Earth's Greatest Magus

Northern Territory

A full day had passed since the disastrous battle at the Central Stronghold.

The survivors—over a hundred in number—had retreated deep into the icy embrace of the northern mountains, hiding among jagged cliffs and snow-laden passes. Here, shielded by the vast silence of Tartarus’s frozen wilds, Rosin Karat had carved a sanctuary into the heart of the mountain itself. With his supremacy in earth element manipulation, he reinforced the caverns with dense stone and resonant ore, lacing the surrounding terrain with natural camouflage and elemental wards. It was not perfect, but for now, it kept them hidden.

Still, the atmosphere was thick with unease.

Among the survivors were a dozen cosmic experts, but most were not warriors. Scholars and workers who were ill-equipped for battle. Of all of them, only one bore the mark of a battle-hardened veteran: Gelael, the Ember Sage.

He paced like a caged beast. Flames danced along his arms with every step he took, his patience smoldering into fury. Eventually, he confronted Emery.

“What’s the plan?” He snapped, his voice sharp as flint. “How long do we keep hiding in this damned place?”

Emery looked up, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He had no definitive answer. Every waking hour since their retreat had been spent tending to the two elders—Rosin Karat and Veyarel. His skills as an alchemist and healer were formidable, but even so, what lay before him was far beyond conventional recovery.

The physiology of a Supreme Being defied understanding. The Supreme had regained a sliver of his power—equivalent to a two-cosmos Grand Magus. The rest of his strength was sealed, dormant His body pulsed with unstable energy, and each pulse was like a whisper from some higher plane, filled with arcane laws Emery barely understood.

But it was Veyarel who truly haunted him.

The peak cosmic expert now lay broken in mind and spirit. He had lost all connection to his cosmic power. His soul had been damaged as he was often seen staring into the void, whispering to things only he could see.

One rare lucid moment came as the group gathered. Veyarel sat up, eyes hollow but clear, and delivered grim news.

The Scourge—an ancient being from the Nether Realm—had succeeded in overtaking the northern territories through parasites and domination.

Veyarel, with his unique talents, had been exploited as a key figure in the invasion. The enemy had used him as a puppet, and from what he remembered, the invaders had not simply attacked—they had orchestrated a precise, calculated takeover, embedding their forces deep before striking.

The force that had descended on the Central Stronghold was just one of many. The Scourge’s invasion was massive—over a million strong—composed of dark magus, parasite-controlled hosts, and corrupted northern warriors. Their campaign was fast and merciless. Every outpost in their path had already fallen, resistance wiped out, survivors either slain or transformed into more of the parasite’s army.

As the weight of this revelation settled, a grim silence fell over the mountain refuge. Many among the group turned pale.

“We need to leave,” said Ivaris. “We have to retreat back to Pardera while we still can.”

“No,” Gelael countered, shaking his head. “We’re already behind enemy lines. Moving without a solid escape plan is suicide.”

Emery’s mind kept circling back to Veyarel’s powers. Spatial magic seemed like the obvious solution—if they could open a portal, they could escape the mountains and return to Pardera before the parasite horde found them. But that hope quickly faded when Veyarel, still recovering and weak, clarified his limitations.

His wounds ran too deep. The trauma he had endured, both physical and spiritual, had crippled his ability to channel long-range magic. And even more limiting—Veyarel was never truly a spatial magus. His domain was something else entirely.

What he mastered was a law far more nuanced: magnetic force.

A rare fusion of metal and lightning affinity, magnetic law was a specialization passed through the Karat lineage. It gave Veyarel incredible control over the battlefield—disabling defenses, collapsing barriers, and manipulating ore-rich terrain. It was the art of disruption, not traversal. As powerful as it was, it wasn’t the key to opening portals across realms. At best, he could shift a group a few hundred meters—nowhere near enough to cross the mountains or reach safety.

Emery let out a weary sigh, the weight of urgency pressing down on his shoulders.

“We need to find a way… the parasites grew fast… We can’t stay here too long.”

As the survivors wrestled with anxiety and indecision, a quiet shift rippled through the cave. The Supreme Being, long silent in meditation, finally opened his eyes. His golden gaze swept across the chamber like a blade through fog.

His voice, calm and commanding, cut through the tension.

“Emery is right,” he said.

They had to move—soon. If they waited, this sanctuary of stone and snow would become just another feeding ground, another nest for the parasitic hive growing across the land.

Without delay, they gathered what little information they had. Maps were unrolled. Routes were debated. One surviving guard timidly offered a possible path through the mountain—a hidden trail he’d learned during his training. But if a low-ranking soldier knew of it, Emery reasoned, so would the enemy. It was too obvious to be safe.

A few of the cosmic experts proposed traversing the skies, tearing through space itself to bypass the rugged terrain. But Tartarus had never followed the rules of normal realms. Its twisted spatial laws made long-distance movement unpredictable and dangerous. Only the most seasoned cosmic experts could attempt such a route—and even then, it would take days to reach any secure location.

As frustration mounted, Emery studied the terrain layout again. His eyes were drawn to one particular site: the Northstar Stronghold.

It wasn’t one of the main strongholds, which might have spared it from the full weight of the enemy’s initial onslaught. More importantly, it had been designated as the rendezvous point for the expedition forces. If luck was on their side, the stronghold might still hold. It was a faint hope, but hope nonetheless.

The downside, however, was sobering. Northstar lay two days’ journey away, deep beyond the enemy’s projected line of advance. If they were caught, there would be no place to retreat. No second chances.

Emery, however, had another hidden motive behind his suggestion. The stronghold housed the stargate—the newly built structure on top of a stable portal. When he secretly revealed this fact to the two elders, it quickly solidified their decision.

Rosin Karat rose to his feet, his voice steady and resolute as he declared their course of action:

“We are going to this place. You may follow us—or stay here.”

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