next salvos overlapped until the grid was flat.
The trucks drove north.
The artillery limbered and advanced south.
The corridor shifted forward again.
-
In London, the Foreign Office kept its doors closed.
A minister stood over a table of maps and casualty reports. A civil servant read a summary into the room. Nobody had interrupted him.
John Major listened, then set his pen down.
"They are building clinics in the North while still firing south," he said.
Rimington sat opposite him, file open, eyes dry. "Not only clinics."
McColl stayed by the window. "They segregated the refugees based on their religion. Neat work, if they do not stay together, they can not start a fight."
Major looked at the muted telly. Footage of the corridor looped again. A child lifted a hand at a camera. A soldier guided him back into the lane.
"The public sees refugees," Major said. "Not the executions." He turned to McColl.
"Did they clarified for the reason?"
McColl shook his head. All we know is they claimed them to be spies; we confirmed most of them from the origin side, not the Alliance.
"I wish we had the same under our control. Imagine a department without any spies in it."
-
Across the Atlantic, MACUSA handled the collapse of the old confederation like a bureaucratic cleanup.
A notice appeared in the main hall. A clerk sealed it with MACUSA's stamp.
ICW declared illegal.
No arrests were made. The decision was not mercy or politics. It was a calculation. The turmoil within the Magical world was too much to keep the foreign prisoners. In addition, there was no guarantee that ICW would be present three months from the moment they were kicked out. What were they to do with those prisoners afterwards? Better to let them leave and be someone else's problem.
A senior wizard read the notice, then spoke without looking away. "They are not taking prisoners."
A witch beside him did not lift her quill. "They are removing a liability from their streets."
Magical Canada followed with identical language. Magical Mexico used different words, the bottomline was the same.
In South America, local conclaves chose a regional bloc and declared neutrality through their own channels.
Across the ocean, Magical China and Magical India formed councils behind wards older than modern borders. Their invitations went out to nearby countries and conclaves, then their doors closed.
Japan and Korea made a different choice.
Their seals appeared on Alliance documents in both worlds, clean and deliberate.
--
In Spain, a bishop quoted. "King Manasseh practised witchcraft, divination, and consulted mediums, provoking God's anger." on a studio set and framed the units as a threat.
In Indonesia, an imam read. "They followed what the devils had recited during the reign of Solomon. Solomon did not disbelieve, but the devils disbelieved, teaching people magic… and what was sent down to the two angels, Harut and Marut, in Babylon. But they would not teach anyone until they had said, 'We are only a trial, so do not disbelieve.'" and warned viewers not to follow those who taught magic.
In Israel, a rabbi read to the believers. "A man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death."
The sermons spread across time zones.
The response came from states, not from crowds.
Police walked into studios and removed clergy mid-broadcast.
One deacon kept speaking while cuffs closed around his wrists.
A government spokesperson replaced him on the same set ten minutes later.
"Incitement will not be tolerated," she stated. "Calls for violence against state allied units will be met with force." his statement in itself was explanation enough.
Reporters shouted questions. She left without answering them.
Major watched the clips in the secure room, then shut the telly off.
"They are arresting priests on camera," he said.
Rimington answered without flinching. "They are preventing a spark."
McColl's eyes stayed on the dark screen. "And they are doing it because they were told what happens if they fail."
-
Pretoria was the administrative capital of South Africa, serving as the seat of the executive branch of government and home to most foreign embassies. It was part of the City of Tshwane Metropolitan Municipality in Gauteng Province. Many attempts from Pretoria tried to stop the war, tried to at least pause the map from being changed as it did with the rest of the continent.
A South African envoy walked into a half-empty United Nations hall with a prepared statement and a dry throat. He spoke of surrender terms. He offered ports. He offered bases. He offered internal arrests of anyone tied to the war decision, Mandela himself included. He offered humanitarian corridors.
A translator repeated it in steady English.
The reply arrived through an official channel of the Alliance.
They deny contact. War ends on the battlefield. They were kind enough to remind the rest of the world that the line between bravery and stupidity is a narrow one.
The envoy's face held for half a second, then he continued as if he had not been told he would be ignored.
Outside the hall, reporters pushed microphones at him. He did not answer. He got into his car and left.
Corvus scoffed at the news. It was the same country that, within a couple of decades, started to slaughter the white farmers and afterwards cried for humanitarian aid.
"Patterns are not simply statistics.." he murmured.
-
In North Africa, the Alliance was building cities with the help of the Magicals. Empty slots of dry land were turning into structured towns and cities overnight. South of the same continent was witnessing an organised exodus of civilians and devastation following that. The death toll was kept to the armed forces and terrorist organisations living within them. They were all getting filtered at the checkpoints where the civilians were getting registered. There was no need to bring bad apples to the new order of the continent.
The settlements rose in grids on cleared ground. Water tanks. Power lines. Clinics that turned into permanent wards within days. Engineers worked in daylight under guard. Logistics officers tracked trucks and fuel.
A Medical Doctor walked a hospital corridor beside a magical healer, a potions master and a translator. Curtains had been hung to block camera angles.
"You are free to use your wand," the official stated. "Generally, cameras turn it into a spectacle." He paused, and his gaze went to the Aurors and Soldiers waiting in every corridor. "If they want to take their pitches and forks, they are welcome."
The younger healer nodded once. "We will work behind the curtains. Your doctors can speak to the press. Your nurses can handle the intake. We are here to treat people."
The official frowned. "You want no credit."
"We want compliance," the healer replied. "Credit attracts people who want to test boundaries."
The Potions Master tapped a chart with one finger. "It will help if you stop calling it a miracle. Call it a service of the Unit."
In a separate building, an agricultural lead stood over trays of seedlings with a Nest-trained researcher.
The researcher moved his hands, not touching.
Roots spread faster. Stems thickened.
The agricultural lead watched, then spoke carefully. "That changes yield."
"Triples it in bad soil," the researcher replied.
"You will tell them the Unit is developing long-term solutions for the region," the researcher answered. "You can show the results."
-
Back at the Nest, Corvus read summaries without sitting.
A map of Africa covered one wall. Erased zones were marked in ink that refused to fade.
A clerk waited at the door with a stack of diplomatic requests.
Corvus lifted two fingers. "Stall. Let them watch, debate and adjust to us."
"The clergy issue?"
"Let mundane governments handle their radicals," Corvus replied. "Remind them, mobs will be Dementor snack."
"Will you follow that threat, my lord?"
Corvus' gaze sharpened. "I will not deploy them for noise. They will be the line nobody crosses twice."
The clerk nodded.
"And the captured ICW personnel?"
"Send them to the third team," Corvus answered. "They wanted war; they can contribute to the rebuild."
The clerk left.