London.
The Imperial Broadcasting Corporation – National Newsroom.
As the once-mighty empire faded into twilight, its national broadcasting station continued, as always, to air its routine evening news.
A well-dressed middle-aged male anchor, speaking with a crisp British accent, was calmly reading from the teleprompter.
His demeanor was serious, yet not rigid—an impeccable embodiment of British gentlemanly charm.
After all, this was a national station. They wouldn't let just anyone sit in that chair.
"Now, returning to—"
Before the anchor could finish his sentence, a strange sound echoed throughout the studio.
Then, in the very next second, the once-sparsely populated set was suddenly filled to the brim with people—an eclectic mix from all walks of life.
Some of them, quite bizarrely, looked like they'd just stepped out of the Middle Ages.
"??"
The anchor froze on the spot.
He paused, blinked, then slapped himself in disbelief.
Looking around again, he saw the crowd still standing there.
'What the hell is going on?'
He wasn't the only one asking that question. Staff throughout the studio were equally stunned.
Across Britain, viewers watching the broadcast were equally puzzled.
A man in his kitchen, eating the traditional dish Stargazy Pie, turned to his family and asked:
"What's this? A new show?"
"Hmm… maybe?"
"Possibly."
And so, nationwide, speculation and confusion ran wild.
After a brief mental shutdown, the station director finally snapped out of it and stepped forward, shouting:
"Hey!. Who are you people?!. Get out of here—this is a live broadcast!"
He was answered not with words, but with a Blasting Curse from one of the nearby wizards.
The station director instantly became a man engulfed in flames.
Panic erupted among the staff. Chaos filled the studio.
But Dumbledore, calm as ever, issued a series of instructions:
"Dementors—secure the perimeter.
Everyone else—stand by and maintain order.
And remember—do not interfere with the Lord's address."
In that instant, hundreds of previously invisible Dementors materialized inside the studio.
They drifted silently toward the rest of the broadcasting tower, passing through doors and windows with chilling ease.
With their supernatural senses, there was no hiding from them.
Their ghostly appearance left many of the more faint-hearted onlookers swooning on the spot, unconscious.
Reality had become too surreal.
Meanwhile, the other wizards followed Dumbledore's orders and quickly restored order—either through magical or physical means.
Those screaming like slaughtered pigs were promptly silenced.
The Imperius Curse may have rewritten the wizards' loyalties and beliefs, but it hadn't robbed them of their ability to think.
They simply no longer thought for themselves—they thought for Orsaga.
Every decision was made with one goal in mind:
To satisfy their Lord.
Orsaga, for his part, didn't bother micromanaging.
If he had to direct everything himself, then his followers served no purpose.
Calmly, he cast a Transfiguration Charm on some of the studio's machines.
Under his control, the internal mechanisms and software began to shift and upgrade, becoming more advanced than anything currently known to mankind.
Then, an invisible signal began broadcasting—emanating from the national broadcasting tower.
Its intensity far exceeded the limits of contemporary technology.
Like a digital virus, it spread rapidly:
Into homes, supermarkets, internet cafés, military bunkers...
Any device that could receive a signal—TVs, computers, smartphones, radios—suddenly switched channels or turned on by themselves.
Every other channel was forcibly overridden or blocked.
Minutes later, with the signal sweeping the globe, there remained only one channel on Earth.
Even the missile control panels in underground bunkers and internal displays aboard lunar space stations were forcibly broadcasting this same feed.
Around the world, viewers stared in confusion at their screens, trying in vain to change the channel.
Even inserting DVDs or trying to turn off the devices proved useless.
Unless unplugged entirely, the broadcast continued without giving them any choice.
If the general public was bewildered, governments were terrified.
Communication networks were completely severed.
Phone lines were dead. The internet was down.
Every region had become an isolated island.
It was as if humanity had returned to an era where shouting was the only form of communication.
And then, in the live broadcast, a figure stepped slowly into view.
He wore a pure white suit, with silver-white hair, crimson eyes, and a flawless, almost divine face—instantly capturing the hearts of millions.
"Wow~ This show's amazing!. Not only is the broadcast so immersive, but the host is drop-dead gorgeous!"
Viewers around the world gasped, mesmerized.
At last, under the gaze of all mankind, Orsaga raised a slender hand and picked up a microphone.
He stared calmly into the camera, his voice tranquil yet carrying an undeniable authority.
He spoke to the entire planet:
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Orsaga—your future God, your future Lord. Over the coming days, I will take full control of this planet. To demonstrate my power, I will destroy one city every day. Which city, you ask? That's up to you. Whomever calls the number displayed on your screen first gets to choose. If no one calls, or if they don't name a city, I'll choose myself—based on my mood."
Though Orsaga was speaking in English, a spell ensured that every human, regardless of nationality, understood him perfectly.
The world erupted in uproar.
Many people simply laughed it off.
A young man, clutching his sides from laughter, slapped the table repeatedly and shouted:
"This idiot is hilarious!. 'Your God, your Lord'—who does this guy think he is?!. Hahahaha!"
Still laughing, he casually dialed the number shown on the screen.
A few seconds later—click—the call was answered.
The TV broadcast changed slightly: a "lucky number" appeared on screen, displaying the caller's phone number.
The young man stared in stunned disbelief.
'Wait… this is live?'
Realizing it was no prank, his grin widened with mockery.
He shouted into the phone:
"New York!"
"I choose New York!. I live here—I want to see how you destroy it!. Hahaha!!"
His voice echoed from the television.
In the studio, Orsaga glanced at a map and calmly confirmed the exact coordinates of New York.
Then, facing the camera, he replied:
"Very well."
And hung up the call.
[Weather Control] was activated.
Above Orsaga, turbulent air currents began to converge violently.
The atmospheric effect resembled a massive domino chain reaction, triggering weather systems that reached all the way across the globe—
toward New York.
___
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