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{Chapter: 84: The Red-Eyed Observer}
To Dex, the world of magic he found himself in was strangeātwisted, even. Most of the magicians he'd encountered in his own plane of existence walked the path of elementalism. They wielded lightning, fire, water, and wind with a scholar's pride, relying on formulas and deeply ingrained natural laws. Their bodies remained unchanged, unmarked by the power they channeledārefined minds in physical shells.
But here?
Here, the so-called "wizards" had long abandoned such conservative routes. They had cast off the aesthetics of humanity and walked into a swamp of blood, bone, and curses. They were more biologists than sorcerers, more fleshcrafters than elementalists. Their obsession was with the transformation of the body and the manipulation of life itselfānot simply through knowledge, but through experimentation, often on themselves.
One of the wizards Dex had seen in the academy earlier had a bloated skull with six shimmering eyes spaced unevenly across his forehead, like a spider's glare. Another possessed three arms, one of which ended in a writhing mass of tendrils rather than fingers. A third's head split at the jaw, opening sideways like a grotesque blooming flower of bone and cartilage. They made demons look charming in comparison.
Dex had once considered himself to be among the more bizarre and fearsome-looking entities in existence. With his crimson eyes that shimmered with golden pupils, claws sharpened like obsidian daggers, and skin that radiated a faint sulfurous heat, he had always commanded fear and awe.
Yet here, among these so-called "humans," he feltā¦ tame.
"I am actually more human than humans. This is a new discovery," he had sighed more than once, a smirk playing on his lips. Of course, no one ever agreed with him, but that didn't make it any less true.
Dex leaned back against a curved tree that pulsed faintly with a heartbeat of mana. Petals drifted down from its translucent, jelly-like leaves. The air was rich with the scent of pollen and powerādangerously addictive to untrained mortals. He twirled a red flower in his clawed fingers, watching it emit a thin veil of ruby mist. The grass beneath him curled away as though afraid to be near him for too long.
He spoke into the seemingly empty space beside him. "How many of those little whelps do you think will survive the process and become proper wizards?"
A brief shimmer in the air distorted like glass beneath heat, and a calm, detached voice echoed out from the unseen: "This batch has 1,200 initiates. Based on historical conversion rates, I estimate no more than thirty will endure long enough to become full-fledged wizards."
The speaker, Hosorn, was not truly invisibleāhe simply dwelled within a crack in the fabric of space, his presence wedged between dimensions. He rarely showed his physical form unless necessary, and when he did, it wasā¦ unsettling. Even the other wizards kept their distance. Dex, however, had long since given up being disturbed by appearances.
Dex chuckled, the sound low and rasping like a purr soaked in ash as Hosorn continues. "Only thirty out of twelve hundred? That's positively generous. Back in my day, one in every seventeen thousand possessed the spark of wizardryāand of those, only a sliver could survive the transformation rituals. One in a million, sometimes less."
He plucked the petals from the flower in his hands one by one, watching as each dissolved into shimmering light. "It's no wonder your civilization is soā¦ stunted. You'd think with such abysmal conversion rates, you'd invest in mass-producing something more sustainable. Even a half-successful magical engine or enchanted artifact could stabilize your output."
Hosorn was unmoved by Dex's causal analysis. "Mortals are irrelevant. They are resourcesānothing more. Soil to nourish the rare seeds that bloom into true power. Civilizations of mortals rise and fall like waves. But a single proper wizard can shift the balance of an entire continent."
Dex nodded slowly. "Yes, yes. The age-old quality-over-quantity argument." He tossed the flower stem aside and rose to his feet, brushing off his black coat, which shimmered like wet ink. "But you're missing the point. Mortals areā¦ versatile. If guided properly, they could build marvels beyond what your bloated academies achieve. Machines. Networks. The ability to store and analyze information at scale. A thousand brains working in tandem is still superior to one isolated genius screaming into the void."
Hosorn's voice darkened, as if the very air trembled with disapproval. "Machines are crude. Logic is slow. Emotions are volatile. Nothing is more precise than the Will of a wizard. We do not need their inventions. We shape reality with thought. There is no need for scaffolding when we can fly."
And with that, the presence receded. The crack in space sealed itself silently, leaving behind only the faint hum of destabilized mana in the air.
Dex sighed deeply, resting his claws on his hips. "Touchy, as always."
He wasn't disappointed because Hosorn disagreed with himāhe was used to thatābut because the refusal meant he wouldn't get to witness the chaos he had imagined: a collision between two worlds. On one side, the twisted elegance of wizardry, with its flesh-sculpting horrors and curse-bound towers. On the other, a burgeoning mortal civilization discovering electricity, steam, and perhaps eventually, digital thought, and Nukes.
Two worlds, incompatible yet fascinating.
"What a beautiful war it would've beenā¦" he murmured.
He glanced back toward the sea of red flowers where the initiates had passed earlier. Their minds were likely already being unraveled, reformed, or shattered entirely by the trials ahead.
Jumping down from the pulsing tree, his boots crunched against the crystalline grass. He crouched and gently scooped up another flower, holding it as one might cradle a dying ember.
"Still," he said aloud to no one in particular, "this world has potential. And I do so love watching potential devour itself."
Dex could clearly feel itāthe malicious intent oozing from every blooming death flower. Like silent sirens of doom, these unnatural blossoms radiated malevolence without reservation, their presence a blatant provocation against the natural order of the world.
Each flower whispered death with its curling petals, their veins pulsing faintly with necrotic energy. Wherever their roots took hold, life began to wilt, the soil turning black and brittle, the air heavy with a metallic tang that stung the lungs. Even the local insects avoided these plants as if guided by primal fear.
Over the course of more than a decade, Dex's plague had undergone numerous transformations. It had evolvedānot just in virulence, but in complexity and purpose. Among the many terrifying upgrades it had received, one stood out above all others: [Corrosion of the World].
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