Pal Aurora Air Base Zero, Magicaregia, Annorial Empire — February 21, 2020

  “Grogny, wake up! Get up, it’s an emergency!”

  Feeling a pair of arms roughly disturb his nap as he rested in his bunk, Lieutenant Grogny grumbled and attempted to pull the covers on top of himself once more. “Oh, another drill? Ehhh, forget it…wake me up when the alarms stop blaring—”

  “It’s not a drill, Ancestors be damned! Magicaregia is under attack—the Emperor’s ordered all Pal Aurora squadrons to deploy to the Central District immediately!”

  Warily, Grogny opened his eyes once more as he glanced at his wingman. “Is it another dragon attack? Isn’t that the job of Red Squadron?”

  “Is it another dragon attack—no, you idiot, there’s an invasion happening! Don’t you ever listen to the news? The inferior peoples are retaliating for our victory in Osea—several cities just got hit by airstrikes, and some of the Ancestors’ beasts breached containment! We need to get into the air to help restore order, so get up before the higher ups haul you to feeding duties!”

  “Damn it! Fine, get me my helmet and have the crew prepare our planes for immediate sortie—”

  The room unexpectedly shook as a nearby explosion rocked the airbase, sending loose objects flying and instantly rousing Grogny from his stupor. His wingman similarly glanced around, his face paling in horror at the realisation that even they were now under attack—

  “They’re actually targeting us! Ancestors help us, it’s even worse than I thought!”

  Grogny scowled, scrambling to his feet. “That’s enough speculation from you—get going, man! Move, move, move!”

  For a pilot long experienced with twisting, turning, and pressing the buttons and dials of the Raptor throughout his years fighting Eruseans, the dark and featureless interior of the Falken itself was still very much an otherworldly experience—save for the blue lines and holographic displays that lined his controls and marked his HUD and the hexagonal screens that provided a circular view of the airspace around him, there wasn’t really much of a difference between the much-vaunted COFFIN system and its namesake, Mobius One mused.

  Even his very seat was different, its ergonomic shape and angular, reclined design seemingly more appropriate for a lounge than the most advanced fighter jet in existence, yet the ace pilot was forced to admit that it was far more comfortable to travel to and from sorties in his current position than being hunched inside the tight cockpit of his old aircraft. The Osean and Belkan engineers who briefed him about the ADF-01 when he was first introduced to the fighter mentioned something about the design meant to better shield his body from the effects of his more physically draining aerial stunts; his controls, while still the two familiar devices he recalled from the Raptor, were now integrated into the armrests and augmented by a new display on his HUD that responded to his eye movements and even his voice (if he ever decided to use it, the engineers had drily added). The COFFIN’s GUI was also a dramatic departure from the relatively simplistic design on older planes, too—radar, ammunition, and information on key systems were now highlighted on his HUD alongside altitude and speed, with a vaguely mechanical female voice highlighting his every action from a direct hit on an enemy aircraft to the start and end of each mission. Each part of the Falken, from the controls to the very airframe itself, was shaped to respond more accurately and sensitively to the near-superhuman inputs of pilots with his calibre, giving him a far greater degree of maneuverability than even the Raptor could provide—all to make the nigh-unstoppable ace that he was even more deadly and effective in the art of the skies than ever before.

  He had his misgivings, of course, as a sucker for the classic planes of old—but if this was to be the future of fighter jets, Mobius decided, then he would be more than happy to fly across the skies in a plane like this—even if it meant having to relearn old habits from an era now mere years away from fading into history.

  “SkyEye here! Mobius One, you will be approaching the Annorial capital of Magicaregia shortly. Do you copy?”

  Shifting his eyes across the HUD to signal his response, Mobius silently replied in the affirmative.

  “This city is the political and economic heart of the Annorial Empire itself—destroy all military targets and eliminate all enemy resistance. Call in for reinforcements if you feel it’s necessary, and Omega Squadron will enter the AO as soon as possible; the Arkbird is also available for tasking at your discretion, but will need you to designate targets first in order for them to provide orbital support.

  “Mobius One, you are cleared to engage. Remember, victory is critical, but survival is paramount—come back home in one piece, do you hear?”

  Mobius smiled in spite of himself at his old friend’s words, leaning back onto his seat as the Falken shot forward towards Magicaregia itself.

  ENGAGE

  “What the hell do you mean, you’re only remembering your controls now?! Aren’t you a fully trained pilot?!”

  “We’re reservists! We’re only supposed to be activated if the regular forces are out of action—what in the name of the Ancestors is going on?!”

  “Hey, I thought we were winning the war! What gives?!”

  Grogny scowled from the cockpit of his Pal Aurora 3. “Nevermind! How about you, Dragon Four—you’re from the regs like us, you know anything that we don’t?”

  “Hey, all that we know is that we were supposed to be taking off a week from now to hit the Milishials at Cartalpas—we weren’t expecting to be deployed immediately! Maybe the inferior peoples decided to retaliate for our victory against the Oseans—”

  A harsh voice cut into the chatter, instantly silencing all communications between the three squadrons. “Cease all this wanton speculation! We are the prestigious pilots of the Winged Peoples, not immature schoolchildren who gossip about lies and falsehoods—any more mindless drivel, and I’ll shoot down each and every pilot that dares to needlessly waggle their tongues again, understood?”

  Grogny and his fellow pilots did not respond, not wishing to further incite the wrath of their flight lead. From his plane, Sword One smirked in arrogant satisfaction before turning back towards his communicator.

  “AEWA Throne, this is Sword One. Sword, Dragon, and Reserve Squadron 21 are present and accounted for in the AO—what’s the mission tasking?”

  From the airborne early warning aircraft several kilometers above the three Annorial squadrons, a gruff male voice transmitted, “Sword, Dragon, and R-21, enemy airstrikes are threatening the safety of Magicaregia, and hostile aircraft are believed to be headed from your northwest towards the capital as we speak. Maintain air superiority and eliminate all threats with extreme prejudice as a symbol of our might to our Emperor, our people, and our Ancestors.”

  “What about the Zeroth Fleet? Will we be joined by them for this mission?”

  “We lost contact with the Fleet’s flagship about five minutes ago, Sword One; their last reports stated that enemy aircraft were approaching their positions. We can only assume that their communications are inoperative at this time or have suffered critical damage as a result of the attack—if you encounter any elements of the Zeroth Fleet, provide air cover to allow them to evacuate the harbor.”

  Grogny and his wingmen grimaced; if Sword One was similarly perturbed by this development, he chose not to show it.

  “Copy, Throne; out. All units, follow my lead as we sweep the inferior peoples from our skies! Forward, in the name of our Ancestors!”

  “Hey, over there! Northeast, bearing 010—one bogey heading towards us!”

  “What?! Where?”

  The Annorial pilots craned their necks to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that was approaching: a bizarre angular aircraft unlike anything they had ever seen before, its sharp forward wings seemingly slicing through the air and a fuselage that lacked the windows of a conventional Pal Aurora. Was this the supposed aircraft that Magicaregia deemed to be such a threat to the Empire as a whole?

  “Gods, that plane isn’t anything vaguely threatening at all! Let’s just shoot that thing down and be done with it!”

  Sword One frowned. “Something doesn’t feel right. Arming missiles—”

  “Hey, Sword Two here—that thing just opened up—”

  —blue fire—

  That was the only way that Grogny could describe the light that unexpectedly erupted from the Osean aircraft and soared right through Sword Two, vaporising the veteran pilot’s Pal Aurora 3 in a matter of seconds and leaving the flaming wreckage to tumble uncontrollably towards the harbour below.

  BULLSEYE

  “Ancestors above; Sword Two is down! What the hell was that?!”

  “That blue light—it fried him into a crisp!”

  “Evasive maneuvers! Get away from the front of that aircraft and go for its flanks!”

  His face paling in horror at the sight, the Lieutenant and his wingmen instinctively broke their formations and scrambled in a desperate attempt to evade the blue beam of death as it began to arc across the sky and slice through Annorial aircraft with frightening precision. The mannacomm was soon quickly filled with cries of terror and angry curses as the beleaguered pilots—long used to swatting rogue dragons and the occasional solitary Elysian would-be-adventurer out of the sky, the vaulted pilots of the Light Winged People were caught off guard by the sheer agility of the attacking plane and the skill of its pilot (to say nothing of whatever the hell was that unholy light).

  “My wing’s gone! I’m going to have to eject!”

  “Dragon Four is down! I see a parachute, but he’ll need S&E in the harbour!”

  BINGO

  “That thing’s fast! It’s outmaneuvering all of our attempts to get behind it!”

  “Missile, missile! R-21B, evade!”

  “Ancestors above, I’m hit! I—”

  BULLSEYE

  “That’s another of our guys down! Damn it, he’s on my tail!”

  “Dragon One, it’s opening its mouth again! Look out!”

  BULLSEYE

  “Dragon Two, your flight lead is down! Assume command of Dragon Squadron for the rest of the mission!”

  “Affirmative; Three through Seven, regroup on me—”

  BINGO

  “Damn it, that fighter just took out Dragon Two as well!”

  Sword One snarled. “Fools, your performance is disgraceful! The Emperor and our Ancestors are watching us, and you dishonour them with this charade of a defense?! Pick up the pace and destroy that inferior fighter before I shoot you down myself!”

  “Well, you go and shoot that thing down yourself like the rest of us then, you asshole!”

  “What did you say?! You’ll pay for that, cur!”

  From the corner of his vision, Grogny saw a disturbingly familiar glint of angular light—about to strike Sword One, he realised. “Boss, right behind you! Look out!”

  “Silence, Sword Three! Cease your inelegant blubbering and maintain your discipline—”

  The enemy plane’s mouth opened once again, and the blue beam erupted from within; Sword One’s aircraft was vaporised before the flight commander even realised what was happening, still focused on berating his subordinate even in his final moments. Grogny shook his head in dismay and no small annoyance at the sight as what was left of the much-reviled pilot splashed into the waters below—for many of the pilots present, nothing much of value would seem to have been lost.

  BULLSEYE

  “Sword One is down! It’s every man for himself!”

  Yet for all of his bluster, the leader’s presence was all but what was keeping their desperate defense of the capital from deteriorating into a flat-out rout. With his confirmed death, the individual squadrons quickly disintegrated into a mad scramble to either avoid getting shot down or to launch wildly disorganised individual attempts at scoring a hit—not even the directives from Throne seemed to be of any use in restoring order to the would-be-defenders of Magicaregia. Scowling, Grogny glanced around for the rest of his squadron and barked into his mannacomm once more.

  “Sword Squadron, regroup on me! All other survivors, join up as well if you want to make it out of this engagement alive—we’re taking the fight to that bird!”

  “Belay that order, Sword Three! Throne to all callsigns: waive off—our Guardians have dispatched an elite squadron to assist in driving the invaders out of our soil! Callsign: Enlil!”

  For the first time since the air battle began, Grogny felt a glimmer of hope as news of the arrival of the most prestigious pilots in the entirety of the Annorial Empire (and possibly even Elysia itself) quickly spread amongst the surviving pilots. Nodding to himself, Grogny gestured to his wingmen to follow him out of the enemy aircraft’s range.

  “Roger that, Throne! Sword Squadron and anyone else that’s still alive, we’re establishing a perimeter around the hostile aircraft—the Guardians will close in and go for the kill! On me!”

  The Guardians were no mere recruits or brutish cogs within the vast military complex that defended the Annorial Empire from those who would see the Ancestors’ return thwarted—their namesakes were honoured and celebrated figures from the glorious past of the Ravernals themselves, committed to continuing their legacy in striking down the inferior foes foolish enough to stand in their way.

  Thousands of years past before the names Mu or even Milishial were ever first uttered, the Ravernal Empire found itself in a desperate struggle against the Infidragoon Kingdom and its mighty horde of Lightning Flame Dragons—vast, gigantic winged creatures that loomed over entire cities and dominated the battlefield with their devastating magical fire (itself nearly on par with the Ancestors’ most powerful core magic devices)—that threatened to engulf even the Latistor Continent in their wrath. In a desperate effort to save their Empire, three generals marshalled their forces for a final stand and summoned the Kingdom’s entire fleet of Dragons to their position with an astonishing display of raw magic, slaughtering dozens with their own hand before finally ordering hundreds of core magic warheads on their position as their defences were overrun—with their valiant sacrifice (as no survivors or even bodies were ever found in the aftermath), the Lightning Flame Dragons were all but annihilated and the Infinidragoons soon forced back to their own homeland. For the three Guardians and their men—Enlil, Inanna, and Nammu—the pilots of the squadrons that took their names would always ensure that the skies they cleared with their valour would forever belong to the Ravernals and their Annorial descendants. The Guardians were the greatest pilots in the history of the Winged People, and they would undoubtedly forever remain so as long as Elysia existed.

  From far below, the denizens of Magicaregia cheered as the Guardians aboard their silver Pal Aurora 4s—the most advanced fighters in existence, barring whatever technological wonders from the Ancestors still remained undiscovered within the ancient ruins of their magical civilization—soared over the skyscrapers and towers of the Annorial Empire’s capital, travelling at supersonic speeds well beyond even the capabilities of the Milishials’ much-hyped Alpha-3s. Their surfaces gleaming with the sun’s reflection and their freshly-polished consoles glowing with an ethereal union of magic and science, these planes, as divine as they were destructive, were truly worthy for only those who had undoubtedly proven their loyalty to the Ancestors above all else.

  “Our greatest champions! Protect us in the name of our Ancestors!”

  “Victory’s at hand! Drive the savages out of our land!”

  “Glory to the Emperor! Glory to the Guardians!”

  Aboard her plane, Lieutenant Nilea Keleana carefully adjusted the controls of her HUD as her wingmen and flight lead continued to casually bicker and speculate about the nature of their unexpected deployment. Other pilots would have found the background noise incredibly annoying, especially considering the somewhat dire circumstances—for the young pilot, the sound of her found family and friends (and amicable exes, for a few of them) was a source of comfort, something to lean on to while serving the Ancestors. And why would she ever have to worry about a few lapses in standard operating procedures within her squadron?

  She and her fellow pilots were the Guardians, the greatest to ever soar across the skies, and they knew it—until the Ancestors themselves returned, truly was there nothing in Elysia that could match the might of the Annorial Empire itself! The Ancestors would guide their endeavours as always, and they would continue to do so until the end of time; of that, Nilea and her companions had no doubt.

  “This is the AEWA Throne to Enlil Squadron. Call: Sardothien. Response?”

  Captain Nawor Regty, Enlil One, was the first to respond. “Galathynius. Report on the situation.”

  “Enlil Squadron, good to have you with us. A singular fighter has penetrated our air defenses and is within striking range of Orantha Castle and the Imperial Crown itself—it has evaded and outmatched all of our available conventional air superiority squadrons. Assistance is needed in allowing damaged aircraft to retreat out of the AO and reestablishing air superiority by shooting down the fighter itself.”

  Nilea scoffed to herself. “The regulars are having problems with one aircraft? How dumb exactly are they?”

  “They were the best we had still available after the air raids—and a lot quicker to arrive here than Enlil Squadron was,” the AEWA controller drily replied. “They’ve been able to keep the aircraft busy while you were en route, but ended up paying dearly for it.”

  “Nothing is to be gained by needlessly disparaging the efforts of our fellow pilots, Lieutenant,” Nawor gently chided his wingwoman. “Let’s work to avenge their comrades and assess our shortcomings afterwards—”

  “Yeah, yeah, the usual sentimental stuff,” Nilea replied dismissively. “Are we swatting this fly out of the sky, or not?”

  On the mannacomm, Enlil Three and Four could be heard tsking in disapproval.

  Enlil Two pointedly ignored them and tapped impatiently on her controls, her attention already focused on the fight ahead as she quickly ran through the weapons armed on her aircraft—a bit overkill for an air superiority mission, by her reckoning, but it never hurt to be careful, after all. What little information the Emperor had given his subjects about the Osean Federation (the vast majority of the intel that Intelligence had gone through was apparently either propaganda or highly improbable fabrications) suggested that the enemy attacking their homeland was a somewhat technologically advanced power, something that even the Guardians themselves had yet to truly encounter in their centuries of service to the Ancestors. The prospect was certainly something that the pilots present felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation—what would fighting a nation that deemed itself on par with the Empire through its mastery of science be like?

  “Hey, ten coins says this ends up being more interesting than those Gra Valkans we sank last year. You guys in?”

  “Oh, please, Nairod,” Enlil Four drily replied. “As if anything wouldn’t be more interesting than whatever those pathetic excuses for planes were—propeller aircraft versus our sacred vessels? Really?”

  “All bark and no bite,” Mas remarked, “especially that flight lead—what was it that he said? Something about ‘the glory of Gra Valkan technological innovation’, he said, my ass—”

  “Cut the chatter, Enlil Three,” Nawor interrupted. “I’ve got eyes on the enemy plane. Four and Five, we’re doing our standard manoeuvres to see how he reacts—let’s see if this so-called menace is as dangerous as he’s all hyped up to be.”

  Nairod frowned. “What kind of plane design is that without even a window? No matter, let’s leave it to the boys in Intelligence to deal with—Loach, you have the honours.”

  “Roger, Five—Enlil Squadron, engaging!”

  Su-57s? No, not exactly—these new fighters seemed to be a bizarre blend of Felons and the long-rumored J-20s supposedly being developed in Comona, Mobius One mused. Whatever they were, the fact that the Annorial fighters he had been previously engaging were now retreating suggested that the newcomers were likely of a more elite calibre—all the better, considering the relatively meagre offerings until now; if anything, the technologically disadvantaged Elysia was somehow proving far more disappointing in the field of air combat than even the veteran pilot had anticipated.

  Perhaps these pilots would be more of a challenge; seeing a pair of fighters rapidly approaching for a dance, Mobius One decided to oblige.

  Let’s see how good you are compared to the Eruseans…

  “Enlil Four and Five, on the offensive! Let’s get rid of this savage at once!”

  Loach and Nairod were the first two pilots to attempt to force the Osean fighter out of the sky, their Pal Aurorae moving in close synchronisation as one quickly countered each of Mobius One’s reactions to the other. With the satisfying tone of a missile lock achieved in a matter of seconds, Nairod did not hesitate—a guided missile shot forward at breakneck speed, soaring rapidly towards the Falken.

  “Enlil Five, Fox Two!”

  Mobius One’s plane spun around as a flurry of countermeasures lit up his rear, drawing in Enlil Five’s missile. Taking advantage of the opponent’s distraction, Loach in turn fired his own missiles, a prayer to the Ancestors that his munitions would strike true.

  “Enlil Four, Fox Two!”

  The Falken weaved and circled, narrowly dodging one projectile after another—but the other three fighters of Enlil Squadron were in turn approaching from the front, releasing two missiles each in close proximity to the Osean bird itself. Eyes widening in realisation, Mobius quickly responded, his HUD responding to his input within a matter of nanoseconds as the front of his plane opened up—

  “The plane’s about to fire its weapon! Look out!”

  Nilea, Nawor, and Mas instantly broke off to avoid being caught in Mobius One’s laser, the experimental weapon cutting through the vast majority of the missiles approaching his front and the Falken swerving past the remainder. Simultaneously attempting to shake off his pursuers while refocusing the beam of death towards the fleeing aircraft, the veteran pilot swerved hard into a series of high-G maneuvers—Nairod and Loach gaped in shock as their target somehow dodged an entire salvo of missiles while seemingly twisting uncontrollably in the air, before regaining control and soaring onwards as if nothing had happened.

  “Nawor, are you seeing this?! Those moves should be completely impossible!”

  “And yet that pilot’s still pulling them off—he’s good, I’ll give him that. Enlil Two and Three, regroup on me and we’ll put this charade to a swift end!”

  Nilea and Mas each positioned themselves on Nawor’s flanks, and the three fighters joined Loach and Nairod in their close pursuit, the five Pal Aurorae releasing a pair of missiles each at the Falken’s rear. The storm of guided munitions trailing Mobius One would have completely overwhelmed a wyvern rider or a Milishial pilot—or maybe even a nugget fresh out of the OADF’s flight academy—but for a seasoned pilot like him, a plan quickly came to mind to escape the situation and turn the tables on his pursuers. Releasing a final spread of chaff and flares, the Usean pilot released a pair of missiles without a direct target and shot downwards, his plane screaming across the sky as it hurtled towards the ground.

  Loach gaped, his squadron joining him and Nairod as they dove down in close pursuit—their ten missiles were slowly being drawn away by the countermeasures and the Osean projectiles’ radar signatures, yet three remained on his tail as hunter and prey continued to fall, the waves of the harbour rapidly approaching—

  “That pilot’s a madman! Nawor, we’re going to crash into the bay!”

  “Affirmative, Mas; Enlil Squadron, break off, break off!”

  “Negative, negative—if we lose him now, we’re gonna lose our advantage against him!”

  “The Captain’s right, Nairod,” Loach realised, “he’s only going to pull up at the last second, and his plane might just be capable enough of pulling that off! The Pal Auroraes aren’t—”

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  “Come on, come on! We’re going make it!”

  “Nairod!”

  “Pull up, you idiot! Pull up!”

  Nilea, Mas, and Nawor pulled away from the chase, not wanting to take the risk of crashing; Enlil Four and Five pressed on, the latter roaring as adrenaline surged through him and the former frantically attempted to both follow and lead his companion away from certain death. At the last second, Mobius One pulled up above the surface of the bay—the three missiles splashed into the water, exploding harmlessly as his two remaining pursuers yanked harder on their controls than ever before in their lives—

  “By the Ancestors, preserve me and this idiot!”

  “We’re going to survive, Loach! By the Ancestors, we’re pulling this off or my name is—”

  By some sheer miracle or skill on the Guardians’ parts, their Pal Aurorae curved over the waters of Magicaregia by mere inches, their afterburners sending plumes of water into the air in their wake before the two fighters shot up into the skies once more towards much safer altitudes—the Falken they had been pursuing with near-suicidal intent was right in front of them, barely even attempting to evade a missile lock. Loach released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, laughing to himself even as he refocused his attention at the Osean plane.

  “You fucking idiot…”

  “Hey, we made it and still followed that plane, didn’t we?”

  “That we did, that we did—”

  Seeing that his pursuers were distracted, the Usean ace nodded to himself.

  These newcomers were fun dancers, but the music was coming to an end. Time to show these Elysians what true mastery of the skies entailed, the pilot decided—if they thought that this was the peak of his abilities, then he would give them something that the world would remember forever.

  Leaning back on his seat, Mobius One braced himself and pulled back, hard—

  The enemy bird abruptly leaned back as it seemingly froze in the air, Loach and Nairod’s Pal Aurorae shooting past without a chance to react. Enlil Five’s eyes widened; how the hell did he manage to do that—

  —the plane leaned forward and launched itself at its two would-be pursuers from their rears, the pair having only a mere second to realise that they had become the targets themselves—

  —its mouth opened, and Nilea’s eyes widened in horror as she realised what was about to happen—

  “Loach! Nairod! Get the fuck away from that thing!”

  “Nairod, look out—”

  “He’s—Loach, I—”

  Nairod’s aircraft disappeared into a blinding flash of blue light, Enlil Five’s agonized scream melting into the explosions that dotted his irradiated aircraft. The resulting maelstrom of fire and energy caught Loach’s plane as well—the entire right wing was vaporized, sending the Guardian’s aircraft into an uncontrollable spin as it tumbled across the sky before splashing into the harbour.

  “Nairod, no—”

  BINGO

  Across the city, the cheers and shouts of encouragement came to an abrupt halt as the denizens of Magicaregia froze in shock. “The Guardians…that barbarian slew a Guardian?!”

  “That…that can’t be! The Guardians are invincible! They’re our greatest warriors!”

  “Surely it was an accident, right?”

  “It must have been! That Heavenly Floating Ship couldn’t have taken those heroes down!”

  Nilea screamed. “Loach! Nairod! No!”

  Enlil One glanced down in horror at the remains of Nairod’s aircraft as it sank beneath the surface of the harbour, his wizened face growing pale at the sight. “Throne, Enlil Four and Five are down! Mas, do you see a parachute?!”

  “Negative—there wasn’t any chute! Loach was in the Pal Aurora when it crashed!”

  “Pull yourself together, Enlil Two! That savage will pay dearly for that, I promise you!” Nawor banked hard, narrowly avoiding a missile from the Osean fighter with a circular flourish of high-G maneuvers and flares; soaring right past the enemy itself, he risked a glance at the plane only to realise that the aircraft was circling back around towards his tail. “Mas, Nilea, go for his six! I’ll keep him focused on me!”

  “Roger!”

  Enlil One grunted in frustration as his aircraft twisted and turned, struggling to maintain the Osean pilot’s attention while breaking the near-continuous drone of the missile lock alarm in his console. The Pal Aurora 4 was a rarity within the Annorial Empire, and for good reason—its speed and agility was unmatched by anything the Ancestors had ever faced—yet this plane was quicker, faster, and far more responsive to his actions than even he himself could achieve. One wrong move, he realised, and this would be it—

  “Ancestors be damned, he’s far more skilled than I ever expected! Nilea, Mas, shoot the shot!”

  “Enlil Three, Fox Two!”

  A missile from Mas’s underside soared past the Osean and narrowly missed Nawor’s fuselage by several inches, exploding right above the cockpit but dealing no significant damage. Enlil One scowled, turning to glance at his wingmen in anger—seeing his opportunity, the enemy pilot shot a pair of missiles at the Pal Aurora at point blank range—

  Gasping, Nilea cried out, “Look out!”

  A pair of explosions rocked the seasoned pilot’s aircraft, ripping into the fuselage and tearing holes into the Pal Aurora’s wings—but Nawor swiftly regained control of his aircraft, smirking self-assuredly at his pursuer. Enlil Two and Three gaped in surprise—weren’t those killshots?

  “Captain,” Mas exclaimed, “how are you still alive?!”

  “Non-critical areas! Shoot this guy down and I’ll teach you how to do it—”

  Enlil One’s transmission was abruptly cut off as a blue light erupted from the Falken and slammed into the Pal Aurora, the sheer energy of the focused blast slicing through the fuselage and melting the cockpit itself in raw plasma and fire. What remained of the bisected wreckage exploded, with debris falling into the harbour and the surrounding industrial districts—onlookers from below scrambled to avoid getting hit, screaming in panic as they did so.

  BULLSEYE

  Nodding to himself, Mobius One gave the final remains of the enemy plane a perfunctory salute before sweeping around—that pilot did give as good as he got, after all.

  Now to finish the job—

  “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

  Nilea slammed at her controls in agonized rage, screaming and cursing incoherently at the enemy as her vision of her surroundings blurred. Her friends and family were being slaughtered before her very eyes, and not a single skill that she had trained all her life to master in the skies was even close to killing the pilot responsible—

  “Nilea, listen to me! You need to take command!”

  “You’re going to die for that, Osean! No more games, no more tricks! Just you and me, to the death!”

  “Nilea! He’s coming around!”

  The jagged aircraft was approaching them from the front, its mouth closing after its latest attack of light petered off. Driven more by a burning desire for revenge than anything else, Enlil Two fired wildly, her entire loadout of missiles and bullets aimed at the plane as it shot towards them—and it still somehow dodged the entire fusillade, twisting and spinning the storm of enemy fire and returning the favor with a burst of machine gun fire as it soared past.

  The young pilot craned her head around towards Enlil Three and the enemy fighter, hoping to get a glimpse of her foe. “Mas, do you see where it went?”

  Silence.

  “Mas?”

  Enlil Two turned to look at her wingman’s plane, her heart stopping at the sight: the burst of enemy gunfire had shredded Mas’s cockpit, ripping through the controls and the pilot behind them—without any input from the now-deceased Guardian, the Pal Aurora now began a rapid descent towards the ground.

  “Mas! No!”

  Nilea cried out as her first love disappeared beneath the clouds, his aircraft likely crashing into the heart of Magicaregia. She couldn’t be the only one left…could she?

  “Not you too—I can’t do this without any of you!”

  The distant rumble of the aircraft that struck down her squadron stirred her from her grief—for some reason, the Osean pilot was intent on finishing the job. Enlil Two gritted her teeth and wiped her tears as fury once more surged through her veins; if this murderer wanted her so badly, then she would show him otherwise!

  “Come on! Kill me if you want—there’s nothing left for you here but death!”

  Nilea’s Pal Aurora shot forward towards certain doom, afterburners on full as she screamed agonisingly at the Osean, missiles shooting forward towards him as his plane’s mouth opened to fire once again—

  —deathdeathdeathdeathdeath—

  —only for the enemy fighter to abruptly break off, a stream of contrails in his wake as a pair of missiles shot past and a Pal Aurora 3 soared towards her starboard side in close pursuit. Enlil Two started in confusion, when her mannacomm burst to life once more.

  “Enlil Two! Enlil Two, do you read me?”

  What? What the—

  “Who is this?! Identify yourself!”

  “This is Lieutenant Grogny of the regular forces, callsign Sword Two! Listen to me—you need to get out of the AO before you get shot down as well! If you can’t stop that Osean pilot, then no one can!”

  Nilea snarled. “How dare you order a Guardian around! Who are you to—”

  “Look, I know you’re one of the greatest pilots amongst us all, but you’re not going to be able to avenge the fallen if you end up joining them as well! Please, I’ll only be able to fend him off of you for so long—get out of here so the Guardians can rise again!”

  “Your intentions are commendable, Lieutenant, but unnecessary—this fight ends right now!”

  “That’s an order, Enlil Two!” A new voice had joined the unwanted conversation—AEWA Throne, by the sound of it. “The Emperor commands you to save yourself—do not disgrace your comrades by needlessly adding to their fallen ranks!”

  “No! Ancestors be damned—”

  A missile struck the rear of Nilea’s aircraft, causing sparks to fly as an engine exploded and her cockpit’s lights shortened out and died—the blast rattled her seat as Enlil Two struggled to regain control of her aircraft, yet against all odds she found herself regaining altitude and speed. Glancing at her display and recognising the countless alarms and signals from the majority of the Pal Aurora’s key systems, the young pilot was forced to admit defeat.

  “Damn it! Enlil Two, pulling out!” Reaching for her mannacomm and switching to an open frequency, Nilea angrily yelled out, “You, Osean scum! I know you can hear me—tell me your name so I may find you and kill you to avenge my kin!”

  The silence in the open channel was deafening even as the alarms in her cockpit continued to blare, only serving to further fuel her rage. From her hazy vision—something was blurring her eyesight, either the smoke from her aircraft or something else altogether—she could see the Osean fighter that had slaughtered her squadron was approaching her from the front, hurtling towards her with the near-suicidal intent of a knight in a jousting match—

  “Answer me!”

  The lock-on tone in only blaring for mere microseconds before Nilea released her missiles, the two fighters simultaneously launching their payloads in a breathtaking display of instinct and skill, honed by countless years of fighting in the skies—at the last moment, Mobius One banked to the side and released a flurry of countermeasures, his aircraft narrowly shooting past Nilea’s as explosions rocked her own—

  “Enlil Two, eject! Damn it, your plane’s about to—”

  BULLSEYE

  Her hands moving on their own accord, Nilea had but a brief glimpse of the Osean plane before she found herself flung out of her flaming plane, the final remaining piece of her now-dead squadron disintegrating into the sea before her. Featureless save for a vague numerical marking she understood nothing of, her eyes instantly focused upon the emblem boldly emblazoned on its tail—

  “A blue ribbon…”

  She knew not his name nor his identity, but Nilea had a symbol to find.

  By the Ancestors, she swore, she would find the monster who had so ruthlessly destroyed the world she called her own—if not for the people she had come to call her family, then for Enlil herself and her sacrifice for her People. She was a Guardian—nothing less was to be expected!

  “Reaper of the skies…you will be mine…”

  MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

  “No…”

  Grogny watched the last of Enlil Squadron’s aircraft crash into the harbor in horror. “Throne…Ancestors help us…”

  All the cheers from the denizens of Magicaregia had long since shifted into gasps of horror or even stunned silence; a few Annorials had even burst into tears as their vaunted symbols of justice and glory were struck down without hesitation in the span of a few minutes. The Guardians were the greatest warriors of the sky, supposedly without equal—without them, who would be able to save them from whoever had come to their Empire?

  “This is Throne to all remaining callsigns—we’re picking up seven more hostile air contacts on an intercept course! The Emperor himself has ordered all Pal Auroras to evacuate the AO—get out of there if you want to avoid being struck down like Enlil!”

  “What?!” But—why— “The Inferior People have already eviscerated our air force with a single fighter, and they’re still sending in more?!”

  “And you want to be around when they arrive, Sword Two?”

  “Of course not, damn it! All elements, form up around me and head southwest out of the operations area! Move, damn it, move!”

  Seven Falkens, all but identical in appearance to Mobius One’s aircraft down to the blue ribbon emblem, flew into formation on each of his flanks. Nodding at each fighter as they approached, Mobius leaned back on his seat as SkyEye’s voice returned to the radio.

  “Omega Squadron, Megalith Protocol is now in effect—your respective callsigns are now Mobius Two through Eight. Follow Mobius One’s directives for the duration of this operation; you’re now cleared to execute the final stage of Operation Singularity. Arkbird, are you in position?”

  “Affirmative, SkyEye. Coordinates are locked in; ready for your signal.”

  “Roger that, Arkbird. Mobius Squadron, execute!”

  The eight aircraft split up, breaking formation to form a loose line, before circling in a clockwise loop around the exact center of Magicaregia’s harbour. Each plane in the circular path soon were equidistant, both from each other and the vertex itself as they looped around in an ever-increasing speed—

  The planes banked hard, each to their respective right, all about to collide at the center of their vast circle—but at the last second, the eight fighters all pulled up in an astonishing feat of timing and synergy, their mouths opening and emitting a final blast of the blue light that had struck down many an Annorial fighter in the past hour. Each beam spread upwards to the heavens, almost as if daring the gods themselves to answer back—

  —and the gods themselves replied in kind, a massive blue light that eclipsed even those of the Osean fighters themselves erupting from somewhere in the heavens and soaring between the ascending planes before slamming onto the harbour itself. The skyline was instantly eclipsed by the otherworldly glow of the orbital laser, the shockwaves from the blast reverberating across Magicaregia—nothing close to a nuclear blast or even a conventional high-yield explosive, but still enough to rattle the Annorials as they watched—as the stronghold of ancient magic from the past bore witness to the raw power of the distant future. The impact amongst the Annorials throughout the surrounding city was immediate, all remaining preconceptions of their superiority above all else permanently dashed and replaced by a chilling fear of the Oseans themselves. Not even the Ancestors of old had prevailed in their war against the gods and had suffered greatly for their hubris as a result—had these inferior people called upon the gods once more in retaliation?

  From the Palace, Emperor Zarathosthra watched the sight with terror in his eyes, tracing the light upwards in the sky towards its source. Was that…some kind of vessel up there amidst the stars? Had the Oseans developed a new Mystar in response to their attempt in destroying the Lighthouse? Or was that some form of a divine being, some kind of god or demon signalling her favour to Osea or displeasure at his Empire’s actions from above?

  “Your Holiness…it’s just as the legends foretold…the gods themselves are striking down upon us…”

  Coming to a decision, Zarathosthra forced his eyes away from the sight and turned to his officials. “Director Zamuras, do we have any communications from the Oseans?”

  The Director shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of—”

  “Your Holiness!” High General Duran was gesturing wildly at a nearby screen in the briefing room, which a technician had set to an Osean news channel. “We’ve just received this message from Oured—all of our unencrypted communications are being blotted out with a similar message!”

  None other than the Osean President himself was on the screen, his grim face focused on his audience as his words were broadcast to the entirety of Elysia.

  Osean Broadcast Corporation, Bright Hill, Oured, Osean Federation — February 21, 2020

  To the peoples of Elysia:

  On the fifth of February, less than sixteen days ago, our nation was struck without provocation by a hostile power that received our offer of peace and chose to respond with violence and war—with weapons known only through ancient legends in Elysia and and through memories of our own darkest hours from twenty-five years past, these aggressors sought to break our resolve, to darken our hearts, and drag us back to our oldest vices of anger and hatred. This attack claimed thousands of lives and robbed us of our greatest leader, a man who brought us out of the ashes of the Belkan War and into a world of where coexistence and cooperation ensured the continued survival of our reality as a whole—but we chose to respond not out of pure vengeance or a instinctive desire for bloodshed, but with a desire for justice and an outcome that sees the peoples of Osea and Elysia continue our newfound friendship, just as the late Ambassador himself would have desired.

  I can now confirm that the Osean Intelligence Agency has successfully identified the party responsible for the attack on our soil—it is a rogue Elysian nation with ancestral ties to an ancient empire known only for its horrific cruelty and barbarism towards all sentient and sapient life, whose actions both in this incursion and in various hitherto unconfirmed incidents over the past year since our arrival in Elysia, highlight its intentions to resurrect their predecessors’ legacy at the cost of countless lives. We can now present to Elysia and the wider international community for their evaluation, our findings: that the nation responsible is known to this world as the Annorial Empire…

  Albion Castle, Runepolis, Holy Milishial Empire — February 21, 2020

  “They actually did it…the Annorials struck the Oseans…”

  Minister Liage and the other officials present watched in astonishment as President Bartlett began to present the evidence gathered by his nation’s military and intelligence experts over the past few months: skeletal remains of an Annorial agent in Esperanto, magical devices recovered from seemingly untamed creatures throughout the Third Civilization Area, satellite imagery of Annorial installations and weapons, wreckage of what clearly were copies of Heavenly Flying Ships from the Ancient Sorcerous Empire itself—

  “They have fully-operational Pal Chimerae and Pal Cowne?!”

  “Pal Auroras—Pal Scyllae?! Those were lost to time!”

  Minister Pao had risen to his feet in disbelief, the sight of artifacts from times long past very much present (to say nothing about them being all but destroyed) shaking him to his core. “It’s…it’s…I…”

  “We don’t exactly have those in the Ancient Superweapons Department, do we?”

  Pao and Liage turned to Hirkane, who was similarly disturbed by the Oseans’ findings but remained seated as he continued to listen to the broadcast. Surely even he knew if the Emperor had any of those ancient devices in storage somewhere in the Central Continent, right?

  The masked individual frowned. “You are aware that I can’t disclose state secrets without the Emperor’s permission, correct?”

  “If we did have any of the ancient Pal Aurorae,” Director Arneus surmised with growing horror, “we would have long since figured out how to reverse-engineer their technology for our own Alpha fighters. And since our own Alpha fighters can’t even breach the sound barrier as of yet—”

  “Gods help us,” Pao despaired. “The Ancestors arrive in a decade’s time, and yet we haven’t even come close to matching their abilities!”

  The doors to the meeting room swung open to reveal Emperor Milishial, prompting the entire group of ministers and directors to hastily stand at attention. The grey-haired ruler quickly gestured at his advisors to sit back down, his attention still focused on the broadcast itself.

  “Hirkane,” the Emperor queried, “do we have any Pal Aurorae or Pal Scyllae in our possession?”

  “Negative, Your Excellency, only vague sketches and half-destroyed blueprints. Nothing applicable for further development of the Alpha series.”

  Milishial nodded, ideas forming in his head as President Bartlett continued to speak.

  “…these, along with other declassified data gathered from our encounters with the Annorials, are to be released to the public domain in an hour from the end of this statement…”

  …we are aware that reports have emerged from throughout Elysia that military action has been reported in the Annorial Empire itself—that Osea is in the process of retaliating against the Empire for its actions both before Selatapura and after. It is undoubtedly imperative that such speculation must be put to rest.

  To this end, I can now confirm that the Osean Federation has conducted and concluded a major peacekeeping operation against the Annorial Empire—in the past nine hours, we have launched a series of long-range strikes involving cruise missiles, long-range strategic aircraft, and orbital weapons on key targets believed to be in possession of the weapons and materials used to attack our country. From our own assessments in the form of satellite readings and reconnaissance aircraft, our air campaign has been successful in its aims: the Annorial Empire has been brought to a halt in its attempts to repeat the atrocities in Selatapura and beyond—their missile capabilities have been disabled, their superweapons neutralised, their sea creatures released from their bondage, and their fighters bested in the skies by our own.

  This is not an act of retribution nor an attempt at subjugation and annihilation; this is a diplomatic response to the violence dealt to our nation and one taken with the restraint that nations of civility utilise in their conduct with their peers, in the hopes that cooler and saner minds may prevail and the needless bloodshed of the past few weeks may come to a swift end.

  To the Emperor of the Annorial Empire and his government, we come to you now with an offer: the cessation of hostilities may take place at once with the assurance that your weapons will never again be used on our people, and that your ambitions in Elysia and beyond play no further role in hindering the interests of Osea and its partners and the wider international community. In return, you will have our word that our weapons will never again touch your lands as long as yours never reach ours—your lands will remain untouched, your people will remain unbothered, and the state of affairs between the Empire’s government and its people will remain solely in the hands of the Annorials, to freely pursue whatever ends your nation deems fit. Otherwise, you shall see our air campaign continue until your nation no longer possesses the ability to wage unprovoked war against the world at large ever again…

  Nivles Castle, Ragna, Gra Valkas Empire — February 21, 2020

  The screen changed once more—Emperor Gra Lux and his advisors watched in shock, horror, dismay, and awe as Osean DarkStars laid waste to Annorial fighters and facilities with cold precision that not even Gra Valkas’s most skilled pilots could dream of achieving. Weapons and vehicles clearly advanced and formidable in design ruptured and exploded with the mere touch of beams of light and the impacts of guided missiles, the prized glory of another power that clearly eclipsed the Empire brought down by someone even stronger. The sheer disparity between Gra Valkas’s burgeoning steps into modernity and the Ostf?deration’s bold strides into the future was already apparent even before this development—what Ragna was now witnessing before its very eyes would undoubtedly accelerate the technological gap even further: Osea could very well be more than decades, or even a century ahead of its peers, and it was no longer interested in hiding it from the rest of Elysia.

  The recording culminated in a final display of raw scientific power as a singular plane—foreign in its appearance yet recognizable as Osean in design—split the skies in half with a singular azure line. Joined by seven other counterparts, their lights shone brightly in the heavens like swords raised by victorious knights in battle—

  —and from the heavens, a final light, greater than all the rest, came down to join them—

  —orbital weaponry, Gra Lux realised—

  —and the screen paused, its perspective of the sight shifting once more; a camera from up in the stars watching downwards as the light burst forth from its source and struck the Annorial Empire in its heart, the entire nation that its people celebrated as the final bastion of the Ancestors’ Empire reduced to a singular image of a continent and its smaller islands amidst a sea of blue.

  Nothing more impactful to conclude the Ostf?deration’s message to Elysia with than to emphasize the ultimate display of Osea’s greatest power, the Emperor mused:

  Its ability to single-handedly reduce the ambitions of its rivals to mere petty squabbles within a universe far greater than themselves…

  Coming to a decision, Zarathosthra turned to Director Krunch. “Establish a line of communication with the Oseans and inform them that we will accept their offer for a ceasefire.”

  The Emperor’s order was met with gasps of shock and stunned silence from the rest of the room. High General Duran was the first to respond, voicing his concerns. “Your Holiness…this is the war that we have been planning for years to culminate with the return of our Ancestors! Are we to abandon our cause of unifying Elysia under their rule with such a decision?”

  “The events of the past few hours have shown that the Annorial Empire cannot match the Osean Federation in direct combat—if our plans of restoring the empire of our Ancestors are to succeed, we must rethink our approach as soon as possible, High General,” Zarathosthra simply replied. “Director Zamuras, are we still in contact with our operatives beyond the borders of the Annorial Empire?”

  The director nodded, realization crossing his face as he quickly recognised the Emperor’s intentions. “They are still in play and ready for your orders, Your Holiness.”

  “Order your people to begin accelerating their efforts to locate and secure all remaining revival beacons within Elysia. The Ancestors will undoubtedly have the resources and technology needed to destroy the Osean Federation—their return will therefore have to be expedited if we are to successfully assist them in their reclamation of Elysia. Director Vorus, you are to work with Director Zamuras in manufacturing whatever subterfuge and disinformation is necessary to prevent the Oseans from further hindering our operations: sow discord between the Federation’s allies, instigate conflicts between the superpowers of Elysia to redirect their attention, compel our allies and the inferior nations under our thrall to strike them from the shadows—as long as Osea cannot act against us directly, we may yet have a chance at avenging this defeat and resurrecting our Ancestors.”

  Vorus bowed in acknowledgment. “As you command, Your Holiness.”

  Zarathosthra turned to address the room as a whole once more. “My loyal subjects, this war was meant to be the culmination of our great cause, the beginning of the return of the Empire of old—but the present circumstances have clearly demonstrated that such an effort will no longer provide us with the success that our Ancestors depend upon. We shall have to bear the unbearable and endure the unendurable—but our sacrifices today will undoubtedly earn us the rewards of tomorrow, and the Ravernal Empire will stand tall and proud once more. May the Ancestors guide our endeavours!”

  The Annorials present rose in acknowledgment, now filled with resolve for the great struggle that lay ahead. “May the Ancestors guide our endeavours!”

  Bright Hill, Oured, Osean Federation — February 21, 2020

  “Mr. President, they’ve agreed to cease hostilities! The Annorials are standing down!”

  The room instantly burst into cheers, with the dozens of officers and staff present embracing each other and immediately proceeding to ransack the emergency stash of champagne carefully stocked in the presidential bunker’s storage department for such occasions. Bartlett himself, though, was somewhat more muted in his elation, silently retreating to a quiet corner of the underground facility to ruminate.

  Seeing the President all to himself amidst the celebrations, Edwards made his way through the crowd towards Bartlett, concern visible on his face. “Jack, you alright?”

  “Huh?” Bartlett looked up at the Vice Chairman, having clearly been disturbed from his thoughts. “Oh, nothing…just remembering what it took for us to get here…”

  Immediately understanding the meaning behind the President’s words, Edwards sagely nodded as he offered a glass to his superior. “Want to do a toast to the old man?”

  “…yeah, why not. Shepherd hasn’t wrecked the entire supply yet, has he?”

  “I’ve asked the quartermaster to be reasonable with the drinks. Here, a ‘10—probably a bit fitting, considering the circumstances.”

  Carefully holding the glass as Edwards poured out the bottle’s contents, Bartlett turned to look at the numerous screens in the control room still showing updates from the various squadrons returning to base. “You’re sure the Annorials won’t attempt to pull a fast one while we’re all getting drunk?”

  Edwards shrugged. “I’ve got several AWACS operators monitoring the airspace between us and the Annorials and a few more DarkStar squadrons on standby—if they do try anything, we’ll just keep doing the same thing we’ve been doing for the past few hours until Magicaregia finally gets the message. I’m fairly certain sending the Ribbon Fighter and the Arkbird was more than sufficient in getting our point across, though.”

  “And afterwards? What are we planning for the Annorials later on?”

  “Well, that’s for your successor to deal with—and for them to handle themselves when the time comes. With all due respect, Mr. President, I think we’ve earned this moment; we should probably enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “Can’t see any reason not to do so, I suppose,” Bartlett ruefully agreed, raising his glass in a quiet toast. “To Harling.”

  The Vice Chairman raised his own glass as well. “To Harling, Mr. President.”

  IUN Altaras Air Base, Kingdom of Altaras — February 21, 2020

  A solitary Falken landed with a graceful thud on the runway as the aircraft completed its return journey to Altaras without incident, quietly making its way towards an isolated bunker in the distant end of the airbase itself.

  While its celebrated pilot would have normally been stationed as close as possible to the centre of the facility itself, it was his personal request that he be stationed at a place where he and his aircraft would not be a disturbance to or be disturbed by the other planes operating as part of the IUN’s postwar operations—within the hangar itself, only a small scattering of technicians and guards were there to greet the aircraft and begin performing maintenance checks as its pilot disembarked and made his way inside. The process that followed remained unchanged even after over more than a decade of continuous sorties in the skies—a formal debrief as SkyEye quickly ran through every major aspect of the operation, followed by a formal congratulations from HQ in recognition of his continued service, concluding with his dismissal and him finding something to do with his spare time while waiting for the next mission.

  Mobius One soon found himself standing at the door to his personal quarters, looking at the sparse items dotting the room. Most of his belongings had been at his old airbase in North Point when the Transference took place, while he and SkyEye happened to be on a drinking binge trip in Oured—his desire to keep and accumulate mementos from his past was as strong as his desire to speak, and he had therefore never really sought to replace the already few trinkets he lost as a result. What else was there but the sky and the planes he flew to witness its beauty up close?

  Only one object remained in his possession that he deemed truly important, a symbol of an old opponent from the war that had brought an entire corner of the world to its knees and in turn gave rise to the legend that now followed him even in the New World, now leaning next to his bunk: a guitar, slightly worse for wear, gifted to him by a young man from San Salvacion who had known its previous owner as a child—the passage of time had not done it any favours, but its sound was still as sharp and melodious as when Yellow Thirteen himself last used it many years ago to celebrate his squadron’s victories and its losses against the Ribbon Fighter itself one last time…

  Slowly, Mobius One sat on his bunk, carefully adjusting the guitar in his hands as he thought of times long gone, and silently began to play.