6:25, Cent. Calendar 27/01/1640, La Roche, Menda Point

It was a cold winter morning in the straits like any other. A thin layer of fog hugged the surface of the ocean, dissipating by the minute as the golden streaks of a rejuvenated sun came rushing out of the horizon to the east. In the midst of this empty ocean lay hundreds of floating black stones several meters wide, jutting into the sky from the seas like the teeth of a colossal underwater monster. These clusters of jagged rocks, a definite hazard to any seagoing vessels, surrounded a group of three bigger islands, the biggest of which was hardly more than several square kilometers wide. The lack of significant vegetation and port facilities, natural resources for growth, and land to build settlements on ensured that no one colonized this place—at least, not until recently.

As part of its long-term objective of securing regional dominance, the Parpaldian Empire had set its eyes on this group of unnamed islands. There was nothing of note on the islands except for guano, bird droppings used as fertilizer, but the Parpaldians weren’t there for resources. By planting the flag on one of the more hospitable islands, which it called La Roche, Parpaldia was stamping its hold on the Altaras Strait intending to put more of the waterway under its sole control. In order to realize its designs on this southern region, it was paramount that these islands, collectively given the name Menda Point, were to be under their control. Building a lighthouse on where they initially planted their flag, they followed it by stationing a permanent garrison to keep the other major power, Altaras, at bay.

“Ughhh...”

The lone groan of a man echoed throughout the empty, pristine island, startling a couple of sea birds that had perched atop the battlements of an artillery dugout.

“Just a few more minutes, dammit...”

Allin, a soldat unfortunate enough to be posted in the middle of nowhere, was having a conundrum. As part of the night shift, which was about to end at 6:30 in the morning, he was supposed to have kept watch for the better part of the night. It was an unfair patrol system, adopted because there were only 20 of them on the island, and he just had to have rolled the worst possible face on the die. In what was essentially the middle of an endless ocean with nothing better to do, the most excitement he could enjoy was battling the vices of slumbering.

“Ah, shit...”

He leaned more against the cold, wooden chair of his westerly outpost. He could feel himself losing to the overwhelming power of his eyelids. It was soon to be decisive.

“Two minutes probably wouldn’t hurt anyone...”

He had just lost the battle of wills. Conceding to his carnal desire to rest, he finally allowed his eyelids to shut close. But just as they were about to, his sense for patrolling, cultivated after months on the job, noticed a discrepancy in the sliver of light entering his eyes. This also prompted him to jerk himself awake, and in a matter of moments, he was up on his feet as if he hadn’t been succumbing to sleep just a while ago.

“Hm?”

The discrepancy he noticed was two dark specks contrasting against the light blue morning sky to the west. His thoughts immediately considered them as wyverns, but the pressing fact he needed to know was whose side these wyverns were on. Binoculars in hand, he pointed them toward the two dark specks and looked through them. Sure enough, he was on the money about them being wyverns, but upon closer inspection of their identifiers—colored markers on the wings, tail, and abdomen of a wyvern for visual friend-or-foe identification—his heart skipped a beat. They were unmistakably blue and white: not the colors of the imperial banner, but of Altaras—of the enemy’s!

Immediately, blood shot through his arteries as his fight-or-flight response kicked into gear. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Two enemy wyverns, coming in low from the west! They’re heading toward us!!!”

Just as fast as startled sea birds flew off in surprise, the Parpaldian garrison of La Roche swiftly went into gear, alerted to the Altaran wyverns’ presence. After Allin’s call, others took to their binoculars to confirm the threat; hardly two minutes after his initial call, anti-wyvern munitions were already being brought out of the magazine and carried to the mortars.

“Prepare to fire the anti-wyvern shells!!!”

Their officer barked as the two enemy wyverns continued their approach. The garrison’s two mortar teams quickly loaded anti-wyvern shells into their dual-purpose mortars; in less than 20 seconds, their gunners had already put their hands on the primer mana circuit located on the mortar’s barrel and raised their other hand, signaling that they were ready.

The garrison officer watched as the enemy wyverns continued to close the distance. They were heading toward them, but they didn’t seem to be on an angle of attack. Judging from their movements, he deduced that they were simply conducting a scouting pass. Regardless of whether or not they were there to attack, their mission wasn’t to allow their presence unhindered. As soon as they were almost above them, the garrison officer barked.

“FIRE!!!”

Through a switch, the mortar gunners activated the primer mana circuit, its pre-programmed spell executed in just a little over two seconds. The mortar teams covered their ears immediately after the switch had been activated, their actions followed instantly by two distinct, resounding booms.

Bam! Bam!

In a fiery show of smoke and embers, two round objects were blasted at a steep angle that sent them high into the sky. As soon as they were airborne, the shells’ ticking timed fuses were well on their way to being exhausted.

“Take cover!!!”

Every single man on the ground hid beneath what cover they could find—the earthen dugouts, the brick battlements, or the sufficiently sturdy steel shielding of their artillery pieces—to prepare for what was to come. As the anti-wyvern shells were about to reach their zenith, their timed fuses were exhausted, causing their detonators to ignite their explosive filler. In a flash, two fireballs manifested in the air.

Boom! Boom!

The explosions’ blast wave unfurled in all directions, followed closely by thousands upon thousands of steel shrapnel traveling at ultra-fast speeds. Any wyvern unfortunate to have been caught in the blasts of these anti-wyvern shells, whether they be the regular breed or the overlord breed, would be utterly obliterated. A few seconds after the fact, the rain of shrapnel had ceased, and the officer motioned that it was now safe to come out.

The men emerged from their blast covers, coughing up smoke and dust sent flying by the mortars’ firing and the shrapnel hitting the earth. They looked up to see the flowers of explosive smoke created by their anti-wyvern shells, dissipating into the wind by second. But there were no wyverns visible. Perhaps they had shot them down in that engagement.

Just as the officer was about to order a couple of the men to search for downed wyverns, Allin, ever sharp-eyed, shouted once more at the top of his lungs.

“Spotted the two enemy wyverns! They seem to have avoided our shots and are now flying south!”

Everyone swiveled their heads to face south. There, in the rapidly brightening sky, they spotted the two Altaran wyverns seemingly unscathed and flying off into the distance. They knew not why they had only conducted a scouting pass of the island, but the fact that they allowed a couple of enemy wyverns to get close to La Roche and not shoot them down left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth; some were dejected enough to hurl curses at the sky.

“You motherfuckers! Come back here!”

The garrison officer took off his cap as he exhaled in mild disappointment. This had been the only action they’d had in a while, and the fact that they didn’t snag even one of the enemy wyverns was a difficult pill to swallow. After discarding those feelings, an idea popped into his head as to why an Altaran wyvern squadron decided to pay them a visit. But before he could brood over that idea, one of his men manning the island’s lone manacomm called his attention.

“Sir! Incoming transmission from a friendly wyvern squadron! They say they’re coming in from the north!”

The officer’s mood lightened up to the point that a smile appeared on his face. Talk about good timing! As a garrison on an immovable rock, there was little they could do against an enemy as maneuverable as a wyvern, but a wyvern squadron—a friendly wyvern squadron that was likely flying the improved wyvern lord breed—could even the scales. Desiring to get back at those pesky Altarans, the officer walked up to his subordinate.

“That’s great! I’ll take it from here.”

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6:44, the skies above La Roche

High in the skies, just a little bit north of La Roche flew two great, winged lizards. Including their wingspan, these mighty lizards were about as big as the legendary prop fighter planes of the Second World War, but their tough scales, mean-looking faces, and razor-sharp claws made them more intimidating to look at than when considering their air warfare capabilities. These lizards—wyverns, as everyone calls them—were bigger, faster, stronger, and had more stamina than their counterparts in the Altaran wyvern corps. Flying the identifiers of red and gold, these two wyvern lords belonged to the Parpaldian Empire and its elite, all-encompassing wyvern corps. As they glided along the wind to conserve energy and allow for longer times in the air, the crackle of manacomm speakers flaring to life replaced the sound of the wind in the ears of Reckmeyer, a seasoned wyvern rider and the senior in this squadron.

"Kkjakskd...—Galeas-4, this is Roche Station. Do you hear me? Over."

He heard the voice of a man different from the one he conversed with earlier.

"This is Galeas-4. I hear you, Roche Station. Over."

"Greetings, Galeas-4, and welcome to La Roche. Logging you down..."

As was protocol in the wyvern corps and the Parpaldian military, overseas stations like the one in La Roche are required to log down the unit of a passing wyvern patrol and the time they arrived and left; the wyvern patrol is required to report the station they passed and what time they arrived and left back to their base.

"Acknowledged. We're just passing by, so we're flying out again. Farewell! Galeas-4, o—"

Just before he could complete his sentence, the voice on the other end cut him off.

"Wait! A few minutes ago, at around 6:30, an enemy wyvern patrol just flew over; they didn't attack, and they seemed to be just doing a scouting pass. We counted a total of two regulars, and they were last heading south at around 150!"

Alarmed about the enemy wyvern patrol but finding it within expectation, Reckmeyer took note of his targets: two "regulars"—lingo for the common wyvern breed—with a last known heading of 150 degrees south. He looked over to his wingman, Rou, flying to his right and communicated to him that they were changing their patrol mission to that of a wyvern hunter. He turned on his manacomm again to speak.

"Two enemy regulars, last heading 150. Got it! Anything else to add?"

"That would be all. Fair winds, Galeas-4. Logging you out at 6:46. This is Roche Station, out."

"Copy, 6:46. See you around Roche Station. Galeas-4, out."

Switching channels to that of his main base back in Palmerie, Reckmeyer reports their station and departure time. As they pass over the almost tree-less La Roche island, they spot the lighthouse built atop its highest point and the modest line of fortifications built around it. All around the dugouts and artillery positions were the silhouette of the island's garrison, who seemed like ants from their perspective flying over them. Those same people he saw turned to face them and waved their hands in greeting; he and his wingman returned the gesture and waved their hands back at them.

As the two wyvern lords of squadron Galeas zoomed south past the Parpaldian-held islands, the men on La Roche waved them farewell, sending them off with pride and hopes as high as the heavens.

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6:53, the skies south of Menda Point

Meanwhile, several kilometers south of Menda Point and just narrowly missing the Parpaldian wyvern patrol that entered the area, two wyvern riders and their wyverns continued to fly south. Emblazoned with blue and white identifiers, the fact that their allegiance lay with the kingdom of Altaras was unmistakable. This squadron of wyvern riders, named "Daigu," had a special mission from Navy Command, but the troubled looks on their faces suggested that there had been a setback.

"Dammit! Are you sure they weren't there?!"

The rider piloting the wyvern flying at the front of the formation, squadron commander Saia, couldn't contain her frustration as she screamed at her manacomm.

"Yes, ma'am! I checked every corner of the islands, at least before the swine on Kaskiy fired at us!"

The one who replied, Akko, was the one flying behind Saia and the other member of Daigu. "Kaskiy" was the Altaran name for La Roche, given to the island after the Parpaldians occupied it, named it, and claimed it for their own. But the island nor its garrison was not what they were after. As Saia began to tear up in anger beneath her flight goggles, she hovered her hand over a pocket on her saddle, just beneath the flight instruments. It was a pocket with a clear film that allowed its contents to be visible, and inside was a monochromatic picture of a metallic ship: a cruiser.

After turning off her manacomm, she cried out into the incoming gale.

"Why can't I do anything right?!"

Saia had long dreamt of being a flyer. She grew up fascinated by the mechanical biplanes, first bought by Altaras a decade ago, flying over her hometown in the countryside. There was nothing more exhilarating than being one with the clouds, imagining herself in the pilot's seat. But to get to be a pilot of those aircraft, that would entail first joining the wyvern corps—in other words, joining the military. As a girl from the countryside, this was an exceptionally difficult thing to do. Women serving in the armed forces was not unheard of: there were stories and tales of women heroes in not only Altaras but all across the region. Regardless of that, there still existed a stigma that women are only meant to serve 'in the rear;' the idea of women in frontline duties, such as that of a wyvern rider, was still frowned upon. Nevertheless, she persisted against the stigma and mental abuse from her superiors and peers; contrary to their expectations, she came out on top.

But the peculiarity of a woman serving at the frontline as a wyvern rider only earned her the annoyance of her peers, the sidelined looks of her superiors, and the disappointment of her family. She got her dream but at an exceptional cost. Believing she could still earn their respect, she strived to achieve something great, but her efforts to be noticed were actively shot down by everyone. It was at this time that the gods appeared to have shined their light on her.

Their special mission, handed down directly from Navy Command, was to find the cruiser in the picture, which was last seen heading towards the general area of Menda Point. Their mission was part of a bigger operation involving almost the entirety of the navy, and the magnitude of her role's importance made her think that success here would land her her big break. With the other squadrons of Altaras's tiny wyvern corps already preoccupied with other missions, Navy Command entrusted the mission to her squadron, Daigu. She could never forget the irked expression on her superior's face—probably because he had no choice in her being chosen for this mission, as he handed her the mission details—and she could never stop herself from giggling at the idea of seeing her superior's annoyed face after he hears that she was successful in her mission.

But right now, that was all in danger. They made a scouting pass of Menda Point and took a good look at the islands' secluded bays, but the sight of the cruiser eluded them. The garrison on Kaskiy spotted them and fired at them with anti-wyvern munitions, which they evaded just in the nick of time, but they were forced to fly away.

"What now, ma'am?"

The voice of Akko echoed in her earpiece. What now, indeed? There was a possibility that the cruiser bypassed the islands and continued to sail northeast, but the latest sighting indicated that they were approaching the islands. Knowing the superior number and capabilities of the enemy's wyvern corps, it was possible that the garrison on Kaskiy had already called on nearby enemy patrols and reported to them their last known heading, meaning that it was risky to try and go back to do another search. Feeling herself shrink at the lack of options and the voice of her superior echoing in her head, saying, "I was right. You were a mistake," she was about to lose it again when her manacomm started beeping.

Beep beep beep beep!

It was an incoming transmission. Wiping the snot off her nostrils and collecting herself, she turned on the manacomm.

"Alqkiaos—Daigu-1, do you read? This is Selma. We are entering the AO at coordinates..."

It was Selma, the callsign of the naval task force central to the operation her special mission is a part of. It would seem that they're finally approaching the vicinity of Menda Point.

"Uh—acknowledged, Selma. Proceeding to 29° 48' 22.57" North, 0° 37' 0.6' East. Daigu-1, out."

Saia responded to Selma, repeating the coordinates where the naval task force was. In a very high combat readiness situation short of actual combat, if conditions permit, it was common practice for wyvern patrols and the units they cooperate with to share information within visual sight of one another. While the adoption of the manacomm made this redundant, it was still being practiced.

The coordinates where the naval task force was put them far to the southwest of Menda Point, so the two wyverns of squadron Daigu took a wide turn towards the southwest.

"What do we tell them, ma'am?"

Akko, having listened in on the conversation, asked his senior.

There was little in the way that they could do about it, but they also just couldn't tell them that the cruiser wasn't there. They don't know that. Finding an uncomfortable solution to this impasse, Saia resolved herself and replied to Akko.

"Don't worry. I'll handle it."

Slicing through the wind at awesome speeds, squadron Daigu settled on their new heading to the southwest as an atmosphere of unease overpowered the overbearing salty smell of the sea.

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7:18, the oceans ~78km southwest of Menda Point

Far to the southwest of Menda Point, a long array of heavy steel and creaking wood hulls tore through the unusually calm ocean waves of this unassuming late Jaisrak morning. A weak, cold wind was blowing from the southwest, pushing along the partially unfurled sails of the dozens of sailships and dictating the direction that the thick, black smoke exhaled by the steel-hulled ships blew into. This long singular line of warships seemingly stretching into the horizon flew the Altaran standard. Task Force Selma, consisting of 59 warships and 40 support ships and sloops-of-war, was steaming steadily towards Menda Point.

Arranged in a manner where the biggest, most powerful warships are sailing in front, with the cruisers, ironclads, and then the rated ships following them in that order, they plowed at half speed through seawater and uncertainty. With the Rahmi Kaymakk, the most powerful battleship in the Royal Altaran Navy, leading the way, its sister ship, the Andras Kaymakk, followed behind.

On board the Andras Kaymakk, Mirliva (Vice Admiral) Iskann stood on the bridge together with Binbasi (Captain) Bos, the vice-captain, the conning officer, and the other crew. Other than the constant hum of the ship’s boilers, the clanking of steel under heavy footsteps, and the gawking of seagulls flying about, it was eerily tranquil. But this was prefaced with a tension that hung in the air, its only symptom being the stern look present on everyone’s faces.

“Steer 047.”

The conning officer said out loud, the tension awfully clear in his slow articulation.

“Aye! Steer 047.”

The helmsman repeated the order word for word, the tense tone included. His hands on the ship’s wheel moved it accordingly, and the ship responded with a very slight turn to the right. This was in response to a slight course alteration by the Rahmi Kaymakk, which was traveling ahead of them.

Meanwhile, Captain Bos stared at the horizon roughly in the direction of where Menda Point would be. He remembers the emergency discussion from yesterday evening. The heavy atmosphere from that meeting—from everyone having the same idea of being sent on this fool’s errand by the king—had still not dissipated. He kept a calm and composed pose as was expected of an officer, but his hands and jaw shook uncontrollably in silence. Reports from both the lone wyvern squadron accompanying them and lookouts came back with “Clear. No enemy patrols in the vicinity,” but there was only so much area their very few eyes could cover. It was not terribly difficult to assume the Parpaldians now knew they were coming and even less so to assume that they had prepared a fleet for them in kind—in fact, that was one of the contingencies they had planned for. But as they approached the group of islands, Vice Admiral Iskann ordered the task force into a battle line, already having that irresistible gut feeling that they were about to face a Parpaldian response fleet.

The strain on everyone was at its limit. Everyone’s nerves were at their most sensitive. It was no surprise then that when the shout of a communications officer rang through their ears, it made them jump.

“Captain! Daigu-1 is on approach! 060!”

Instantly recollecting himself from the jitters, Bos walked toward the starboard side of the bridge.

“Lookouts! Incoming friendly patrol at 060! Tell me if you have visual confirmation!”

His orders rapidly made their way to the lookouts, who frantically adjusted their watch to the skies of the northeasterly direction of 060; Bos himself grabbed a pair of binoculars to join in the collective effort.

“There! I see them! Two friendly wyverns at 060, 20 degrees from the horizon!”

One of the lookouts screamed. Everyone readjusted their view according to the lookout’s report, and soon enough, they themselves started to see the distinctive dark silhouette of wyverns against the blue skies. With the blue and white identifiers of their wyvern corps confirmed by the more eagle-eyed spotters, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief, though the tension nonetheless remained.

The two wyverns of squadron Daigu closed in before turning into a circular holding pattern above the fleet to preserve their speed and energy, which they would exhaust a lot of if they had descended to sea level, hovered, and then flew out again. As Saia waved to the flagship from her wyvern, she called out in the manacomm.

“Daigu-1 to Selma, reporting in!”

“Selma to Daigu-1. It’s good to see you!”

To her and Akko’s surprise, they heard the gruff voice of the vice admiral answering them. The shock of answering to an officer of such a high rank paralyzed her for a good moment, but she recollected herself just as fast, deciding to skip the pleasantries and get down to the mission.

“Report: target is confirmed to be in Menda Point! The garrison on Kaskiy is also well-armed with artillery, but I don’t think they should be a problem!”

Akko’s eyes widened in an uneasy mix of surprise and agreement. They had never spotted the target cruiser in Menda Point, after all. Nevertheless, he elected to swallow his words and go with his superior’s lie.

Back on the Andras Kaymakk, hearing of the confirmation that the wounded cruiser of the Parpaldian squadron was in Menda Point, Iskann nodded his head in acknowledgment, but the wariness in his eyes was still there. With their mission proceeding as planned so far, the only thing left to do was to get to Menda Point and carry it out. He turned back to the bridge’s audio-use manacomm to acknowledge the wyvern riders.

“Very good, Daigu-1. Thank you for the confirmation.”

Saia stared blankly at her where she was looking at when those words reached her ears. Her heart had skipped a beat, confused by the information her mind was processing. After all this time training in the flight academy and working with the wyvern corps, she could not recall the last time her efforts had been rewarded with gratitude. But then, reality set in as the cold winds blasted her exposed lips and cheeks, for she remembered the teeny lie she had just uttered to get that reward. Almost as soon as her heart skipped a beat, it skipped another, this time in regret and guilt.

“Acknowledged, Selma. We’re resuming patrol run, heading straight north. Daigu-1, out.”

Her mouth moved on its own, driven by some desire to bury herself in the mire of patrol duty.

“Copy, Daigu-1, heading north. May the gods be with you. Selma, out.”

As soon as the flagship uttered its last words, the channel went silent, replaced by the cascading sound of the wind. She yanked on the control mechanisms on her saddle, a movement the wyvern recognized to mean “bank left;” Akko, following her from behind, mirrored her. Soon, squadron Daigu was headed north, leaving the battle line of Task Force Selma behind.

7:18, the skies just south of La Roche

At around the same time, far away to the east, just south of La Roche, the pair of wyvern lords of squadron Galeas flew in from the southeast. The wyvern lords purred as they slightly extended their heads toward the direction of the island group, showing their excitement at seeing land again. Their riders, meanwhile, didn't share the same sentiment as their reptilian comrades.

"Well, that was useless."

The younger of the two, Rou, made clear his disappointment as he reclined on his saddle.

"Not from my perspective, it's not. Fix your posture."

Reckmeyer, ever the mission-focused when on patrol, chided his subordinate. He shared his sentiment, and he would have said the same thing had he been flying with his superiors, but as the metaphorical big brother, he believed that he needed to lead by example.

Since they had returned to Menda Point, he needed to log the pass to both Roche Station and Palmerie.

"Roche Station, this is Galeas-4..."

As his superior logged their pass, Rou took the time to survey the surroundings. As part of the requirements of being in the wyvern corps, they needed to have sharp eyesight and sharper situational awareness. Still, there was only so much they could physically do, so to supplement their capabilities, their wyverns were also trained to seek out threats and report them to their riders. Possessing a much superior sense of smell and eyesight—they can even see in the dark, although limited—the wyverns could easily spot another wyvern at a distance greater than their rider, although it isn't infallible. Through simple groans, growls, and turning their head to where they perceive a threat, they could communicate to their rider where danger might strike.

Since his wyvern wasn't behaving in a peculiar way, he surmised that there weren't any nearby threats to look out for. Nevertheless, he kept his wits about him.

"Oi, Rou!"

Suddenly, the loud cry of his superior thundered through his earpiece, causing him to recoil back in pain. He screamed back. "Yes, sir?!"

"Trouble's brewing! The navy task force we've been briefed about has just pinged Roche Station. Looks like the heat is coming here!"

The wyvern corps has maintained a watchful eye over a certain Altaran Navy task force believed to be shadowing Squadron 5, which had taken shelter in Menda Point and camouflaged itself from wyvern patrols. However, they lost sight of the task force late last night when a couple of Altaran wyvern squadrons actively denied them from shadowing it, so the wyvern corps could only assume where they were heading. Apparently, the navy had an idea of their own: much to their surprise in the daily briefing earlier, they had just been informed by the navy that they were sending a massive task force called "Nalina" to the vicinity of Menda Point. As luck would have it, too, they, squadron Galeas, were assigned the area around Menda Point with the orders to "supplement Task Force Nalina and defend them from aerial threats."

Neither he nor Reckmeyer took the orders with the seriousness that demanded it since even their superiors in the wyvern corps themselves weren't too sure that the Altaran task force was heading to Menda Point. But with the Altaran wyvern patrol passing over La Roche and the navy task force pinging the station, it now seemed believable that an engagement was going to happen. After cursing the lack of communication between the wyvern corps and the navy, all that Rou could do now was follow through on their orders.

"Fuck! Are we really going to face off against an Altaran fleet?!"

"Language!...and yeah, guess we are."

Swallowing their intense feelings of anger and nervousness, squadron Galeos logged off their pass over La Roche and turned to the last known position of the Altaran fleet as per their briefing: far to the southwest of Menda Point.

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7:41, the skies ~66km southwest of Menda Point

Twenty minutes have passed since squadron Galeas logged their pass over La Roche. The two wyvern lords flew against the wind and descended just a bit from their routine patrol altitude. They were originally headed southwest, but at one point, their wyverns started turning their heads to the northwest, alluding to a possible foreign contact. Heading their wyverns' groaning, they turned northwest. That was 8 minutes ago, and their eyes were still glued to the northwestern horizon, ready to call out any discrepancies they could spot.

"Anything?"

Reckmeyer checked in with Rou, hoping he might have seen something he didn't with his younger eyes.

"All clear, cap'n."

Rou replied with dry enthusiasm, something that Reckmeyer couldn't even chide—he, too, was feeling a bit fatigued. With the initial adrenaline thrill of knowing they'd be entering combat today having worn out, his body felt heavy, likely due to the level of hormones circulating in his body having careened off a cliff. Still, to justify to himself and his subordinate that their initial zeal was not for naught, he kept his eyes glued to the horizon.

Then, he felt a distinct, subtle grumble emanate from below his saddle. It was his wyvern lord, growling and extending its neck forward.

"What is it, buddy?!"

He turned his attention back to the northwesterly horizon and squinted his eyes further. A slight, muddy discoloration to the hazy horizon. Not long after, billowing, black smoke.

"Smoke, dead ahead, cap'n!"

Rou cried out through the manacomm, informing him that he wasn't the only one seeing it. Moments later, the billowing black smoke had turned into the size of a storm cloud; it was soon followed by the imposing silhouette of a mast, followed by the smoke stacks, and then finally, the defining steel bow plowing through the waves. And it was not just one: it was an entire line of ships in a battle line, heading northeast. Amidst all that, though, one detail stuck out: the banners of blue and white flying high above the ships.

"I-I-It's the Altarans!"

Their words eluded them as the adrenaline started to circulate through their body once more. Their hearts started to beat faster and faster, the pores in their palms outpacing them at the rate at which they pumped out sweat. For a good few seconds, they just stared at the Altaran ships, which were growing in size by the moment. Reckmeyer snapped back first and instantly switched the channel on his manacomm to that of Palmerie Air Base.

"Rapace, priority message! I repeat, prio—"

Out of nowhere, the deafening thunderclaps of sonic booms blasted his ears: bullets were now zipping past him and Rou en masse. It didn't take long for them to see where they were coming from.

"Shit!"

Intermittent flashes erupted out of the decks of the Altaran ships, followed by the rat-a-tat reminiscent of circuit guns and the army's rapid-fire cannons.

"On me, Rou! Ah, fuck—"

Reckmeyer called out to his subordinate to follow his lead, but a frightening near-miss from a bullet cut him off.

・・・

"Two unknown contacts on the horizon, 112!"

The resounding cry of one of the lookouts aboard the Andras Kaymakk rang through the ears of everyone on the bridge. The unease that continued to persist made them quick on their feet, prompting anyone with a pair of binoculars to walk to the starboard side and point them to the southeasterly horizon. It didn't take long for them to spot the unknown interlopers, which were flying relatively lower than they expected. Captain Bos, with his pair of binoculars and aged pair of eyes, struggled to make out the wyverns' identifiers, but he had his work cut out for him.

"P-Parpaldian identifiers confirmed! They're hostile!"

Another lookout screamed, and all at once, everyone's hearts caved. "This is it!" echoed throughout the heads of every man on the Andras Kaymakk. Jittery and overcome with shock, everyone on the bridge stood still; it wasn't before the commanding shriek of Vice Admiral Iskann reverberated through the bridge that the crew got into gear.

"What are you waiting for?!"

Iskann turned to the signalmen and the communications officers and started barking orders.

"Tell every ship about those enemy wyverns and to be ready for anti-air combat!"

As the signalmen and communications officers acknowledged their orders and executed them with promptness, Captain Bos, as the master of the Andras Kaymakk battleship, took to the reins.

"Condition red! All hands, action stations! Ready anti-air! Contact 112!"

Whistles and bells rang all throughout the ship as designated sailors hurried to man the anti-air machine guns mounted on the battleship's starboard deck.

"Enemy wyverns, 600 enlac (3km)!"

A lookout screamed, prompting the captain and vice admiral to pick up their binoculars and look at the incoming wyverns once more. They were now bigger from their perspective, and they could even make out the wyvern's features. It was noticeably bigger, bulkier, and had darker scales than the regular wyvern, which indicated that these may be the rumored wyvern lords. Reports were scant on their definite capabilities, but there was one thing that was undoubtedly dangerous about these reptiles: they can turn around and safely report their position back to their scummy overlords.

But while they were still coming, it was imperative that they try and ensure that these wyverns—even if they were the lord breed—never return home.

"400 enlac (2km)!"

Sailors rushed to get heavy boxes of machine gun munitions to the guns as their gunners ensured they were in the best shape to fire. In less than a minute, the guns went from being stowed away for storage to being fed, cocked, and ready to spit fire.

"All starboard anti-air batteries ready, sir!"

With all that was left was the order to let rip the engines of death, Captain Bos stared at the incoming enemy wyverns. They had come close to the point that he could now see the riders, who were staring back at them with a dumb look on their faces; Bos thought to himself that perhaps even these men from the other side were also having their jittery moments. Before he could lament about the sad fact that they had to fight one another, the roar of the lookouts pierced his ears.

"200 enlac (1km)!"

200 enlac, well within their machine guns' range. It wasn't going to be that effective, and the spread will be atrocious, but it was do or die—now or never. At this very moment, his mind went blank, but his body, embodied with the mission they needed to carry out, moved on its own.

"OPEN FIRE~!"

His voice cracked, but before this embarrassing moment could be laughed on, the horrendously vicious staccato of machine gun fire buried it a thousand times over.

Ratatatatatat!

Flashes erupted all across the Andras Kaymakk's starboard deck as volleys upon volleys of bullets were blasted into the sky. In a little over five seconds, more than a thousand bullets were airborne. The Andras wasn't alone: flashes also sparkled from the Rahmi and the Saveh-class cruisers trailing behind them like there was no tomorrow.

Bos kept his eyes glued to the pair of binoculars he was holding—in fact, the eyepieces had dug well into his skin to create circular marks around his eye sockets. He watched as blistering hot tracer bullets zipped around the two enemy wyverns, which had begun to react with agitation. But miraculously—or to them, infuriatingly—enough, none of their machine gun fire was hitting the enemy wyverns.

Nearly 20 seconds since they started blasting away, they were still yet to achieve any kills when both enemy wyverns suddenly executed a sharp banking maneuver to the left, instantly putting them out of their gunsights. The abrupt change in course caught even seasoned officers like Bos and Iskann by surprise, having never seen a wyvern perform such a brisk and snappy move.

The enemy wyverns, having lost considerable energy and speed in such a maneuver, rapidly flapped their wings to regain speed as they flew farther and farther from the Altaran task force. The machine gunners, also caught off guard by the maneuver, readjusted their aim, but as the wyverns were now flying off in a direction more parallel to theirs, they now had to take into account target lead.

Their machine guns continued to rattle dozens of seconds after the fact, but as the silhouette of the enemy wyverns grew smaller and smaller, the disappointing fact that they had failed to bring them down had set in. Now that the enemy wyverns were fairly outside their guns' range, Bos gave the order to cease fire.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!"

Bos, Vice Admiral Iskann, and everybody on the bridge, their adrenaline finally spent, wore disgruntled expressions on their faces. The only thing that resulted from that engagement was the clouds of propellant smoke, worn-out machine gun barrels, thousands of spent casings on the decks, and an enemy that was now very much aware of their presence, force disposition, and location.

Iskann leaned forward on the steel railings on the bridge and placed his arms onto them. He took off his service cap, closed his eyes, and tried to wipe the sweat and dissatisfaction off of his face with his hands, but to no avail. He had come to terms with the fact that no amount of experience and expertise could help him overcome the odds this time; with the enemy now well aware of their presence, it had become undeniably certain that they will respond to them in kind. Sure, they've formed into a battle line already, but the enemy knows what to expect; on the other hand, they don't. With their objective in mind, there were still some tricks and specifics in the enemy's wyvern patrol patterns that they could exploit to try and avoid further direction.

Pulling himself away from the railings and taking an upright stance, he turned to face the bridge crew of the Andras Kaymakk, who looked to him with great expectation.

"Fleet, change course to 303, maintain battle line!"

As ordered, the Andras Kaymakk's signalmen and communications officers got to work informing the rest of the fleet. Within half a minute, the battleship Rahmi Kaymakk, which was leading the Altaran line of battle, executed a sharp turn to the left. Keeping their line astern formation, the Andras, and then the Saveh-class cruisers, and so on followed the maneuver of the ship in front of them; before the hand struck 8, all ships of Task Force Selma were now heading northwest.

[https://img.wattpad.com/a01b3b3d125e776cdf2d4f9bf214b222690ebcdb/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f697577464e5771684b35595f77673d3d2d313338383530373832362e313738633234396638316333653232643434323031393930373436302e706e67]

7:59, the skies ~61km northwest of Menda Point

"All sectors seem to be clear."

This simple line indicating that there were no abnormalities all around them zapped through a silent manacomm channel as two wyverns flying the Altaran identifiers glided through the clear azure skies. Flying in a staggered formation, the lead rider, Saia, flew ahead of the wingman, Akko. Upon receiving his superior's report, he, too, broadcasted on the channel with a similar conclusion.

"Copy. All sectors are clear."

After the last grainy buzz that followed his words played out, silence once more gripped the atmosphere around them, interrupted only by the background sound of winds battering against their headgear. For the past 40 or so minutes since they left Selma to do their patrol, deafening silence had come to characterize the mood between the two. Saia, her lie earlier weighing heavily on her conscience, was hard at work trying to bury all her feelings under a mound of distractions; meanwhile, Akko, unsure of what to say to his superior, resolved to wait for her to try and break the ice, but for every minute of silence that passed, his shoulders grew heavier and heavier from trying to bear the awkwardness. Either way, for as much as this unbearable tension between them persisted and grew, so too did the amount of airspace they've crossed that there wasn't any enemy presence.

Sure, they'd rather not have to deal with the better-equipped, trained, and experienced Parpaldian wyvern squadrons, but both riders were feeling that things were going a little too well.

"Hm?"

Before they knew it, the once spotless blue skies they'd been flying in had become a touch more cloudy as the wings of their wyverns sliced through a group of dense, fluffy clouds like knives through butter. Suddenly, their consistent long-range visibility had dropped to intermittent breaks in the cloud formation. It was unfortunate that they ran into a sudden formation of clouds, and as wyvern riders, they knew that it was imperative that they try and make for the clear skies above this cloud layer to get better visibility. Leading the way, Saia and her wyvern climbed in altitude, following the column of clouds as Akko trailed from behind. Pain gripped their chests as breathing got a lot more difficult from the lower concentration of breathable air, but the wyvern riders persevered, having been trained to endure such conditions for a prolonged amount of time. Spotting a sliver of blue amidst the opaque ceiling of clouds, they flew towards it. Within seconds, they passed through the hole and were once more bathed in a shower of golden sunshine. As soon as they were out of the clouds, Saia and Akko instantly maneuvered their wyverns to execute a roll that put them back on level flight.

"Wow..."

A weakened breath escaped Saia's mouth, but it clearly contained a strong tone of amazement. She had flown countless missions up to that point, but the breathtaking sight of a film of pearly white clouds beneath the endless expanse of the deep blue heavens was something that never fails to make her emotional. With her mouth agape at the scenery, for perhaps the first time in the last hour, all that was in her heart was a sense of touching awe. Everything grew silent and the pain in her lungs ebbed away as bittersweet memories of bygone childhood dreams of becoming one with the sky returned to life; if not for the stinging reality of their culture and social norms, she could just be content with being a rider for the wyvern corps if she could do something like this every now and then.

"Conta...otted...elev...ock..."

Amidst her dazed daydreaming, she was disturbed by the sound of someone screaming something incoherent. At first, she paid no heed to it, charmed by the allure of the escape, but she heard it again, although this time, it was a lot clearer.

"Repeat... Contact... eleven... clock... Ma'am!"

Her eyes widened as the word "ma'am" stung her ears. In an instant, she returned to her senses, her eyes, ears, and sensation on her fingers having returned to their usual snappy state. She didn't completely hear what she was hearing, but she knew all too well the voice behind it—above all, she knew what it meant. Her eyes instantly turned to the eleven o'clock direction and sure enough, she immediately found what her subordinate had been calling out: two unusually large wyverns flying the Parpaldian indicators on a level flight, headed straight toward them.

Fuck!

She cursed herself for daydreaming on patrol and consequently putting her and her subordinate's life in danger. It was a far greater shame than the lie she put out to the fleet. But there was no time to lament and regret what could have been; the enemy wyverns were beelining for them, but a split-second visual guesstimate of their speed meant that there was enough time to react, but most importantly: fight back.

"Guns, guns, guns!"

Saia instantly barked the order for guns, to which she and Akko instantly grabbed the standard issue Muish-built semi-automatic pistol every Altaran wyvern rider is issued with, which was neatly holstered on their saddle on their dominant hand's side. In less than two seconds, both Altaran riders had taken, cocked, and aimed their pistols at the incoming Parpaldian wyverns.

Since wyverns had no inherent capabilities that could be exploited for ranged attacks, scuffles between wyverns of opposing forces occurred in melee range; long ago, this was done by utilizing the wyverns' naturally strong and sharp claws, but as time went on, they were supplanted with ranged weapons carried by the rider that continued to grow in sophistication. Today, any power that hasn't managed to make the ultimate jump from wyvern to aircraft armed their wyverns with semi-automatic and even automatic weapons, typically those that could be operated with one hand so as to not burden the rider. Regardless of the technological development, the goal of wyvern-against-wyvern combat remained unchanged from ancient times, which was to inflict the most damage on the squishiest, weakest part of a wyvern: its rider. But due to combat being exhausting and taxing on the limited resources a wyvern can carry, it is often mandated in many wyvern corps that—unless necessary, part of the objective, or remotely possible with limited effort—wyvern riders are not to enter unnecessarily and dragged out engagements with opposing wyverns.

This time, however, it would seem that the enemy's goal was to dispose of them, so there was no other recourse but to fight back. Fortunately, the enemy wyverns were coming toward them at a relatively easy angle to face, allowing both Saia and Akko to discharge their weapons directly in the face of the enemy. But something was off.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Wha—?!

The enemy wyverns were closing in far faster than she had initially estimated: they couldn't fire the amount of shots she was trained to unleash in such a scenario before they were gutted. Just then, she spotted the enemy wyverns extend the claws on all their limbs—they were now primed for a nasty melee takedown. Her gut instinct called out to her: it's now or never.

"Shit! Evade! Evade! Evade!"

She barked onto the manacomm as she swiftly holstered her gun, took the control mechanisms to hand, and maneuvered her wyvern to get out of harm's way; Akko did the same. Hardly a moment after she did so, she felt a surge of air brush against the exposed nape of her neck. She didn't need to turn back to see where it came from: the enemy wyvern's massive claws had just narrowly missed her head as it passed at tremendous speed where she was moments earlier.

"Fuck! Fuck! That was too close!"

Her heartbeat surged to the hundreds as adrenaline raced throughout her body. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as the fact that she almost died moments earlier took its toll on her psyche. But there was no time to be agitated.

"Akko, you there?!"

"Yes, ma'am! I'm alright!"

The weight on her heart eased a little upon hearing the unscathed voice of her subordinate. Knowing that their numbers were still neck and neck, it was time for them to strike back. She looked towards her far right, instantly spotting the pair of enemy wyverns hugging the cloudscape and continuing on their southwesterly course. With a determined look in her eyes, she resolved herself.

"Get your shit together! We're chasing after them! Form on me!"

Saia tugged on her wyvern, getting it to face the direction of the enemy wyvern before adjusting her stirrup-like mechanisms to tell it to increase speed. As her wyvern and Akko similarly hugged the level terrain-like cloud formation underneath, both of them flapped their wings at full force to get to as fast a speed as they could. At one point, they reached 150 km/h, but it was unsustainable for the wyverns to keep this speed lest they wanted to wear them down and force them to the ground. Nevertheless, their efforts were bearing fruit: the distance between them and the enemy wyvern squadron was closing.

"Almost there!"

The size of the enemy wyverns had grown to match that of their palms fully extended from their body—in other words, they were getting close enough to fire upon with their pistols. Fortunately for them, the enemy wyverns didn't make any sort of evasive maneuver whatsoever. At Saia's command, they once again drew their pistols, cocked them, and pointed them right at the backs of the now-visible enemy wyvern riders. The harrowing barrage of winds made it difficult for them to maintain a steady aim, but it would seem that they were afforded all the time in the world. Just as they seemed to have steadied their aim, however...

Ah!

The enemy wyverns' large wings extended upwards before instantly flapping, sending a powerful surge of air backward and right into their faces. This destabilized their aim and rocked their wyverns from their stable positions, but it also served the enemy wyverns: before they knew it, the enemy wyverns were about as distant as they were at the start of their chase, resetting all their progress. The mindboggling speed of the enemy's wyverns baffled Saia and Akko, but it also crushed their hearts; after all, how well could they really fare against what were basically beasts that were superior in all aspects to their own, piloted by men as heartless and as ruthless as those Parpaldian imperialist pigs?

But at the same time, they just can't allow their enemies to have their way. Neither Akko nor Saia held any sympathies for the king, but the thought of Parpaldian boots dirtying the soil of their hometowns was something they could never bring to accept. After a brief moment consoling their wyverns, which are intelligent enough to assume what their riders are asking of them to do, they asked them to exert as much effort as they could one more time; in an instant, the Altaran wyverns broke into a dash once more.

Unfortunately, for all their efforts, the distance never closed—if anything, it only kept on growing. No matter how much the Altaran wyverns flapped their wings, they could never seem to gain on their Parpaldian counterparts, which on the contrary had ceased flapping their wings but were still getting further and further away. Before long, the enemy wyverns were about as tiny as half the width of their thumbs fully extended from their person.

"Shit!"

Just then, the enemy wyverns—already far enough for their silhouettes to be muddled by the distant haze—turned sharply towards the left, disappearing on a course for the southeast. Accepting that they could no longer chase after them, the two ordered their wyverns to cease their flapping and return to their regular cruising state. Saia, herself exhausted from the ordeal, took the time to catch her breath. She closed her eyes and formulated their next move in her mind.

There were two enemy wyverns, probably of the so-called "lord" breed based on their appearance and performance. They were last headed southeast, which may put Selma at risk...

It was clear what they had to do next. As the only Altaran wyvern unit in the area, the fleet's defense from air attacks was also their responsibility, in addition to their responsibilities as reconnaissance for the wyvern corps. Manacomm in hand, she turned the channel to the one used to report to the command in Le Brias, but before she reported on enemy activity, she turned her wyvern to a southwesterly course—toward Task Force Selma.

7:59, the skies above La Roche

Meanwhile, on the eastern side of the area of operations, just above Menda Point, another pair of wyvern riders were also catching their breaths after a harrowing encounter with the enemy force. Flying in a circular holding pattern above the island of La Roche, they pinged the station there of their presence.

"Goddamn... That was a close one!"

Rou let loose his lips as his heartbeat remained high. For him, there were just not enough words to describe the kind of hell they went through.

"You're right. Who knew we'd go against all of the enemy's big boy ships in one place?!"

Reckmeyer, himself struggling to recollect his wits from the experience, shared his impressions. As significantly emotional as the encounter had been, they still managed to do what they were being paid for: their commanders back home now knew that the massive Altaran task force they had been tracking was in the vicinity of Menda Point with the possibility that they're gunning for the islands now all but certain. The navy's hunch to send its own task force to deal with this threat had paid off greatly. For now, all they had to do was just await the arrival of their fleet.

Beep beep beep beep!

It was coming from his manacomm. An incoming transmission.

"Galeas-4, this is Roche Station. Be advised: we've received the ping of an entity identifying themselves as 'Nalina.' They're a fleet of 49 warships and 20 supports coming from the north with a course bearing of 200."

It would seem that the fleet was finally entering the area. Reckmeyer and Rou looked at one another with exhilaration; a great battle was upon them. No longer do they have to deal with menial tasks of reconnaissance sprinkled with the occasional enemy wyvern encounters and enemy naval squadron harassment missions—no, this was finally going to be a massive, all-out slugfest. Setting their sights on the incoming fleet, Reckmeyer acknowledged Roche Station's call when his manacomm sounded once more.

Beep beep beep beep!

Another transmission, it would seem. Switching to the indicated channel, he heard a familiar voice past the grainy sound quality.

"Akjkqwss—Galeas-4, you hear me? Vicro-6, here."

His heart skipped a beat. It wasn't every day that he'd get to hear a voice so close to his heart in the midst of an operation, especially one as important as this one.

"I hear you loud and fucking clear, Vicro-6. Tell me: what in the goddamned hell are you doing on this channel, Max?!"

Dropping the formalities, Reckmeyer addressed the caller with his personal name, Max. Having grown up as buddies since primary school, they both entered flight school at the same time but were assigned to different units upon graduation. It had been roughly a year since they last saw each other, but they were still as close as ever.

"I'm here to be the source of your problems, Recker: we just encountered enemy regulars at around uhh... 19 tacour (50km) west of Menda Point. We didn't manage to bring them down, but we shook them off; we last saw them headed southwest."

Reckmeyer and Rou, who were listening in, looked at one another. While they couldn't discount the possibility that there was more than one enemy squadron operating in the area if they are to assume that they rendezvoused with the enemy task force and draw their flight path based on earlier reports, it makes sense that the squadron that they were chasing an hour ago could have encountered squadron Vicro.

"Actually, to tell you the truth: my dumbass of a subordinate here accidentally dropped his gun into the ocean earlier, so we're one gun short. Think you can handle engaging the enemy regulars if we were to switch?"

Another message from Max came in. To Reckmeyer, the answer was as clear as the skies above him, but they, too, had a mission to fulfill. But then, surely there wouldn't be any harm in trading tasks with another squadron, right? Pushing the button on his manacomm to speak, he gave his answer to Max.

"You underestimate my powers, old friend... Anywho, we also have a task that needs doing: a task force from the navy, identifying as 'Nalina,' is arriving from the north with a course bearing of 200. We're the ones doing the 'honors' to receive them. That should be simple enough for a wackjob like you, right?"

The two friends shared snickers over the manacomm, but with pressing matters at hand, they quickly changed their tone to a more serious one.

"Alright, enough of that. We'll do it. Just tell us the details on the enemy task force, and we'll receive them decker johns."

By the slang expression "decker johns," Max was referring to the navy, referencing the long johns navy sailors typically seem to wear from the perspective of non-navy personnel. With their tasks set, squadron Galeas once more set out to chase after the enemy squadron, last seen heading southeast; on the other hand, squadron Vicro, informed by Galeas of the details regarding the force makeup and heading of the enemy task force, flew in from the northwest toward Menda Point.

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8:05, the oceans ~39km north of Menda Point

Just several kilometers north of La Roche, there sailed a huge fleet of 49 warships, accompanied by 20 sloops-of-war and other auxiliaries. Piercing through the waves at a gentle, steady pace, it was a tad bit smaller than the other major surface fleet in the area, but it was clear to any onlookers that this force comprised of a greater share of capital ships. Flying the imperial red and gold, these great warships of the Parpaldian Empire projected the might and majesty of the eastern regions' unquestioned hegemon.

Amidst these ships sailed the Carles Dídac Gallaire, the lead ship of the Empereur-class, a series of Leiforian-built battleships that were the pride of the imperial navy. Atop its mast flew the standard of the Deuxième imposrion (vice admiral), brandishing to all its status as the flagship of the task force, named "Nalina." The flag officer in question, a man by the name of Pommerau, stood atop the battleship's bridge with a dignified pose, his arms crossed behind his back. He stared directly ahead at the formation of treacherous, jagged rocks that formed the outer reaches of Menda Point. His steely composure was an inspiring sight to the crewmen aboard the bridge, who were still unsure of the role they would play today, but this was nothing but a facade for a barely collected psyche that lurked not too far underneath the sweaty skin.

Thoughts circled all across his head. The Altarans were by no means a pushover, but based on the wyvern corps' reports before they abruptly ended late last night, they were still en route to Menda Point. He felt a worrying itch in his toe as he inched closer and closer to dismissing the Altarans as buffoons for their mistakes since he nor his commanders had the gall to conclusively be certain that their goal was indeed Menda Point. Even at this late of a stage in the operation, they cannot discount that the Altarans have another ace up their sleeve—one that could jeopardize their own house of cards; after all, they, too, have sent the bulk of their capital ship force to answer the Altaran threat.

But if the stars really did align and their enemies were as idiotic as they wanted to believe them to be, then today, with their greater number of big guns, they have a legitimate chance of smashing the Altaran Royal Navy once and for all; and with the damaged Squadron 5, which had taken refuge in Menda Point, successfully dodged the enemy's patrols and ordered to return to base, they were also robbing them of their assumed objectives. It was too good of an opportunity, and it can't be helped that such an opportune moment being this easy to grasp set off alarm bells in his mind.

In that instant, he felt a frigid zing bolt across his spine just at the same time his ears tingled in response to an auditory stimulus.

"Sir!"

The strands of hair on his arms stood on their ends. He turned to face the source of the sound: it was a young officer wearing a uniform similar to the young lads that had come to his quarters yesterday. He had come up to the captain of the battleship, Bâtimeau régler (captain) Luc, a man whose sleepy eyes betrayed the adept sense of seriousness he took his duties with. After conversing with the young man from communications, Luc turned to face him with his usual languid eyes.

"Vice admiral! We received a transmission from a wyvern squadron identifying themselves as 'Vicro-6.' It appears they will be coming in from the west, bringing details on the enemy task force. ETA 10 minutes."

Pommerau raised his eyebrow, picking out a detail from the transmission that he found odd.

"'Vicro'? I thought the wyvern corps assigned to us someone with the callsign 'Galeas'?"

Luc scratched his head. Sensing the misgiving tone in the vice admiral's voice, he tried to offer his sound opinion to try and calm or at least redirect the vice admiral's suspicion.

"That was all the transmission said. On the bright side, vice admiral, they told us where they would be coming from and when to expect them; with that much information on their course, I am of the opinion that we could afford to take their word for it."

Pommerau groaned. There were a lot of things beyond his control and knowledge, which, as a self-identified control freak, greatly vexed him, but such was the nature of the fog of war. He agreed with the captain to take the squadron's word for it but was still stingy with their chances. He turned to face the communications officer.

"Tell the fleet: move to condition orange; expect unknown contacts to appear on the horizon between bearings 330 and 200 within the next 15 minutes!"

The young officer saluted the vice admiral before making himself scarce. Soon enough, the ships of Task Force Nalina were put on medium alert as lookouts scanned the easterly horizon, and anti-air guns were checked and readied by their crews.

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8:13, the oceans ~73km north of Menda Point

Almost 8 minutes had passed since the order to move to condition orange had been given, and the hustle-bustle of men moving up and down, to and from their stations, seemed like a distant memory. Tension still wafted in the air as everyone else waited in silence for a cry from the lookouts indicating that they had spotted the anticipated "unknown contacts." At the moment the hands on the clock struck 8:13, they heard a screeching cry from a lookout aboard the battleship Duro, an Esthirant-class Leiforian-built battleship.

"Contact! Two wyverns high above the horizon at bearing 272!"

Other lookouts and anyone with a pair of binoculars swiftly turned to face the indicated bearing as communications shared the sighting with every ship in the task force. From the bridge of the Carles Dídac Gallaire, Vice Admiral Pommerau scanned the indicated bearing with his own pair of binoculars. Just as he caught sight of the two reptilian silhouettes contrasting against the blue sky, more information came from communications.

"Imperial identifiers confirmed! They're friendly! They're friendly!"

Soon enough, he himself recognized the unmistakable glint of gold on the identifiers of the wyverns. Now that it was clear that the incoming wyverns were their own, he gave the orders that released everyone from nervous paranoia.

"Fleet: revert to condition yellow and stand down!"

Everyone in the Parpaldian task force breathed out a collective sigh of relief, but as their commanding officer dictated, they were not completely in the clear. As anti-air gun crews relaxed from their combat stances and munitions were properly stowed back in place, the fleet's lookouts maintained a steady watch over the incoming squadron. Not long after they appeared, the two wyvern lords were already flying above the task force, entering into a circular holding pattern loosely centered around the flagship.

Leading squadron Vicro, it was upon Max to contact the task force. Taking his manacomm and switching it to the appropriate channel, he pushed the talk button and started speaking.

"Good morning, Nalina! Circling above you is Vicro-6, receiving you to this area of operations!"

Coming off strong, Max was not one to mind how the flag officer, who was likely to be a lifetime of ranks above him, would respond to his call. Looking from high above the fleet, he gestured a friendly wave in the general direction of the flagship, which he could easily tell by the vice admiral standard that was flying atop its mast. After a good twenty seconds of dead air, the sudden buzz on the channel alerted him and his subordinate that someone was transmitting.

"This is Nalina speaking. Good to see you, Vicro-6, although we were expecting one Galeas-4..."

It was clear even from beyond the receiver that the man speaking was an aged and likely well-experienced individual. But that didn't faze Max, who replied with the same bullish tone he always puts on.

"Yes, you are correct to expect Galeas-4, but by the virtue of the corps' commanders, we're here instead; Galeas-4 is dealing with an enemy wyvern squadron in the area, so be advised that you've got two friendly squadrons in the AO!"

The vice admiral and his officers, who were listening in from the bridge, could only scratch their heads at the lack of communication the wyvern corps sometimes has with them. But with two friendly wyvern squadrons, they have plenty of room to breathe—not to mention that they could monitor the enemy task force for them. Although speaking of the enemy task force...

"Acknowledged, Vicro-6. Can you tell us more about the enemy fleet?"

"59 warships and 16 auxiliaries sighted, although the missing auxiliaries may be nearby; they are last sighted headed northeast at bearing 024 at 0744 hours; they are in line ahead with a battleship—possibly a Royauté-class (Krallık-class)—as vanguard and the flagship, another Royauté, is the ship after it."

Pommerau's hands started to shake uncontrollably to the point he almost let go of the manacomm. All of the warships that they had been tracking were accounted for, in one location, and were already formed in a battle line. There was still likely a chance that it was part of a bigger task force that might trap them in a pincer, but there was now enough confidence to be certain that the Altarans were making this one, singular, moronic push with a basket filled with all of their eggs. In other words, the enemy was making the most fatal mistake anyone could make, and they were in a position to not only witness it in action but also to turn their idiocy into the most glorious victory the empire had known. In other words: this is it.

Recollecting himself and forcing his hands to stop quivering, the vice admiral spoke.

"Outstanding, Vicro-6. Your report has ensured that the empire will be victorious today!"

Hearing the elation sprinkled all over the officer's voice, Max and his subordinate couldn't help but feel that they, too, were on the cusp of something great. His spirits ablaze, he decided to participate by assisting squadron Galeas in dealing with the enemy wyvern squadron. He let his intentions known to the task force.

"Glad to hear that, Nalina! We'll be returning to our duties and assist Galeas-4 in securing the skies for you! Proceeding east and swinging around Menda Point!"

"Proceeding east. Acknowledged, Vicro-6! May the winds be against your enemies! Nalina, out."

After waving one last time in the general direction of the flagship, the two wyvern lords of squadron Vicro increased their speed to their cruising speed, breaking out of the holding pattern and barrelling their way to the easterly skies. Behind them, the ships of Task Force Nalina continued to sail southwest, closing in on Menda Point.

[https://img.wattpad.com/bcea8e4eb9e1838eb8d8598e3bb76d7b8cce53b3/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f6d6d3066692d466274434c7130673d3d2d313338383530373832362e313738633234616434366162326535353736383137353331363637342e706e67]

8:19, the skies ~71km west of Menda Point

As ephemeral formations of clouds come and go in this empty patch of ocean to the west of Menda Point, a couple of wyverns adorned with the royal blue and white flew below these pockets of condensed air. Part of squadron Daigu of the Altaran Wyvern Corps, they were headed south, bringing with them their sweaty foreheads and palms, agitated hearts, and bad news. Leading slightly behind the right flank of his superior, wyvern rider Akko had kept his eyes glued on the southern horizon for the past 20 or so minutes.

It was almost a quarter past eight, but the horizon seemed to have gotten a tiny bit hazier than usual, making it harder for even a sharp-eyed rider like him to make out the contours of a warship.

But it didn't take long for his patience to be rewarded.

"Ma'am! Smoke on the horizon, bearing 171!"

He alerted his superior, Saia, to what were clearly billowing columns of black smoke steadily becoming clear as they flew further south. Soon enough, the hazy horizon gave way to the solid shapes of ships; not long after that, they could make out even the colors they flew. After roughly an hour—although it felt like an eternity for the beleaguered riders—they had finally made contact once more with Task Force Selma. To signal their presence and confirm their allegiance, Saia made the call.

"Selma, do you read? This is Daigu-1. Be advised, we are approaching from... bearing 339! Do you read? Over."

A couple of seconds after Saia made the call, a grainy buzz emanated from the manacomm's speaker.

"Copy, Daigu-1, we see you coming in. Thanks for the heads up."

The fleet, still in its battle line formation, drew closer as the wyverns of squadron Daigu approached from the north. The flagship, the Andras Kaymakk, loomed from behind its sister ship and formation vanguard, the Rahmi Kaymakk. As the distance between them closed to about 400 enlac (2km), the Andras raised a signal flag indicating the approach of a friendly wyvern squadron. In response to this act, Saia raised and waved her hand at the fleet as a gesture of acknowledgment.

Keeping in mind why they had come back, she was about to press the speak button on her manacomm when her ears were beset by the piercing scream of her subordinate.

"Ma'am! Above you, 8 o'clock!"

A sense of urgency instantly kicked in as she heard those words, and her fight-or-flight response sprang into action. At once, she turned her neck to her left and lifted her head up to where Akko had indicated the possible threat vector; when she opened her eyes, she was beholden to a terrifying sight: a gigantic wyvern with scales so dark it looked as if it had been born in the flames of a volcano, emerging from the cloud layer with its claws engaged. Its menacing eyes, enough to strike fear into the heart of even the bravest lion, were just like its ultra-sharp claws: aiming directly at her person.

Dread overcame her faster than she could blink, but as a trained wyvern rider, her ingrained instincts were what kicked into gear instead. As she concentrated her power onto her hands, which were holding the control mechanisms, she barked into the manacomm.

"Evade! Evade! Evade!... Ngghhh! "

She groaned as her arms felt like they were about to tear off at the shoulders from pulling at her wyvern to get out of harm's way. But it paid off, again: in the nick of time, she and her wyvern managed to roll out of the way of the incoming enemy wyvern, narrowly avoiding its extended deadly claws. As for Akko, he was fortunate to have seen the other enemy wyvern barreling onto him earlier, managing to not only get out of harm's way but also unholster his gun.

At the instant that the enemy wyvern flew past his position and his wyvern was able to stabilize itself, he cocked and aimed his pistol at the back of the enemy rider. Hardly three seconds after dodging death, he pulled the trigger with the intent of becoming these bastards' grim reaper.

Pam! Pam! Pam!

The crisp rattle of gunshots echoed across the vicinity as Akko fired off a burst of three shots at the enemy wyvern rider that had just passed him. But without tracers and the speed of the enemy wyvern enabling it to rapidly create distance between them, it was hard to tell if he had hit any of his shots, much less do anything substantial.

"Dammit!"

He looked over to her superior, who also had her gun drawn but didn't fire off any shots. She turned to face him, and while a considerable distance separated them and they couldn't see each other's faces clearly from the flight goggles they wore, it was clear to the both of them what they wanted to do next. Pressing the speak button on her manacomm with one hand and doing hand signals to Akko to follow after her with the other, Saia made up her mind.

"Selma! Priority message! We're going to chase after the enemy wyvern squadron that appeared just now and take care of them! We'll be right back, over!"

With the fleet at their backs, squadron Daigu picked up the pace as they chased after the enemy squadron, which was flying due east. Having been caught off guard and nearly dying at their hands twice, a desire to retaliate was seeping out of the depths of her heart. She felt her fingers sink into the rubber coating of the control mechanisms as her breathing got heavier and faster. There was an incredible urge to see to it that these pigs were shot out of the sky.

Her sense of reason nagged at her, and her gut squirmed from within her: there was something off about what she was doing. But she found solace in her mission, which was to keep their surface elements safe from marauding enemy air units, which is exactly what they were doing. Content with this reasoning, she committed to the chase with Akko at her right flank.

・・・

Back at the fleet, shouts were ringing all across the deck and bridge of the Andras Kaymakk as their attention followed the enemy wyvern squadron, which emerged unspotted from a random cloud formation almost a minute earlier.

"Enemy wyverns at 800 enlac (4km) and increasing! Course estimated at bearing 080!"

Captain Bos and Vice Admiral Iskann observed with bated breath as the enemy wyverns and squadron Daigu flew off into the easterly skies.

As soon as the enemy wyverns appeared, Iskann ordered the fleet to prepare to engage them, but as the anti-air batteries of the fleet were swiftly put online, the close-distance nature of the wyvern-on-wyvern engagement meant that they risked accidentally landing hits on their own wyverns. But above all, the engagement and subsequent chase happened no less than 400 enlac (2km) away from the closest ship of the task force, meaning that they were outside their machine guns' effective range. In other words, they were never in the right position to start firing at the enemy.

At that very instant that they put down their binoculars, they heard a loud buzz sound come from the bridge's manacomm.

"Selma! Priority message! We're going to chase after the enemy wyvern squadron that appeared just now and take care of them! We'll be right back, over!"

The vice admiral walked over to the manacomm and pushed on the speak button.

"Acknowledged, Daigu-1."

Just as he let go of the button, Captain Bos rushed over to him, his usually stoic eyes wide open from unease. It appears that something had occurred to him, but it may be more accurate to say that he had remembered something important.

"Vice admiral! We never informed Daigu of the enemy squadron we encountered earlier!"

The concerns of the captain intertwined with the heated emotions of anxiety and mental exhaustion swirling in the vice admiral's mind, producing ever more stress for him to process. As he wiped the sweat that had accumulated under his service cap with a piece of clean cloth, a response to the captain's statement unwittingly left his lips.

"They'll be fine, captain. There can't be more than one of them..."

But just as the words left his lips, something flashed in his mind, and his eyes widened. It was certainly within reason to think that the enemy squadron that they encountered earlier and the one that just almost brought down their friendly wyverns were one in the same. However, considering the scope of the Parpaldian wyvern corps and their knowledge of its operational doctrine, it was by no means a stretch of the imagination that the squadrons from both encounters were of two different ones. It was a frightening and realistic possibility, one that Iskann wanted to beat himself over for not considering it soon enough.

But before that, a matter of more pressing needs warrants their attention. As had been their battle plan, they are to try and deceive enemy intelligence and coordination by changing course after an enemy patrol had passed them. Briefly setting aside the two enemy squadron matters, he calls out to the communications officers and signalmen.

"Fleet, change course to 131 and maintain battle line!"

His orders were rapidly communicated to the other ships; hardly a minute later, the Rahmi Kaymakk made a hard turn to starboard, followed later by the Andras and then the succeeding ships in the line. While he held onto the railings as the heavy, hulking battleship listed to port from the inertia of its turn, Iskann handed control of the manacomm back to its designated officer.

"Keep trying to raise Daigu-1 until they respond and warn them that there may be two enemy squadrons operating in the area."

After receiving an affirmative from the officer, he turned to Captain Bos, who was similarly trying to remain upright and fight the ship's list.

"What's our distance to Menda Point?"

The captain then looked over to the vice-captain, who heard the vice admiral's question and responded immediately.

"14200 enlac (~71km), sir!"

Bos turned back to face the vice admiral and repeated the vice-captain's figure. "14200 enlac, sir."

Iskann looked away to take in the view of the sea. It was a brilliant dark blue, a combination of hues that perfectly evoked both a sense of curiosity of what lies below the surface and a constant apprehension for what kind of sinister secrets lurk just underneath the seemingly tame waves. But it was also the right color to calm the noise that engulfed his mind.

Still, as the task force settled on its new southeasterly course, he thought about the things he wanted to do once they got back to port—the things he would probably never be able to do anymore.

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8:33, the skies ~36km west of Menda Point

With the hour hand well past the halfway point between 8 and 9, the air in this random patch of ocean had gotten hotter; it was definitely the middle of winter, but since the general geographical area of the Altaras Strait was of a subtropical climate, it wasn't all that cold. Slamming into this cold but not too cold air at a speed of 100km/h were two pairs of wyverns and their respective riders, with the pair that was clearly lagging behind being noticeably smaller in size than the pair they were chasing after.

Daigu, an Altaran wyvern squadron, was chasing after a Parpaldian wyvern squadron, which consisted of the superior and more menacing-looking lord breed.

"Come on! Come on!"

Saia cried out as their wyverns flapped their wings at full force to inch closer and closer to the enemy wyverns. Tiny bits of air seeped into the looser parts on the sleeves of their thick, woolen aviator suits and pumped cold temperatures into their arms, but not even that could stop the endless drops of sweat flowing out of their pores in droves. Their wyverns were clearly feeling the toll of sustained flapping movements, but the piercing look in their eyes made known their determination to keep going.

After all, it was not for naught: the dark silhouettes of the enemy wyverns were getting larger and larger, albeit slowly.

Saia let go of the control mechanisms and reached for the semi-automatic pistol on the saddle's holster. She placed her hand on it, wrapping her fingers around its grip and placing her thumb on the retention strap, ready to push it out of the way so that she could swiftly draw the firearm.

She waited. For the enemy wyverns to get closer. For the opportunity to line a shot. For the chance to call her superiors and notify them of their kills. She will get the mission done. She will defeat these bozos that almost killed her twice. She will tell the fleet and her superiors that they've secured the air space around Menda Point. She will be redeemed of her shortcomings in finding that cruiser. She will be accepted by her peers, her family, and, above all, herself.

She had even rehearsed what to say to her superiors. Eagerly awaiting that moment, she placed her other hand on the manacomm's channel-switching mechanism. But for some reason, she can't seem to feel its distinctive, signature knob. She took her eyes off the enemy wyverns and glanced at the manacomm, but intending to only spend a moment to look at it, she spent a couple, and then it turned into a second, and then two. Her eyes widened, the telltale signs of disbelief scattered all over her expanding pupils as her lips mouthed the words, "oh, shit."

The red bulb on its surface was flashing on and off, indicating that a message was coming through, but it made none of the beeping sounds that notified her of an incoming transmission. She fumbled on its controls, finding the answer to why her manacomm wasn't beeping almost immediately: the silent setting was toggled on. Perhaps in her rush to give chase to the enemy squadron, she accidentally switched to it when she let go of the speak button.

"Goddammit, Saia!"

As soon as she toggled it off, the high-pitched beeps of the manacomm blared out of her speakers.

Beep beep beep beep!

She set the machine to patch the message through, and immediately afterward, the frantic cries of a man beset her ears.

"Ukjqpw—ead?! Daigu-1, please respond!"

The channel in which the transmission was being made was clearly the one they used with Task Force Selma, but the voice calling out was different from the one they were conversing with earlier. She reached for the speak button to respond, but something caught her eye.

Her eyes motioned upward back in the direction of the enemy wyverns. But something was different. Instead of two dark silhouettes, there were now four of them. Her mind instantly cranked to full gear to make sense of it. But her observations moved faster than her deductions, and she immediately identified the two wyverns they were chasing, which had both executed a sharp bank maneuver; in their previous positions were two additional wyverns, but unlike the pair that they were chasing, their backs weren't turned towards them—no, this new pair of wyverns were facing them head on.

Oh...

The realization hit her. There were actually two enemy squadrons, and now, they were caught right in the middle of their trap.

As she blinked, she felt a tremendous force cascade against her entire body, followed instantly by a loss in sensation from her body below the neck. Moments later, when she opened her eyes, all that was in her sight was the endless expanse of profound azure.

What a beautiful sky...

These were the last thoughts that crossed her mind.

Chasing after Parpaldian squadron Galeas, the two wyverns of Altaran squadron Daigu were unwittingly led into a trap. With the two squadrons headed east, another Parpaldian squadron, Vicro, was flying west at 200km/h in a course parallel to Galeas and Daigu. In a timed and coordinated maneuver, the wyvern lords of Galeas executed sharp banking maneuvers, making way for the incoming wyvern lords of Vicro, which had readied themselves for a powerful claw attack. Given that both Daigu and Vicro were moving at close to their maximum speeds and that there only existed a several-meter gap between Daigu and Galeas, the ill-fated wyverns and riders of squadron Daigu were left with virtually no time nor room to maneuver out of harm's way, let alone respond.

Hit with force equivalent to a high-speed car crash, Saia and Akko were thrown off their saddles, breaking their necks in the process due to the intense whiplash; their wyverns were fatally wounded when the Parpaldian wyvern lords' claws dug deep into their torsos, and with the fatigue they accumulated making things worse, they simply fell out of the sky.

In an action that barely lasted ten seconds, the lone Altaran wyvern squadron assigned to the area of Menda Point was brought down by the skilled coordination of two Parpaldian wyvern squadrons.

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・・・

"Arghh, fuck!"

Max shook his head as the sheer force of the impact from the claw attack he landed on the enemy wyvern stunned him; his subordinate, having brought down the other enemy wyvern, was also recovering from the shock. They had prepared for the attack, adopting postures that minimized the shock of the impact, but the sheer amount of force in the attack meant that it was still an uncomfortable experience for the two.

"Oi! Stop whining, will you? You should take a look at the other guys!"

Chiming in as they swung back to meet their fellow riders, Reckmeyer gave his friend a reassuring quip, pointing to the sinking carcasses of the enemy wyverns they had just brought down. Having recovered from the stun, Max returned the favor.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! At least I secured one more kill to my name! Eat shit, Recker!"

"No, no, no, I let you have this one! Consider it a pity point considering the actual gap between our kill counts!"

"Nah, you make it sound higher than it actually is when all you have is... what, like five?"

The banter between the two friends went back and forth as they circled above the proof of their success, which was rapidly dying the waters around them a deep crimson. As much as these men made a mockery of such a horrific scene, it was rather impersonal from their perspective. In other words, this was nothing more than what they were being paid to do. Other than that, they had their own portfolio of interests and reasons for why they continued to fight.

As their banter died down, Reckmeyer remembered their mission.

"Ah, right! Max! We found the enemy fleet at around... 14 tacour (~37km) west of here!"

"But it's safe to say that they probably changed their course since then."

Max had a point. Considering the change in heading of the enemy task force between the two encounters they've had, that was definitely the case. Devising a plan to cover as much of the ocean as possible, Reckmeyer set down what they were going to do next.

"Alright! Judging from their speed and last known position, they shouldn't have gotten too far from where they were. You guys fly west while we'll go south! That way, we can check from two directions, and when push comes to shove, come down on them in a pincer!"

"Sounds like a plan."

With both squadrons on board, the plan was set into motion. The four riders waved goodbye at one another before separating to set off toward their respective headings: Max, leading Vicro, headed west while Reckmeyer, leading Galeas, flew east before swinging south.

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8:53, the oceans ~50km southwest of Menda Point

The 59 warships and 40 sloops-of-war and auxiliaries of the Altaran Task Force Selma were making headway east, having changed their heading from a southeasterly course several minutes earlier. Sailors on board, the battleship Andras Kaymakk, paced their way through her brightly lit steel innards as they tended to the functions of the hulking vessel. It was a sight that was not too different from the routine, but lurking beneath appearances was a tension that was growing worse by the minute.

This was all the more pronounced at the bridge, where Vice Admiral Iskann and his officers stood huddled around the manacomm for the past 40 or so minutes with disconcerted looks on their faces. They looked on with bated breath as the officer in charge of the manacomm rebooted it for what must have felt like the hundredth time. He pushed the button to speak and uttered a few words.

"This is Selma calling out to Daigu-1. Daigu-1, are you there? Do you read? Over."

He let go of the button, producing a metallic flicker sound that was going to be the last sound the manacomm would produce. After around three minutes of waiting, the silence only persisted, and so did their anxieties.

It was almost 9 in the morning—almost an hour since they last saw and heard from squadron Daigu. Iskann and his officers looked at one another, their eyes telegraphing to the others that they believe that the worst had happened. It wasn't farfetched, too: if there were indeed two enemy wyvern squadrons in the area, they need not be the superior wyvern lord breed in order to best an opposing wyvern squadron. In combat, whether in the air, at sea, or on land, numerical superiority or inferiority matters a whole lot. Convincing himself that they were indeed defeated by the enemy, the vice admiral turned back to the officer in charge of the manacomm, who was awaiting orders.

"Thanks, son. You can stop now."

After returning the officer's salute, he pivoted to face Captain Bos, who was looking at his direction with crestfallen eyes. It would seem that he, too, was convinced as to what happened to Daigu. But before they could solemnly return to their duties, the piercing shriek of a lookout echoed across the bridge.

"Contact! Two enemy wyverns were emerging out of the clouds at 179!"

On their starboard flank, two enemy wyverns dove out of a thin layer of low-lying clouds and were flying straight toward them. Not needing to confirm the sighting for himself, Iskann screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Fleet, ready anti-air and engage those sonuvabitches!"

While the signalmen and communications officers relayed his orders to the fleet, Bos, in command of his warship, barked orders.

"Condition red! All hands to action stations! Ready anti-air, contact at 179!"

Once again, the anti-air batteries on the Andras Kaymakk's starboard deck were swiftly manned by their crews, and ammunition were brought to the guns from stowage. The rapid-fire machine guns were fed, cocked, and aimed at the incoming enemy wyverns. Within 30 seconds of the order being issued, gunnery officers notify the bridge that they're ready.

"Starboard anti-air batteries are ready, cap'n!"

Lookouts on deck supplemented them with their own information.

"Enemy wyverns 400 enlac (2km) and closing!"

With the conditions met, Bos spit out spit and breath as he growled like a madman.

"OPEN FIRE!"

Ratatatatatatatat!

The rampaging staccato of gunfire erupted all across the Andras Kaymakk's starboard deck, sending thousands of bullets at supersonic speeds south. Anti-air machine guns onboard the other ships of the task force also opened the floodgates of fire down range, showering the southern horizon with thousands upon thousands of deadly, ultra-fast slugs.

The unending flashes of machine guns letting rip were a sight to behold. From the bridge, Vice Admiral Iskann watched the scene unfold before his naked eyes. His attention was glued to the actions of the enemy wyvern lords, flailing alarmedly at the sudden onslaught of steel. He held no particular feelings for the riders of squadron Daigu, but the mounting feeling of inevitable doom for him and the thousands of men under his command lit up a familiar, warlike rage in his heart. Soon, his mind was filled with anticipation of seeing the enemy wyvern riders shred to pieces.

He knew deep in his heart that the bastard king had sent them here to die. But as long as he wields the power that he does have, he will ensure that the pain in knowing the futility and uselessness of their actions here will be translated into physical pain for the enemy.

・・・

Fear was what gripped the heart of Reckmeyer and Rou, the two wyvern riders of squadron Galeas, fighting for the Parpaldian Empire. Much like their encounter hours earlier, the enemy anti-air was just as relentless and merciless. The sharp, stinging thunderclaps of a thousand bullets whizzing through every corner bombarded his ears while his entire body battled against the inertia from his wyvern lord's ridiculous evasive maneuvers.

"Arghh! Goddammit!"

Reckmeyer cursed his luck.

If it weren't for his sudden dive maneuver which plopped him under the cloud cover, he wouldn't have been in this situation. Although they wouldn't have spotted the enemy task force had he not dived into the clouds, it wasn't something he was particularly thankful for at the moment.

Bullets continued to zoom all around him, heightening his fear of being hit by such things. As he and Rou flew in a wide turn to the east, he took hold of the manacomm in the heat of gunfire.

"Vicro-6! Priority message! Come in, Vicro-6, dammit!"

He screamed into the microphone so that his voice wouldn't be drowned out in the cacophony of incessant popping of bullets whizzing by and his wyvern's pained groans trying to evade them. But before he could get a reply from Max, he picked up the muffled clatter of slugs hitting something cushioned. An idea popped up into his head about what these sounds meant, and the sensation of powerful shockwaves reverberating through his saddle, coupled with his wyvern's subtle screams, sealed the verdict.

He immediately set his sights on his wyvern's right wing, which, sure enough, had received five or six identifiable holes on the thin membrane-like skin, some of which were clearly bleeding.

"Goddammit! I'm so sorry, buddy!"

Reckmeyer teared up as he caressed a certain scale on the back of the base of his wyvern's neck, a particularly soft spot that his wyvern found comforting if he touched it.

While the toughness of a wyvern's scale varies from individual to individual and depends on factors such as age, it's generally accepted that they could easily repel bladed attacks and crossbow bolts; they could also repel bullets, albeit with less reliability. Of course, regardless of whether or not attacks could break through the wyvern's armored scales, being hit is still painful for the beast. The toughness of the scales also becomes out of the question when it comes to the eyes, wings, and limbs, parts of the wyvern's body that aren't protected by scales.

Hit multiple times in such a weak yet so critical part of the body, it was clear from its duller evasive maneuvers that Reckmeyer's wyvern lord was in great pain. Fortunately, they were getting well out of range of the enemy task force's machine guns, but they were still not in the position to celebrate. Desperate to get his buddy out of harm's way and back home to receive medical care, he activated his manacomm once more and howled at the speaker.

"Priority! Priority! Vicro-6, do you read?! My wyvern's hit, and it's dubious we could continue the mission! Please respond, for fuck's sake!"

The instant he let go of the talk button, he heard the grainy buzz of the speakers attempting to convert an incoming transmission. Then, the noise gave way to the voice of his longtime friend.

"By the gods, you don't need to scream! Don't worry; we're inbound at full speed! Give us your position!"

Reckmeyer scrambled to check his map, which was tucked away in a leather pocket on the saddle, just underneath the flight instruments. But the snapping rat-a-tat of bullets zooming past him, some of which narrowly missed his head, forced him to lean forward and onto his saddle; his wyvern, despite being wounded on the right wing, reacted to the near-miss with a slew of erratic rolling maneuvers.

Unable to check his map, Reckmeyer opted to instead give him what information he did already know about where they were based on certain facts.

"We're being fired at! I can't check our position! But we're definitely just a few kilometers southwest of where we brought down the enemy regulars!"

"Copy! That should be enough! Go and get out of here! You can leave these scoundrels to us!"

With a confident affirmative from Max, Reckmeyer no longer needed to stay on the battlefield for much longer. He felt his heart beat start to relax as he watched the peaceful expanse of seemingly endless ocean unfold before him.

"I appreciate it, Max! I owe you this one!"

Unable to find it in himself to hear the gloating of his friend, he switched the channel on his manacomm to the one used by their command in Palmerie Air Base to report their emergency exodus from the area.

"Rapace, this is Galeas-4, reporting from..."

Flying further and further away from the range of the guns of the Altaran task force, the two wyvern lords of squadron Galeas made their way northeast to Menda Point. After receiving acknowledgment from Palmerie Air Base of their situation and return, they would set course for the relative safety of the Parpaldian mainland and finally leave the battlefield.

8:53, the oceans ~20km northwest of Menda Point

To the immediate northwest of the islands that constituted Menda Point sailed an impressive formation of 49 warships, accompanied by a slew of 20 sloops-of-war and auxiliaries. Unlike the Altarans, some of their capital ships were without smoke stacks and were thus not projecting billowing towers of smoke that gave away their presence. But this was more about the design of their ships' magic-based propulsion rather than an intention to stay stealthy, for the sound of ringing bells and wailing alarms signaled to all a call to arms. Men aboard the warships flying the colors of the Parpaldian Empire rushed to their positions as nerves and tensions escalated to new highs.

On the bridge of the battleship Carles Dídac Gallaire, the flagship of this task force "Nalina," the staff officers of Vice Admiral Pommerau huddled around the officer in charge of the manacomm machine, who was in the middle of answering a call.

"...Copy that, Vicro-6. Heading 015. Nalina, out."

The officer let go of the talk button and turned to face the vice admiral's staff officers, who were looking at him with anticipatory gazes. Curtly, he updated them with the latest news from their wyvern patrol shadowing the Altaran task force.

"They've changed their bearing to 015 from 077 and have increased their speed."

The staff officers then went to the vice admiral with this information, having already processed it, and now they were giving him their inputs on the developing situation. They all formed in a circle around a navigational map of the area around Menda Point to update the corresponding positions of the pieces of the relevant fighting units in the area.

"It appears that they're starting to make a headlong rush for Menda Point."

One of the staff officers pushed a hastily painted red paperweight, signifying the Altaran task force, to a position that was slightly north of where it once was.

"The position of the enemy, as reported by Vicro, puts them here. In five minutes, we can expect them to have crossed this point based on their speed."

He pinned his index finger down on a certain spot in the ocean to the west of Menda Point. A few centimeters to the east of where he placed his finger—a distance that translated to several kilometers in reality—was a red line drawn onto the map. It stretched in a roughly north to south direction, like a meridian located west of Menda Point, but it slightly curved in a concave that faced the islands. Seeing this placement, Pommerau glanced at their current position on the map, marked by a worn-out, wooden gameboard piece.

"The Altarans are about to breach the line earlier than planned..."

Having ascertained with near complete confidence that the Altaran task force didn't know they were coming, they opted for a plan to open a naval battle in an advantageous position by timing their arrival so that they would be crossing the Altaran T. Under circumstances where the enemy knew they were coming, this would have been a terrible plan, but the stars have aligned for them to the point that it was now possible to execute. But the Altarans, despite having been forced to zigzag by their wyvern squadrons, were still moving faster than they had expected; at their current rate, they would be crossing the red line before they themselves could get into position, which, if they don't remedy it soon, they will lose their initial advantage. Fortunately, it still wasn't beyond a simple remedy.

As alarms blared and bells chimed, the apparent pressure and strain of the rapidly developing situation were, at least for this moment, lost on the stern-faced Pommerau, who began issuing orders at decisive speed.

"Fleet, form line ahead! Change course to heading 213 and increase speed to 16 knots!"

His orders were transmitted to every ship in the task force word-for-word; not long after, the massive 49-ship fleet was scrambling to form into a single line with the Carles Dídac Gallaire steaming ahead to form the vanguard. Course was then set for heading 213, and the magnificent steel behemoths of the Parpaldian Imperial Navy were headed to where the action would soon commence, their magic-powered engines of varying sophistication churning the requisite power to force a consistent speed of 16 knots.

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9:07, the skies ~23km west of Menda Point

A pair of wyvern lords glide through the air in formation, but they are traveling at a slower speed than their usual cruising speed of around 100km/h. This squadron, Vicro, maintained this speed and a modest altitude not too far from sea level, but crucially, they maintained more than an arm's length in terms of distance from the Altaran battle line. They kept watch over the multi-dozen naval task force as it steamed northwards at close to full speed, and it wasn't beyond the imagination to assume that they also watched them shadowing them from their four o'clock bearing.

Squadron leader Max checked the mechanical watch on his flight instruments. It was 7 minutes past 9. His eyes dart back to the unfurled map in his hands, his experienced rider mind making mental estimates as to where they currently were based on geographic facts and mathematical calculations. He felt no rush in running and rechecking the numbers, as neither his wyvern nor the enemy fleet seemed to be poised to do something drastic any time soon.

"Alright..."

Having done a couple of recalculations, he was now confident in the results. After securing the paper map onto tight-fitting clips stitched into the saddle itself, he motioned towards the manacomm and pressed the talk button.

"Vicro-6 to Nalina. No change to the enemy fleet bearing and speed. Over."

He sent in his report, expected to be done every five minutes or whenever a noteworthy change occurs in this type of mission, to their friendly naval task force in the area. Seconds after his transmission, they answered back with a frank and brief reply.

"Acknowledged, Vicro-6."

The silence that followed the audio cutoff was deafening, but perhaps it may have just been the thundering barrage of wind. He turned his head around to check on his subordinate. He seemed to be doing fine. He couldn't make out his eyes from the flight goggles he wore, but he could somehow tell that he was neither bored nor particularly invested in what they were doing. He thought of his friend Recker and his usual wingman, a younger rider by the name of Rou. Whenever he did, his chest would somehow become uncannily coarse, but his gut was telling him it wasn't because he wished they were partners instead.

He gazed at his manacomm, especially the red-colored button that was used to talk. He thought that maybe there was nothing wrong with small chatter with his usually silent partner. Maybe the guy had a reason for joining the corps. Perhaps he had a girl he fancied back in the city, or maybe he was a country boy since he seemed not to have the Esthirantine accent associated with the city folk. There was so much about him he could use to start a conversation. But is this really out of some desire to connect? Or perhaps the silence is just unbearably loud?

Just as his eyes flickered in the sunlight, having probably decided on a course of action, the manacomm's open receiver started receiving a transmission, which was promptly translated into audio. It was from Nalina.

"Vicro-6, do you read?"

Relegating all the self-reflection he was in the middle of to the back burner, he pressed on the red button.

"Copy, Nalina, I hear you. What is it?"

"Uhh... wait one."

Dead air filled the channel once again.

Max stretched his back, contracting his back muscles as much as he could to get some life and vigor back into his hunched posture. Suddenly, the manacomm's speakers flared to life, spooking him in the middle of his stretching. He probably thought that they wouldn't be back for another minute or two. He returned to his forward-hunched position to listen to the transmission.

"Vicro-6, we should be roughly 11 tacour (~29km); ETA to contact with the enemy fleet, 25 minutes."

His heart thumped in its beat after he heard this. A naval battle of epic proportions was at hand. While it was admittedly exciting, nervousness was what coursed through his system. In the context of naval operations, the wyvern corps' primary mission was reconnaissance, and this was reflected in the curriculum it trained its riders in. Having never experienced naval combat before—aside from the times enemy ships fired their anti-air and anti-wyvern weapons at him—he wracked his head for the naval surface combat protocols and operation procedures that were essentially glossed over back at the academy. But as he mentally prepared himself to be thrust into the heat of the fighting, the transmission from Nalina continued. This time, though, the person speaking was clearly older and carried in his tone an authoritative aura.

"Good day, Vicro-6. This is Deuxième imposrion Pommerau."

Max gulped. It was the vice admiral. Even though they were from different branches of the military, conversing with such a high-ranking officer still sent him into a state of apprehension.

"Allow me to express our deepest gratitude for your and Galeas's excellent work this morning. What is at hand may soon become one of the most defining moments in the empire's history, and it is made possible thanks to your and Galeas's efforts. But considering the nature of the battle to come, we've determined that a point is reached where your presence is redundant."

Max furrowed his brow in confusion. He was glad that a high-ranking officer (albeit from the navy) was praising him and his colleagues, but the point of the latter statement had him scratching his head. He knew where it was going, but it nonetheless left a faint sour aftertaste.

"We can take it from here, Vicro-6. Your contributions to the empire may end here, but there is no doubt that Parpaldians will sing praises of you for generations to come."

"We don't need you here anymore, so go home," was what Max heard.

His furrowed expression gave way to a grimace, something he knew that the vice admiral will never ever get to see. His mind explored all sorts of explanations as to why they want them to leave, such as a desire to hog the glory for themselves or maybe even a genuine concern for them given the predominantly surface-against-surface thinking of how warfare works in the navy. Nevertheless, he felt that he was in no position to challenge a vice admiral's word and, in any case, as a wyvern squadron, there was little they could do to present a challenge against a fully armed naval task force.

He accepted the vice admiral's 'offer,' and notified his subordinate to make preparations to leave the area.

"I am honored to hear that. Fair winds to you, Deuxième imposrion, and glory to Parpaldia! Vicro-6, out."

Without staying to listen to the vice admiral's reply, Max immediately changed the channel to that of his home base to report their status and flight plan.

With a single, powerful swing of the wings, the two wyvern lords were sent zooming, accelerating to reach close to their maximum speed with every successive wingbeat. In a flash, squadron Vicro covered a kilometer, moving onto the next couple for every second. It must have been a terrifying sight to the Altaran fleet to watch the superior Parpaldian wyverns fly off into the distance in such a short amount of time.

A few minutes later, the last wyvern squadron had vacated the area around Menda Point, leaving in their wake two battle lines of heavily armed warships, which were steadily making their way toward one another in what may have appeared to be an ominous tango of impending death.

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