Meridinian Fleet

  Cutting across the waves toward the Tri-Border Ocean came the pride of the Meridinian Empire: the Meridinian Navy.

  Hundreds of magical warships advanced in perfect formation, their sails swollen with enchanted wind, their hulls gleaming with runic light. At a distance, they looked like ordinary wooden man-o-wars—classic, reliable, respectable.

  Up close, there was nothing normal about them.

  Each ship moved at three times the speed of a conventional man-o-war, matching even the latest Ravendawn wooden fleet. The difference was simple:

  Ravendawn cheated with Murican technology and magic.

  Meridinia cheated with pure, unfiltered magi-tech.

  From the moment construction began, mages had been involved in every stage. Each plank of wood was imbued with layered shielding and strengthening spells. Every mast reinforced. Every sailcloth enchanted. Even the nails glowed faintly with runes, because some overachieving archmage had insisted on it.

  The propulsion system was where things became… ethically flexible.

  Dozens of tiny wind spirits—sylphs—had been captured, brainwashed, and stuffed into sealed chambers inside each ship. They waited patiently, like magical horses in a stable, until ordered to move the vessel forward at terrifying speed.

  They did not complain.

  They could no longer remember how.

  Powering the entire monstrosity was a large mana core installed deep inside the ship’s core-room, where four mages operated it in rotating shifts. This made the ship more efficient, required fewer personnel, and removed the need for emotional attachment to the vessel’s crew.

  Stronger.

  More efficient.

  More deadly.

  Everything an empire loved in a warship.

  ---

  On the largest man-o-war, the Meridinian flagship, the Admiral stood on the deck, hands behind his back, grinning as he admired the endless line of ships stretching to the horizon.

  It was the grin of a man who believed the world was already in his hand.

  “Feeling confident, Admiral?” the flagship captain asked beside him.

  “With a fleet this size?” the admiral chuckled. “Definitely, Captain.”

  He swept his gaze across the armada like a man inspecting his personal collection of very expensive knives.

  “Especially when our objectives are already complete,” he continued calmly. “The Ravendawn and demon navies have been lured into battle, leaving Dawn City practically defenseless for the Goldenclaws assault.”

  “Aye, sir,” the captain replied, smiling. Thinking that history was about to remember them fondly.

  The admiral turned to the communication officer.

  “Send a message to the Dwargonians. Tell them reinforcement will arrive soon.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” the officer said, fingers already moving across the mana console.

  “And,” the admiral added, his grin sharpening, “make it sound like we’re in a hurry.”

  “Hehehe.”

  “Very well, sir,” the officer replied, nodding with a confident smile.

  The admiral turned back to the captain. “Any updates from the church listening posts?”

  “Nothing, sir,” the captain replied. “The last message says the Dwargonians are about to engage the Ravendawn–Murica fleet.”

  “Good,” the admiral said, satisfied. “All according to plan.”

  The universe, at that moment, began laughing quietly.

  “A-Admiral…”

  The communication officer’s voice cracked.

  The admiral turned slowly. “Yes?”

  “The Dwargonians replied. They said… they’ve been waiting for us.”

  The admiral waved a hand dismissively. “Heh. They’re probably having a hard battle on their hands.”

  “And they added…” the officer swallowed, “…‘May your goddess help you all.’ That’s all.”

  The admiral frowned.

  “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  TING TING TING TING TING TING TING

  Then suddenly a shrill alarm bell erupted from the front-most ships.

  The admiral stiffened. “What is it? Enemy?”

  “INCOMING! STARBOARD!!” the lookout screamed from above.

  The admiral and captain both grabbed their telescopes and rushed to the railing.

  Through the lenses, the horizon exploded into gold.

  The sea glowed.

  The sky burned.

  The world ahead was filled with ships—hundreds of bronze warships and airships—turning in perfect formation, their cannons already aligned.

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  The same fleet that had been facing Ravendawn moments ago.

  Now facing them.

  “That’s…” the captain whispered, his mouth dry, “…the Dwargonians.”

  “What are they doing here?” he muttered. “The battle was supposed to be thirty kilometers away—”

  “They’re here to attack us!” the admiral screamed, the confidence evaporating like morning mist.

  “B-BATTLE STATION! BATTLE STATION!” he roared. “ALL SHIPS—BATTLE STATION!”

  Panic erupted.

  Orders collided.

  Mages screamed.

  Sails twisted.

  The once-perfect Meridinian formation shattered into chaos.

  ---

  Dwargonian Fleet

  Super Dreadnought Wavecrusher

  “Admiral, the Meridinian Fleet has noticed us,” an officer reported, his voice tight but controlled.

  “Took them a while,” Admiral Durnick muttered.

  Commander Durnick Axebreaker stood on the bridge of the Wavecrusher, his hands resting on the railing. The glow from the console reflected off his scarred face, illuminating a rage he was very carefully trying to keep in check.

  Very carefully.

  Slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand.

  “All units,” he said.

  The bridge fell silent.

  No one breathed.

  No one blinked.

  Everything on pause.

  Then Durnick’s hand dropped.

  “ENGAGE!”

  ---

  Bashington DC

  Pentagon

  In the Pentagon command center, the giant main screen flickered with live footage from a spy plane circling high above the ocean.

  Stan leaned forward, eyes gleaming as the Dwargonian airships and warships began turning in unison—massive cannons rotating, runes lighting up like stars.

  “They’ve started,” Stan said, grinning.

  On another screen, Solo and Mo watched through a video conference feed.

  “Well,” Solo said calmly, “that should make the Dwargonians feel a little better.”

  “And we still have plenty more presents for them after this,” Mo added, his voice almost cheerful.

  “Yeah,” Stan nodded. “They deserve some payback after everything they’ve been through.”

  A brief pause followed.

  Then Solo spoke again, his voice dropping lower.

  “Now… what about our payback?”

  Stan’s grin sharpened.

  “Heh.”

  He nodded to the officer beside him. Without a word, the officer switched the main monitor.

  The image of the Dwargonian fleet firing their first volley vanished, replaced by a satellite view of three airships flying in calm, perfect formation.

  Peaceful.

  Quiet.

  Almost polite.

  “Our squadron will arrive in five minutes,” the officer reported.

  “Good,” Solo muttered.

  Then he leaned closer to the camera.

  “Stan,” Solo said, his voice cold and deliberate, “this time, you are allowed to make the enemy scared shitless.”

  Stan straightened slightly.

  “In fact,” Solo continued, “consider this an order. Let them know that it’s Murica that will fuck them over… and remind them—”

  A pause.

  “—how scary a demon can be.”

  Stan’s eyes lit up.

  “Kukuku… understood, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  He raised his hand and snapped a crisp salute at the screen.

  ---

  200 Kilometers From Celeste Kingdom Border

  Outer Wesroth Ocean

  Three thousand meters above the ocean, three airships glided peacefully toward the Celeste Kingdom.

  They flew in perfect formation, their hulls painted in Dwargonian colors, emblems gleaming proudly on their sides. To any observer, they were nothing more than a routine Dwargonian flight.

  They were not.

  Hidden beneath the disguise were the Goldenclaws, with Priestess Gabrielle’s vessel at the center, flanked by two escorts like loyal wings.

  Inside the central airship, Gabrielle sat in a cushioned chair upholstered with silk and enchanted velvet, a wine glass resting elegantly in her hand. The lounge around her looked less like a military cabin and more like a noble’s private salon—polished wood, golden trims, soft lighting, a chandelier that existed purely to be admired.

  A VIP airship, for a VIP priestess.

  “Priestess,” the airship captain reported after stepping in and bowing, “we will arrive in Celeste airspace in two hours.”

  “Very well, captain,” Gabrielle replied calmly.

  The captain exited, and the door slid shut.

  The mana-comm crystal floating beside Gabrielle glowed.

  “Finally,” came Camael’s warm voice, “you can breathe Celeste air again soon, sister.”

  Gabrielle exhaled softly. “You’re right. It has been a long assignment… even if I’m not happy with the circumstances of my departure.”

  “Please don’t be too hard on yourself, sister,” Sachiel chimed in gently. “Perfection belongs only to the Goddess. We merely do our best—and you did. Dwargonia and Meridinia are already fighting the demons. Soon, the rest of the world will follow.”

  “Brother Sachiel is right,” Camael added. “Once you return to Celeste, you will feel better.”

  “Thank you, brothers,” Gabrielle said, her voice softening. “I will rejoin you in a couple of hours. May the Goddess’s beauty illuminate your path.”

  “May the Goddess’s beauty illuminate your path,” both replied in unison.

  The crystal dimmed. The transmission ended.

  Gabrielle turned her gaze to the window, watching the endless blue of the ocean slide beneath her.

  “They’re right…” she murmured. “I achieved the best possible outcome…”

  Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

  “And yet… why can I not let go of this uneasiness…?”

  Then—

  FWOOOOOOOOSH—BOOOM

  A gray shadow tore past the window from front to back.

  The airship lurched violently. The chandelier screamed. The wine glass slipped from Gabrielle’s hand and shattered against the floor, red liquid splashing like spilled blood.

  The entire lounge shook as if struck by an invisible fist.

  “W—what was that?!” Gabrielle gasped, grabbing the armrest.

  The sound lingered, rolling through the air like thunder long after the shadow had passed.

  “CAPTAIN! WHAT WAS THAT?!” she shouted into the speaking tube on the wall.

  “W—we don’t know, Priestess!” the captain replied, voice shaking. “Something just passed us at high speed!”

  Silence followed.

  The shaking stopped. The thunder faded.

  Gabrielle stared at the window, heart pounding.

  “It’s… gone…” she whispered.

  Then—

  FWOOOOOOOOSH—BOOOM

  The sound returned.

  The airship shuddered again as the shadow blasted past—this time from below to above, ripping straight through the middle of their formation.

  Enough.

  Gabrielle stood and stormed out of the lounge.

  ---

  Bridge

  Chaos greeted her.

  Crew members ran from window to window, shouting, pointing, scanning the sky in every direction.

  “What is that?!” Gabrielle demanded. “Is it the enemy?!”

  “We don’t know, Priestess!” the captain replied, gripping the rail. “We can’t see it!”

  FWOOOOOOOOOSH—BOOOOM

  Another pass. This one close enough to feel.

  “I—I think it’s an aircraft!” a crewman shouted.

  “W-what kind of aircraft moves that fast…?” the captain muttered. “And what is it doing…?”

  Then—

  “I SEE IT! BOW SIDE!”

  Everyone rushed to the front.

  From the clouds descended a gray shape.

  It slid through the air like a blade thrown by a god—smooth, silent, unstoppable. It angled downward, then abruptly changed direction and stopped.

  Hovering.

  Right in front of them.

  Now they could see it clearly.

  Sleek. Sharp. Two fins at the tail. No visible cannons or weapons—yet somehow more terrifying because of it.

  “It really is an aircraft…” the captain whispered.

  It had wings, yes. But that was where the resemblance ended.

  The metal skin refused to shine properly, as if sunlight itself didn’t want to touch it. The shape was all edges and intent, like a knife that learned how to fly.

  Then—

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  From four different directions, four identical aircraft emerged, slipping into formation beside the first.

  Side by side.

  Perfect spacing.

  Perfect silence.

  All hovering.

  They didn’t circle.

  They didn’t dive.

  They didn’t attack.

  They just waited.

  Judging.

  Taunting.

  The Goldenclaws captain raised his telescope, hands trembling.

  He lowered it slowly, his face draining of color.

  “Pentagram emblem…” he whispered.

  “…It’s the Muricans.”

  His voice exploded across the bridge.

  “ALL SHIPS! BATTLE STATION!!”

  Alarms screamed. Crew scrambled. Runes flared to life.

  And still—

  The aircraft did not move.

  From the Goldenclaws’ perspective, they hovered.

  In truth, they were still moving.

  Slowly.

  Painfully slowly.

  A maneuver only they could perform.

  A maneuver that belonged to Murica’s aerial apex predator.

  The F-22 Raptor.