Toaru Hikuushi e no Seiyaku:V9Part5

Part 23 (Part 5 of Volume 9)

"Kill them all. St Vault, Akitsu, Hydrabard, and that insolent little girl, Elisabeth."

Under the looming February sky, as he gazed at the vast airborne fleet, Uranos's Supreme Commander, Demistri, made this chilling declaration.

"The Earth will be mine, as will the heavens. I will be the king of all creation."

Beyond the bulletproof glass of the panoramic windows, thirty airborne aircraft carriers, forty-two super dreadnought airborne battleships, and an uncountable number of over three hundred air cruisers formed perfect, neat columns, seemingly praising Demistri's might. With a mere gesture of his hand, this largest airborne fleet in history would devastate any territory, ocean, or airspace it targeted. In terms of numbers, firepower, and cutting-edge technology, this was the most powerful force ever assembled.

Though already overwhelming, this fleet represented only half of the new Archipelago Area Fleet. The other half—formerly the Kai Andros Area Fleet—was currently advancing westward in the North Archipelago, seeking a decisive battle. Demistri's words were not boastful but rather a sober acknowledgment of the truth, considering the scale of his power.

He turned from the window to glance at Claire Cruz—formerly Queen Nina Viento—who sat silently in a single chair placed in the middle of the vast room. Demistri's lips twisted into a cruel smile.

"Aren't you trembling with excitement? You could be the queen of the king of all creation. For a woman, there could be no higher honour."

The former queen of Uranos, Claire, showed no change in expression. She didn’t even glance at the window, staring blankly at the wall like a wax figure.

February 8th, Imperial Year 1352, Uranos Royal Capital, Pleiades, Ulysses Palace Inner Chambers—

Claire was no longer bound or caged. For nearly two months, she had been confined in a personal room at the top of the palace's chapel. It had been refashioned as her living quarters.

She wore the same simple blouse and navy skirt she had escaped in, her natural black hair unadorned by any elaborate wigs. Though her body was not physically restrained, she was not free to leave.

The only exit from the room was guarded by two sentinels, and the entire chapel and inner palace grounds were patrolled by vigilant soldiers, ever watchful for any attempt to rescue her. The room was cold and sparsely furnished—a desk, a chair, a simple bed, a fireplace, and a single thin book extolling Demistri’s greatness. In one corner, separated by a curtain, was a small bathroom with a tub and a washbasin.

Claire was nothing more than a bird in a gilded cage, imprisoned in this chilly stone room.

Perhaps relishing the slow breaking of her will, Demistri had never resorted to violence. He provided her with meals and baths attended by servants, and he visited her daily, attempting to sway her emotions by alternately comforting, threatening, and flattering her.

Every time they were alone, Demistri would say the same thing:

"I can give you anything you desire. No treasure of heaven or earth is beyond my reach. Dresses, jewels, banquets, estates—name it, and it will be yours."

Then, reclining smugly, he would spread his arms, weaving grandiose visions.

"For our wedding, we will adorn the entire palace with gold and silver, launch fireworks and salute cannons for an entire week, and feed and entertain the six million citizens without end. We could even shower the earth with money as we soar above in celebration. It will be the kind of feast that history will record, worthy of the king of the world."

His voice and expression wandered through an imaginary fairy tale, but Claire remained unmoved, staring only at the wall, refusing to acknowledge him.

"This upcoming battle will be a pre-celebration," Demistri sneered, his grin turning wicked.

"The dying St Vault fleet, the outdated Second Isla Fleet—all will be sent to the bottom of the Archipelago Sea. The enemy soldiers who land on Mitterrand's shores will find their sea routes cut off, running out of food, ammunition, and fuel, and dying without even a fight. Once the Archipelago is in my hands, I’ll bring Kal-el Albus—your beloved—here."

Not even at the mention of Kal-el’s name did Claire react anymore. She had heard it too often. It had lost its sting, though hearing it from Demistri still filled her with revulsion.

"You will tell Kal-el yourself, from your own lips, that you are to be my wife. You may deny it now, but by then, you will have already accepted it. You will devote your body and soul to me, forever."

Demistri declared this confidently, watching for Claire's reaction. But she didn’t move. In front of him, she was always like this—a perfectly composed wax figure, sitting upright in her chair with her hands neatly resting on her lap, staring straight ahead at the wall.

Normally, this would be the point where Demistri would launch into a tiresome tirade of self-praise, recounting his questionable "achievements," but today was different.

"I've brought a special guest for you," Demistri announced abruptly, shifting his gaze toward the room’s sole entrance.

The sentinels at the door stepped aside in perfect unison, and through the open doorway walked none other than Claire’s loyal attendant, Countess Ulshyrra.

For the first time that day, Claire showed a reaction.

"Countess Ulshyrra…!"

She tried to stand, but Countess Ulshyrra, wearing a stern expression, raised her hand to stop her, and Claire hesitated, sinking back into her chair. Walking with calm, measured steps, Ulshyrra approached Demistri’s side and spoke with a formal, almost detached voice, as if she were one of his subordinates.

"I'm relieved to see you in good health, my lady. We must be grateful for Lord Demistri’s generous treatment."

No greetings or pleasantries—just that cold statement.

"There are no more allies for you in heaven or on earth, my lady. Clinging to your pride is not only pointless but harmful to the world itself. You must reconsider your position."

Her tone was distant and icy, as if speaking to a stranger, not the young lady she had served for years. Claire, unable to respond, could only stiffen at Ulshyrra's words as she continued with brutal coldness.

"Marrying Lord Demistri is the only way to save the world."

Claire’s eyes widened.

"You must set aside your personal feelings. Your stubbornness is about to plunge hundreds of thousands, even millions, of soldiers into needless suffering."

Her hands trembled. Could Ulshyrra truly mean what she was saying?

Hadn’t Ulshyrra faithfully served Claire all these years, waiting alongside her for Kal-el and the Second Isla Fleet to come and rescue them?

Claire looked up at Ulshyrra, but the glare from Ulshyrra’s silver-framed glasses obscured her gaze.

Ulshyrra's dry lips parted.

"You should give up on Kal-el. It has been six and a half years since you parted on Isla. It would be only natural for him to have found someone else to love by now. No man would journey here over such an old promise. It is time for you to face reality and start making decisions that benefit the world. You are no longer a child."

She adjusted her glasses as she spoke, her tone exactly like it had been back when they first boarded the Isla.

I won’t believe it.

The Lady must have some deeper reason for speaking this way...

Claire gripped her hands tightly, clasped in her lap. Anxiety welled up from deep within her stomach. Though she trusted Countess Ulshyrra, the loneliness of being confined in this place for so long gnawed at her heart.

Has it truly been six and a half years…?

Kal-el must have had his share of experiences…

He must have met many people and changed...

Ulshyrra’s words stirred these thoughts, making the loneliness in Claire’s heart grow deeper and heavier.

He must have met someone wonderful...

Her heart ached painfully, and the sound of it seemed to echo in her ears. Demistri watched her with a cruel smile.

Claire closed her eyes, the creeping fear pressing harder against her mind.

There was nothing here to support her.

Ignacio wasn’t here, nor was Mio, nor anyone else.

There was nothing for her to cling to.

As the tears began to well up, a familiar voice from her memories echoed clearly in her mind.

"I don't know how long it will take!! But I will find the edge of the sky, and we will all make it home safely!! And once this journey is over!!"

It was the voice of Kal-el, fifteen years old, shouting.

"I will come back for you!!"

The vivid scene from six and a half years ago resurfaced in Claire’s mind, completely unchanged.

"I will come to take you back!!"

The connection they shared back then, the bond between their hearts, was still intact, unchanged and preserved deep within Claire's chest. Her love for him had not diminished in the slightest—if anything, it had only grown stronger.

After all, Kal-el was leading the Second Isla Fleet, coming here, to her rescue.

He was already so close.

That fact alone was enough.

"Kal-el is coming."

Still staring at her clasped hands, Claire whispered, trying to steady her trembling voice.

"He will come here to save me. I am sure of it."

She looked up, locking eyes with Demistri.

"He promised. Both of us did, and we will keep that promise."

As Claire spoke with conviction, Demistri's expression twisted with anger.

"He will come soon, with many comrades at his side. And when he does, Uranos will finally enter a new era."

With every word she spoke, Claire’s voice grew stronger, more resolute. She could feel her words empowering her.

"The ancient dogma will be discarded, and a new philosophy, one of prosperity with the Earth, will spread through Uranos."

Without even thinking, as though she were some ancient prophet, Claire’s mouth continued to deliver these words with unwavering certainty.

"You will be the last king of Uranos, and the war will end. Kal-el and his new comrades will usher in a new era."

Claire didn’t know why, but her words resonated with an unshakable conviction. They carried such force and clarity that Demistri, caught off guard, took a step back.

"I will simply wait. My only task is to remain here until that time comes and witness the end of your ambitions."

The room fell into a tense, ringing silence.

Demistri, his lips trembling as if to speak, suddenly halted, opting instead to let out a menacing laugh. Claire could see his legs shaking, even as his expression contorted into a forced sneer.

"Hahaha... Hahahahaha... Hahahahahaha!"

Demistri let out a deliberately dry, hollow laugh, casting a cold glance at Ulshyrra’s indifferent face before turning back to glare down at Claire.

"You said it, didn’t you? You said something you should never have said. Do you even realize what you've done? Huh?"

Reaching out with his right hand, Demistri grabbed a fistful of Claire’s hair and yanked her upward.

"…!!"

Claire’s face twisted in pain as she instinctively rose from her chair. Demistri's twisted expression came closer, his face twitching with anger.

"I'll make you understand my greatness. You will witness firsthand that no one can stand against me. The Second Isla Fleet? They’re nothing. I'll turn them into sea trash right before your eyes. Even your sluggish mind will comprehend who you should obey. And then, you will willingly offer both your body and soul to me. For eternity, you will pledge your love to me, never leaving my side, constantly whispering words of love."

Demistri’s face was so close, Claire could feel his breath. Their lips were about to touch. In desperation, Claire grabbed his wrist, turning her head away to escape his assault.

His whispering grew more frantic.

"You belong to me. You were born to be my wife. You will forever give me smiles, encouragement, and kindness. You will become one with me. That is your destiny, Claire Cruz. You are mine. My goddess. A goddess meant only for me."

There was an unhinged edge to Demistri’s words. Claire stood up from her chair, lifting her right foot as hard as she could and stomping down on Demistri’s left foot. Though he was wearing thick military boots, the surprise was enough to make him let go of her hair.

Ulshyrra remained silent, offering no help, merely observing the scene. Claire, breathing heavily, stepped away from Demistri, her eyes regaining their dignity.

Demistri, too, caught his breath, glaring at Claire before turning on his heel.

As he walked through the door held open by the guards, he threw one last parting shot, his back turned to her.

"The only man worthy of you is me. There is no one else in all of creation. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you will beg to be mine."

Claire didn’t reply, only glaring at him in silent defiance.

The door closed, leaving only Claire, Ulshyrra, and the guards in the room.

"That behaviour was most unbecoming," Ulshyrra remarked coldly before following Demistri out. Claire could only watch her leave before collapsing into her chair, utterly drained.

"…Help me… Kal…"

She whispered softly, ensuring the guards couldn't hear, then closed her eyes. She could feel her spirit wearing down more with each passing day.

There was no one left on her side.

That harsh truth wounded her deeply.

"Igna… Mio…"

She whispered the names of her friends, unsure of where they were or what they were doing. Yet she believed they were still safe, and somewhere, somehow, working to change the situation. Though she didn’t want them to do anything too reckless, she couldn't stop herself from calling out to them in her heart.

"…Help me…"

Her frail voice fell softly, disappearing into the cold, stone floor beneath her feet.

"The roar was unlike anything else."

It wasn't the howl of a beast, the blast of a cannon, the eruption of a volcano, nor the rumble of a steam engine or an internal combustion engine. The sound came from the extreme compression of air, igniting the fuel, producing this screeching, witch-like high-pitched roar.

"Quite impressive, this Ortega," muttered Zenon Kavaris, head of the Urano Intelligence Bureau, as he watched a black dot emerge from the eastern sky, roaring as it passed overhead and disappeared into the western horizon.

Imperial Year 1352, February 8th, Pleiades Air Command, Isolos Airfield—

Standing beside Zenon, his "ally" smiled back. "It's not breaking the sound barrier yet, but it's only a matter of time. No propeller plane will stand a chance once these are unleashed on the battlefield."

As Ethan Syira finished his sentence, two more "Ortegas" shot across the sky. The high-pitched noise followed after the aircraft had already passed, as the speed was too great for the sound to keep up.

"For now, we're repeating test flights with three planes over Pleiades. If things align, they may participate in the fleet battle," Ethan added.

"The timing of the battle will depend on the Marshal's decision. The enemy's movements have been unsettling lately. If they approach, Ortega will get its turn, and it will be nothing more than a one-sided massacre."

Both men turned their eyes to the sky. Following far behind the three jet fighters, 18 of the Urano's main combat aircraft, the "Alice actus," flew overhead. Though considered the strongest propeller-driven aircraft in the Multi-Island Sea, compared to Ortega, the Alice actus now seemed like a flock of donkeys trailing a thoroughbred. Propeller fighters faced with Ortega wouldn't be able to chase, flee, or even engage in close combat—they would be helplessly crushed into dust.

"As a token of gratitude for your assistance," Ethan said, his tone sombre. He owed his life to Zenon, who had rescued him from the political prisoner camp in Selfaust and brought him safely to Pleiades.

"You are essential to Chrono Magos. No matter where you are imprisoned, I will ensure your rescue," Zenon replied warmly, with a smile that betrayed none of his inner contempt.

"Words cannot express my gratitude. It is my greatest joy to once again serve the cause of world peace alongside you, Your Excellency," Ethan responded, tears welling up as he gazed at Zenon with trust.

Inside, Zenon sneered.

—The repulsive thing is, he actually believes every word he's saying.

"Let’s put an end to this war together," Zenon added, effortlessly parroting ideals he had never believed in. His serene smile concealed his disdain for the man beside him.

—A genuine psychopath.

Compared to Ethan Syra, Zenon thought himself remarkably sane—at least he knew he was lying. Ethan, however, was utterly blind to the monstrous reality of his actions.

—He spreads war across the world, while deluding himself into believing he's a saint…

Zenon wondered how such a twisted mind could have come into existence. He had certainly played a role in Ethan’s corruption, but even he hadn’t expected this grotesque flower to bloom.

Ethan had once been a diplomat for the St Vault Empire, possessing valuable international connections in the arms trade. Zenon had personally recruited him, enticing him with promises of serving not just the Empire, but the lofty goal of world peace. Trapped in a web of corruption and influence, Ethan had found himself with no choice but to betray his homeland to survive. To cope with the guilt, Ethan adopted the mantra Zenon had fed him, convincing himself that his hands must get dirty for the sake of world peace. As a result, Ethan now believed he was a saint, a martyr willing to wade through the filth for a greater cause. In reality, he was nothing more than a pawn helping to perpetuate the very wars he claimed to abhor.

—A man who revels in sin, all while believing he’s righteous.

It was this perverse, self-serving mental framework that allowed Ethan to sell out even his stepdaughter, all while maintaining his image of moral superiority.

—He deserves to die.

Just the thought of speaking to him made Zenon sick, but there was no denying Ethan’s usefulness. At least until the situation in the Multi-Island Sea was settled, their mutually beneficial relationship had to be maintained. After all, Renior Berner, the central figure of Chrono Magos, was on his deathbed, and at the very end, he seemed to have repented for his life’s deeds. Berner had begun taking actions contrary to the interests of the arms-dealing society. He had even jumped on Queen Elisabeth of Sylvania’s lies and bought into Balesteros bonds, turning the kingdom into the wealthiest nation in the Multi-Island Sea. That act had infuriated every member of Chrono Magos. As a council of power brokers, Chrono Magos had endorsed “Urano’s conquest of the Multi-Island Sea,” yet the man at the centre of their plans had suddenly reversed course. Now, the merchants of death were gathering their rage, assembling the largest fleet in human history, ready to rain destruction upon the region. Officially, it was a war between Urano and the Multi-Island Sea Coalition, but behind the scenes, it was a battle between Chrono Magos and the Berner conglomerate—a slow, venomous struggle, like two snakes swallowing each other’s tails, the conclusion drawing near.

“It’s a terrible war. The situation in Selfaust has been dreadful. This tragedy must end quickly. I sincerely believe that.”

Ethan, recently freed from the political prison camp in Selfaust during the Empire’s invasion, had witnessed firsthand the atrocities committed by occupying forces. The troops stationed in the enemy’s capital had no concept of maintaining order. They looted homes, committed violence, and indiscriminately murdered civilians, showing no restraint.

"The soldiers in the occupying force were mostly conscripts. They lacked military discipline, patriotism, and any sense of pride as soldiers. In a losing war, they were useless, but in a war they were winning, they revealed their true nature, unleashing cruel savagery upon the weak. They abused women, children, the elderly, and prisoners alike. Many of those women would have preferred death to what they endured. The suffering of the women... it’s beyond words.”

Zenon had heard stories of these atrocities. The soldiers on the front lines were well-trained and disciplined, but conscripts and misfits were relegated to rear duties, overseeing occupied territories. These inferior troops took the glory won by the front-line soldiers and abused it, running amok in the name of victory.

The disorder among the rear forces of the Harmonian Empire was notorious. Rumours claimed that since the breakthrough of the Kukuana Line, three million women from the St Vault Empire had been assaulted. Ethan shared one particularly shocking account.

“In Selfaust, about thirty female nurses chose to stay behind in a military hospital despite hearing that five hundred imperial soldiers were advancing. Every army has a rule against attacking medical facilities, so they gambled on the hope that the imperial forces would respect that rule. However, the conscripts had no sense of honour as soldiers. When a young imperial officer, driven by righteous fury, stood with twenty of his men to order them to withdraw, the conscripts shot him and his men dead on the spot, then stormed the hospital. They violated all the nurses and then shelled the hospital, burying the immobile patients alive... And what’s worse, the conscripts presented the youngest nurses as ‘war prizes’ to senior officers to avoid punishment. Imagine a military where you can murder your superior, assault nurses, and massacre patients with no consequence... I broke down in tears when I heard this story. How can this be what war looks like? How can we allow this madness to continue?"

Tears welled in Ethan's eyes as he passionately condemned the horrors of war.

“War ends when you lose. If you don’t win, you’ll face hell,” Zenon responded, masking his disdain.

Was Ethan really weeping over something so obvious? Zenon was no longer shocked by the man’s sanctimonious hypocrisy. Attacking enemy medical facilities, killing civilians and prisoners, looting and assaulting—these were all standard in war. Feeding enemy prisoners strained your own resources. Civilians shot on sight might have been resistance fighters, and soldiers who risked their lives on the front lines deserved the spoils of victory. You couldn't wage war if you were burdened by morality.

On the battlefield, the only true evil was defeat.

The victor was deemed "good" and claimed everything, while the vanquished, deemed "evil," lost it all. To avoid defeat, the entire nation had to unite, offering their lives, wealth, and all available economic, military, scientific, and industrial power to crush the enemy. Once you’ve lost, there’s no point in lamenting.

—Ah, I’m so glad I’m from Urano.

Every time Zenon heard of the atrocities unfolding on Earth, he silently thanked his fortune. Urano would win in the end, sparing its people from such misery. Once the next battle was over, the St Vault Empire, the Sylvania Kingdom, the Hydrabard Archipelago, and the Akitsu Continent would all experience the very hell that Ethan so vividly described. And when Urano's long-cherished dream of ruling both heaven and earth was realized, all the valuable resources from Earth—its production, its people—would be delivered to Urano. On Earth, the survivors would fight over the waste discarded from heaven, merely trying to survive.

The thought of Urano ruling the world was exhilarating, but Ethan’s hypocritical tales were too depressing. Zenon changed the subject.

“Shall we inform the rest of your family that Mio is safe?”

“Not until the war is over. Her value as a spy, serving your purposes, is far more important for her right now.”

Ethan's tone was filled with fatherly affection, but Zenon understood its true meaning: “I’m offering Mio to you as a gift in exchange for saving my life.”

—So, he’s figured out I’m interested in Mio, has he?

For a supposed psychopath, Ethan was surprisingly perceptive.

“Mio disappeared after the October Revolution. We’ve issued a call for her to return through the newspapers, but there’s been no response. She’s quite displeased, it seems. However, as long as she’s in Pleiades, it’s only a matter of time before we find her. Once the battle is over and I have some spare time, I’ll bring her to you.”

“Please do. She’s young, intelligent, and beautiful. She will be a valuable asset as a spy. If you find that she needs guidance, feel free to discipline her. She can be quite headstrong and may not listen otherwise.”

Ethan said this with a refined smile, despite the shocking nature of his words. Zenon glanced back at his bodyguard, Hachidori.

“Any updates on Mio’s whereabouts?”

Hachidori nodded solemnly.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“The poor folk in the Stefano district are undoubtedly hiding her.”

“It’s true that Claire’s remaining forces are rallying the poor in Stefano, hoping to turn them into a resistance force. If we continue our investigation, we’ll locate Mio soon.”

At that moment, a loud propeller roar shattered the air above them. Looking up, Zenon spotted an Alice actus flying low and sluggishly toward the western sky. Its ominously slow flight was unnerving.

“The black panther nose art… that must be the ‘King of the Skies,’ Karnasion. This is my first time seeing it. It’s quite a feat to fly that slowly,” Ethan murmured. Karnasion had returned to Pleiades as well.

“Why not have him fly a jet?”

Zenon shook his head.

“That's not my area of expertise, but I imagine if he flew a jet, there’d be no need for the close-combat dogfighting he's so skilled at. A jet can simply strike once and disengage, rendering his talents irrelevant.”

Though Zenon knew little about aerial combat, he understood this much: In a dogfight between propeller planes, both sides had similar capabilities, but jets were far superior. Jet pilots could simply attack from a distance and disengage, without the need for close combat.

“I would think that Karnasion in a jet would be unstoppable.”

“Pilots are a different breed. Some prefer the familiar over superior performance. Perhaps it’s a matter of pride.”

As the conversation ended, the roar of jet engines returned to the skies above Pleiades. Three black dots appeared in the distance, rapidly closing in and flying overhead before shattering the air with their deafening roar. The three jets quickly outpaced Karnasion, climbing effortlessly toward the heavens.

Despite being hailed as the "King of the Skies," Karnasion now resembled a slow, cumbersome bull, while the jet fighters moved like swift wolves. The wolves could strike from Karnasion's blind spots, retreat, and attack again at their leisure.

“We're witnessing the end of an era. The new is here, and the old is fading,” Ethan mused, as Karnasion's shrinking silhouette was overtaken by the white contrails of the jets, heralding the arrival of a new age.

—

“Jets are the best,” one of the young pilots boasted. “They’re unstoppable!”

“Totally! Who needs prop planes anymore? Just flying these things makes us invincible,” another added, laughing as they high-fived.

The three young pilots had just completed their test flights and now stood near their Ortega jets, parked in the first hangar at Isolos Airfield on Pleiades' western bank. Their hair was styled like hedgehogs, their uniforms sloppily worn, and they sported piercings, tattoos, and sunglasses—looking as arrogant as they sounded.

On the nose of each jet was a scorpion insignia—the same that had marked the three jets which had shot down Akmed, one of the two “Kings of the Skies,” during the Second Sierra Greed Sea Battle.

Just then, another aircraft, its front propeller slowly rotating, taxied into the hangar.

The jet pilots smirked as they recognized the black panther nose art—Karnasion’s plane—but showed no signs of respect. Instead, a look of condescending disdain crossed their faces as the “King of the Skies” parked his plane in the same hangar.

“Smell something?” one of them muttered.

“Yeah, I think I found the source,” another replied with a sneer. “He should change his bandages. The stink’s unbearable.”

The three laughed quietly, exchanging snide remarks as they watched Karnasion’s canopy open. A mechanic assisted him out of the cockpit. His face was hidden beneath layers of bandages, covering severe burns, but his eyes shone fiercely through the gaps. Karnasion, leaning heavily on a cane, hobbled past the jets without sparing them a glance.

One of the young pilots called out, “Hey, Captain, why don’t you fly a jet?”

When the scorpion pilot on the right called out to him, Karnasion stopped. He turned his piercing gaze, not towards the three pilots, but towards the world's most powerful fighter plane—the Ortega jet fighter.

From the front, the triangular fuselage was visible. Six 20mm Vulcan cannons were arranged in a circular formation around the nose. Additionally, four 30mm machine guns adorned the wings, with two cigar-shaped jet engines mounted underneath. Depending on the configuration, the aircraft could also be equipped with a 50mm cannon in the nose or twelve rockets under the wings. Its powerful engines enabled near-supersonic speed and the heaviest armaments ever seen on a fighter.

"…Ghh…"

A sound, hardly recognizable as a voice, erupted from his burnt vocal cords. No one could understand what Karnasion said. Ignoring the confused glances exchanged by the three pilots, he silently left the hangar.

"What did he say?"

"Who knows?"

The pilots on the right and left shrugged, palms facing upward. Once Karnasion was out of sight, the middle pilot chuckled and offered an interpretation.

"Probably something like, 'Pathetic,' right?"

The other two burst into laughter.

"You're the one who's pathetic."

"Still flying a plane looking like that? His sense of style's ancient."

"Maybe he's mad we shot down Akmed? Like, what did he expect? Of course we’d take the shot if we had the chance."

When Akmed had pulled off his legendary "Serpent Strike" manoeuvre—flying straight and suddenly rolling the plane upright, forcing the trailing Karnasion ahead to shoot him from behind—the three scorpion pilots had dived in from above, catching Akmed off guard and shooting him down. The "Serpent Strike" reduced speed, making Akmed an easy target from above. Though it looked like the three had interfered in the duel between the two "Kings of the Skies," the fact remained: they had shot down Akmed, the king who no one else could touch. This victory had boosted their reputations, landing them as test pilots for the only three prototype jets. Now, they were revelling in the unmatched capabilities of the Ortega.

Without any special effort or recognition before, these average pilots had shot down Akmed by sheer luck and were now flying the greatest aircraft of their time. Their rapid ascent knew no bounds.

"Man, I can't wait to get into combat. I want to kill something."

"Prop planes? Pfft, they're trash! We’d wipe them out in no time. Aren't we basically heroes?"

Their dry laughter echoed in the cold wind. Ahead of them, Karnasion’s figure continued to fade into the distance.

Karnasion staggered out of the hangar, his steps unsteady. He glanced up briefly at the crisp blue sky of February. The Alice actus planes flew in formation, cutting through the transparent blue. As he lowered his gaze, he could see the air fleets conducting exercises, preparing for the final battle in the Multi-Island Sea. The war would soon be decided.

Ortega.

The name flashed in his mind again.

Though its range was limited and it could only be used as a local fighter, the Ortega was undoubtedly the strongest fighter plane in the current aerial battlefield. Even a fool could dominate prop planes with a jet. With overwhelming speed, a jet could dictate the terms of combat—whether to engage or disengage, always at its pilot’s whim. The pilot could wait for a favourable moment, then unload a barrage from the Vulcan cannons. No more need for the pain and endurance of chasing enemies in close combat. Such outdated tactics could now be dismissed with a laugh.

Even a mediocre pilot in that thing could shoot down a genius.

This is what the next air battles will be like.

Times are changing.

In less than six months, most aircraft would be equipped with jet engines, and the era of propeller-driven planes would quickly become history. The skills he had honed in dogfighting between propeller planes would become obsolete. In other words, Karnasion himself would soon be rendered irrelevant.

A cold wind blew, and in the blue of the sky, Karnasion could see the face of his dead rival, Akmed.

He had lived for the sole purpose of defeating Akmed.

It was no exaggeration to say that. Ever since Akmed had burned him with those scars, Karnasion had gripped the controls of his plane solely for revenge. And somewhere along the way, people began calling him the "King of the Skies." But now, with Akmed gone and prop planes fading into obsolescence, his place in the world was vanishing too.

Akmed… I'm envious of you.

Akmed, who had died in battle, might have been the lucky one. Lately, Karnasion had found himself thinking this. Akmed hadn’t lived to see the end of the era of propeller-driven aircraft. He had perfected his "Serpent Strike" manoeuvre in the most glorious days of aerial combat, and then disappeared into the skies. Karnasion couldn’t help but envy that kind of death.

The words Karnasion had muttered earlier as he looked at the jets rose again from the back of his throat.

"Not fun."

Even if the scorpion pilots had understood him, they likely wouldn’t have grasped the meaning. To them, dominating weaker aircraft in a superior machine was the very definition of fun. The intense dogfighting, where pilots pushed their bodies to the limit to endure G-forces, wouldn’t exist in the new age of jets. The air battles of the future would depend on ground-based control systems, ground and airborne radar, electronic targeting, communication equipment, and rockets with automatic tracking systems. The pilot’s personal skill would just be one small factor among many.

There’s nothing fun about that.

That’s why, at the very least, before it all ended—

I want one last, exhilarating dogfight.

That was the only desire left in Karnasion’s heart.

Having lost Akmed, with no goal in sight, and soon to be rendered obsolete alongside his propeller plane, the only place left for him to shine was in a duel against a pilot of equal skill. A battle where both opponents would give everything they had, pushing their bodies, minds, and souls to the absolute limit. If Karnasion could experience that, it didn’t matter whether he lived or died. In that ultimate moment, he would be content to dissolve into the sky.

Before the prop planes disappear…

I want one final duel.

Offering a soundless prayer to the sky, Karnasion dragged his prosthetic leg and continued to stagger alone down the runway.

Mio stuffed the outfit she planned to use for infiltrating the royal harem into a burlap sack. She pocketed a small amount of money, slung the bag over her shoulder, and smiled brightly.

"Alright, I'm off then."

As she turned around, she saw Ignacio Axis sitting on the edge of the bed with a troubled expression.

"What's with that grim face? Say something."

"Ah... well... right."

The usually taciturn knight fumbled awkwardly for words but couldn't seem to form them.

Imperial Year 1352, early February, Pleiades, Hedwig Tavern, second floor—

For over three months, since the October Revolution, Mio had been hiding in this room with the wounded Ignacio. As she prepared to leave, she burned the sight of the room into her memory—this might be the last time she saw it.

"Tell Hedwig there might be one more guest staying here. If everything goes well, I'll owe her a big thank you."

"Yeah... I'll let her know."

Ignacio's response was still hesitant. Mio, realizing that expecting eloquence from him was asking too much, sighed and turned to the door.

"Just stay here quietly and wait. You don’t need to worry about me. Besides, you’ve got your own job of organizing the resistance here, so make sure you’re ready for when the time comes."

When they escaped from the Ulysses Palace, Ignacio had suffered deep wounds in his shoulder and shin, leaving him physically impaired in his everyday movements. Moreover, the paralysis poison that Kyrie had administered had ravaged his body for nearly a month, sapping his strength. Ignacio had lost much of his former combat ability, and now it was questionable if he could even win a fight against an ordinary person.

Despite his condition, Ignacio had tried multiple times to rescue Claire, dragging his uncooperative legs and wielding a dagger with his weakened arm. Watching him attempt to fight with his deteriorated strength had been heartbreaking. Each time, both Mio and Hedwig had restrained and persuaded him, explaining that Ignacio couldn’t accomplish anything in his current state. They assured him that Demistri, who was infatuated with Claire, had no intention of hurting her, and that they had no choice but to wait until their preparations were complete. For now, Ignacio's role was to unite the disaffected elements of the Stefanos District into a cohesive resistance movement, laying plans to stir unrest in Pleiades when the time came.

Over the course of about a month, with Hedwig's help, Ignacio had regained his composure and connected with the underground residents. He managed to unify the disparate groups, and now more than 1,500 insurgents were poised to rise up in support of Queen Nina Viento’s return. The people of the Stefano District were essentially kept as labour to sustain the luxurious lives of Pleiades' wealthy elite. Constantly forced to witness the glittering lifestyles of the rich while they themselves barely scraped by on the most minimal subsistence, the pent-up frustration in the slums had grown far beyond what Mio and her comrades had imagined. Once the spark was lit, these people would be like a parasite devouring the capital from the inside out.

And now, Mio was setting out alone to rescue Claire.

Her plan was to infiltrate the royal harem, rescue Claire from captivity, and bring her back here to hide. They would wait until Kiyoaki Sakagami, who had received Fio’s letter, arrived with the Valkyrie to launch their assault on Pleiades.

Mio knew that it was a long-shot plan.

But this was the only chance they had to seize any hope.

They had discovered Claire's location, and Mio had once infiltrated that very place.

So she would courageously step towards the faint light guiding her. If she didn’t take this step, they would be left to languish in despair forever.

—I have to do this. No one else can.

Encouraging herself, Mio lifted her head and opened the door.

Suddenly, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

"I apologize... for my past rudeness."

Mio turned back, her hand still on the door handle.

Ignacio's face was flushed red, and he looked away awkwardly as he struggled to speak.

"...You’re no spy. You’ve proven yourself... a trustworthy... and honourable... comrade."

He had clearly thought long and hard about these words. The way he delivered them, stiff and nervous, was almost like a child reading a carefully prepared speech in front of the class.

"...Let me make it up to you. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just... don't die. Come back alive... with Claire."

Still avoiding eye contact, Ignacio remained seated on the bed, summoning all his strength to express his feelings.

This was the first time she’d heard him speak his mind.

Smiling softly, Mio let go of the door handle, knelt down in front of Ignacio, and gently placed her arms around his neck.

"Don’t worry. I’ll be back, with Claire."

Though she had often thought of Ignacio as cold and unpleasant, she now understood that he was just clumsy and kind-hearted at his core.

"And when I get back, I want to see you smile. I've never seen you smile before, not even once."

"........................"

"Promise me. When Claire and I return, you’ll smile."

Mio whispered playfully in his ear, teasing him. Ignacio, still stiff as a board, awkwardly agreed while being embraced.

"...Alright. When you both return, I’ll smile."

Hearing the solemn resolve in his voice, Mio released him and looked down with a mischievous smile.

"Great! I’m looking forward to it. Don’t break your promise!"

"...No second thoughts. Just make sure you come back."

"Got it! Claire, me, and you—when we’re all back, we’ll take a picture together, all smiling."

Mio made an exaggerated fist pump and grinned at Ignacio. He, still blushing furiously, could only offer a stiff nod in response.

—He’s a good guy.

Everyone, from Hachidori to Ignacio to Ulshyrra, had been cold to Mio at first. But now, she could feel the warmth and kindness hidden deep inside each of them. It made her happy to have touched those feelings.

"We’re friends now, aren’t we?"

When she asked, Ignacio blushed even more and mumbled something. Though she couldn't quite hear the words, there was no hint of denial in his tone. Satisfied, Mio finally opened the door for real this time.

"See you later."

"...Yeah. See you."

After exchanging a few brief words, Mio stepped into the hallway. Leaning against the door, she looked up at the ceiling.

The silence closed in, and she exhaled softly. Her legs were trembling.

She was scared, no doubt about it.

If she were caught, she’d probably face terrible consequences. If she was taken back to Zenon, she might never lead a normal life again.

But she had to go.

She had to risk everything she’d worked for.

For the day when they could all smile together again.

"I’m coming, Claire."

Biting her lip, Mio set off towards the den of demons that awaited her.