Сentral World. Sea of Baulos.

  Area of Responsibility: 1st Heavy Strike Group.

  The First Heavy Strike Group, serving as just one of the tines on the trident of the Great Imperial Armada, was steaming at full combat speed, churning the leaden waters with its prows. It was a floating city of death, stretching out for miles. Its formation comprised thirty-six pennants, each a masterpiece of industrial might: eight Kaiser and Orion-class battleships spewing billowing clouds of anthracite smoke from their stacks, eight Hercules-class heavy cruisers with their predatory turrets, and twenty nimble, lethal destroyers guarding the formation against underwater threats.

  Their mission was as simple and brutal as a strike with brass knuckles: enter the contact zone, force the main Mirishial forces into a war of annihilation via artillery duel, and pulverize them with their superior firepower.

  On the battle bridge of the flagship battleship"Betegris", behind the thick panes of the armored command tower, a tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the hum of ventilation and the clicking of instruments.

  Vice Admiral Kaon, the group's commander, stood at the viewfinder. His face, resembling old leather toughened by the wind, was grim.

  He squinted, trying to pick something out through the endless, gray expanse of water, way out there beyond the horizon, where the sky was already being painted by the flashes of the vanguard's distant engagement.

  To his right, leaning his elbow on the navigation table, stood his Chief of Staff—Rear Admiral Bat. An old sea dog who should have gone into well-deserved retirement a year ago to raise his grandkids in a quiet cottage back in the homeland. But war would not let him go.

  Bat was a living legend. He was a veteran of the Battle of Ugludes—once the wealthiest trading city in the Fourth Region on the continent of Bemunia, back in their old world. To call what was left of that city after the vassal war with the Kingdom "ruins" would have been an understatement. It was a boneyard.

  That entire country had turned into a theater of total warfare between two superpowers—the mechanized Gra Valkas and the fanatical, magical Divine Kingdom of Kain. That war hadn't let up for over twenty years. And it wouldn't have subsided for another twenty if their island hadn't been transported to this New World, severing the umbilical cord to that hell.

  Bat's face was a horrifying map of that era. The left half was bisected by a ghastly, bumpy, violet burn—a scar from a grazing hit by a "Cain's Scourge" spell cast by an enemy battle mage. The eye had boiled away instantly. The trusty steel of his lowered a. visor had saved his life that day by absorbing the brunt of the thermal shock. That bastard in the robe had aimed to kill, a fanatical smile on his lips.

  Kaon remembered that day. Back then, during the counter-offensive in the residential blocks of Ugludes, many young, green sons of the Empire were laid in the earth without ever firing a shot. Kain's creatures—battle mages and paladins empowered by alchemy—had turned the city ruins into an impregnable citadel in a mere twenty-four hours. They held every intersection, every bas.e.m. in an iron grip, snapping back with either precision magical fire or point-blank machine gun bursts from captured weapons. It was a war of technology against miracles, and it was a dirty one.

  Kaon grimaced involuntarily and touched his chest beneath his tunic. There, under his ribbon racks, an old scar from a magic lightning bolt, sustained in that same battle, responded with a dull, aching phantom pain. Old wounds could sense the presence of high concentrations of mana. He shook his head, driving away the smell of ozone and seared meat—one of the darkest memories of his youth.

  —...And war comes again, and we rise anew... From the ash of trenches, from blood and tears... of our fallen brothers... We march West again, rifles clutched to our chests...— Bat hummed the old marching song of the a. Corps quietly, his lips barely moving. There was no melody in his voice, only the rhythm of boots marching over the bones of enemies.

  The idyll was shattered by the harsh ringing of the internal communications system.

  —Your Excellency! Urgent encrypted message from the Armada Flagship, from the "Atlastar"!— the comms operator sitting in the lower tier of the command tower barked out. His face was tense.

  —Report,— Kaon nodded grimly, not taking his eyes off the horizon.

  —Order from the Commander-in-Chief: "Exercise extreme caution. All ships—Condition One battle readiness. Primary objective—provide immediate support to air groups and cover the sector of fire. Warning: an unidentified Threat is moving toward us. In case of critical danger—withdrawal for regrouping is authorized! A massive flying object is approaching us... Length—two hundred and sixty meters. Armament unknown, but classified as strategic"!

  At that same moment, the radar operator sitting at the adjacent console gasped, sounding strangled. He was trying to regain his composure as he stared at his scope. The green sweep line was outlining the contours of a simply indescribable, gigantic something hanging in the air where there should have been only clouds.

  —What in the hell is that monster?— Kaon whispered in shock, his voice cracking as he lowered his binoculars.

  —I cannot say, Your Excellency... But it is coming straight for us.

  A heavy, viscous, and gloomy atmosphere, like fog rolling off a graveyard, instantly flooded the bridge of the First Heavy Strike Group's flagship. This was not the fear of battle. This was the deep, irrational terror of veterans who suddenly realized: the demons they had fought back in the homeland had found them here, too. A dread born of unknown, inexplicable anxiety screamed of danger, drowning out the wailing of the ship's sirens.

  At the same time. Airspace over the Sea of Baulos.

  18th Strike Squadron of the Gra Valkas Imperial Navy.

  Altitude 2,000 meters.

  The cramped c.o. of the "Antares" fighter, tactical number 18-01, smelled of a mixture of aviation gasoline and sticky fear that seemed to seep right through the oxygen mask.

  —...Enemy object classified as a super-heavy strategic bomber or an aerial fortress. Pose a critical threat to the fleet! Exercise extreme caution. Over!— the voice of the Grade Atlastar' sflight controller punched through the wild crackle of static in the headphones. The instrument needles were dancing—the gyroscopes were going haywire from the proximity of a colossal source of magical energy.

  The squadron commander, Lieutenant Commander Varg, swallowed nervously. He felt a cold trickle of sweat running down his back beneath his warm flight suit.

  —"Caution"... Easy for the rats sitting behind armor to say,— he muttered, flipping the toggle to check his cannons.

  —Commander? What the hell is going on with the comms?— the cracking voice of his wingman came through the headset. —What kind of "thing" is heading our way? Is it a new airship?

  —I don't have a clue myself, son. Listen to orders: hold formation, weapons hot. We see it—we kill it,— Varg replied, trying to make his voice sound commandingly tough. But inside, everything had tightened into a ball of ice. He was a veteran. He remembered his father's stories about Cain's flying demons on Yggdra. Had that nightmare found them here, too?

  The cloud cover beneath them suddenly tore open, as if sliced by a giant knife.

  —CONTACT! Ten o'clock! LOW!— someone screamed over the airwaves so loud that Varg winced. —DO YOU SEE THAT?!

  —Holy s...

  —Mother of God... What a humongous piece of...

  Drifting before them, taking up half the sky, was the "Pal Chimera."

  Up close, it didn't look like just a ring. It was a flying temple of war, hewn from black matte stone and an unknown light-absorbing metal. The diameter of the disc exceeded the length of a battleship. Around the hull, which resembled the wheel of an ancient god, gigantic, leaf-shaped stabilizer planes rotated, leaving a wake of distorted air behind them. No props, no exhaust, no roar of motors. Only a low hum that pressed against the eardrums, vibrating the pilots' very teeth, and the deathly blue glow of anti-gravity nozzles.

  The legacy of the Ancient Sorcerous Empire was closing in. Slowly. Inevitably. Like doom itself.

  Varg felt his instincts screaming: "Turn around! Run!" This thing contradicted all the physics he flew on.

  But he was a pilot of the Empire. And his ships were down below.

  —Break formation!— he barked, shoving the fear deep into his subconscious. —Converging attack! By flights of three! Treat it like a battleship run! Come in from the blind spots! Shoot out its engines or whatever that beast has instead of them! ENGAGE!

  The formation of "Antares" fighters—the pinnacles of 1940s engineering—roared with their supercharged engines and scattered like a silver fan. The pilots, utilizing their speed advantage—they were twice as fast as this hulk—dove toward the black giant.

  It looked like a flock of swifts attacking a thundercloud.

  The lead pilot of the first flight caught the black hull of the Chimerain the crosshairs of his reflector sight.

  —Take that, you bitch!

  He slammed down hard on the trigger.

  The shudder of recoil ran through the fuselage of the plane. Long, angry streams of tracers from 20-millimeter shells and machine-gun bursts slashed through the air. Metal flew to meet magic, to test whose power in this world carried more weight.

  Aboard the Aerial BattleshipPal Chimera-02(Tiamat).

  Central Command Post (The Perception Sphere).

  Inside the ship's combat citadel, hidden at the very heart of the giant disc, there were no viewports, no roar of the wind. A deathly, sterile silence reigned here, broken only by the quiet singing of the crystal capacitors.

  The walls of the rotunda, crafted from psycho-active material, had turned transparent, broadcasting a 360-degree panorama of the battle with frightening clarity. The Department operators, faceless figures in masks and black uniforms, seemed to hover amidst the clouds, commanding death with a flick of their fingers over holographic runes.

  —Targets verified. Intercept vectors established,— the senior guidance systems operator reported in a mechanical voice, devoid of human inflection. His hands, connected to the console via silver interface threads, twitched in rhythm with the computational processes. —"tes" batteries brought to firing mode. Synchronization complete. Awaiting sanction.

  Meteos, standing on the command dais with his arms crossed over his chest, watched with cold curiosity at the silver specks of the Gra Valkas fighters diving at his ship from all sides like a swarm of mad wasps. To him, it was like watching insects trying to smash through glass.

  —What annoying, noisy flies...— he spat with disgust, watching as the lead flight of "Antares" opened fire. Long, fiery tracers from 20-millimeter cannons reached out toward the black hull of the Chimera.

  —Reinforce the outer circuit dynamic magic shields! Priority—upper hemisphere!— Meteos ordered in an icy tone. —Absorb the energy. Let them understand their own insignificance.

  —Affirmative!

  At that moment, the air around the Pal Chimeras he murmured with a haze. The black hull became sheathed in a flickering, translucent film of a bluish hue—the "Conversion Barrier."

  Projectiles capable of tearing apart a wyvern or piercing the steel plating of a destroyer slammed into this field and... vanished. The barrier absorbed the kinetic energy, converting it into harmless flashes of light and heat that dissipated instantly.

  Hundreds of bullets. Thousands. And not a single scratch.

  —Tracking approach of the second wave! Enemy bombers! Range—critical!— the gunnery complex operator reported dispassionately, staring at the tactical sphere where the enemy's red triangles were trying to achieve drop position.

  Meteos merely narrowed his eyes.

  —Annihilate them. Fire at will.

  —Affirmative!

  The twin "tes" turrets, located on the "spokes" and outer rim of the ship, sprang into action. These emplacements had no barrels in the traditional sense. They were complex systems of prisms and focusing lenses made of enchanted diamond.

  They emitted a rising, vibrating whine—the sound of ultra-high capacity capacitors charging.

  —Volley.

  VWEE-VWEE-VWEE-ZZZT!

  The sky was scored by dozens of blinding, white-blue beams of condensed light and mana.

  The rate of fire of the Ravernal guns was beyond the comprehension of mechanics. The beams hit not with lead, but with energy that reached its target instantly. Leading the target was unnecessary. Evasive maneuvers were useless.

  The first flight of "Antares" caught in this fanning fire was exterminated in the blink of an eye. The beams punched through the duralumin airframes like needles through paper, detonating fuel tanks and ammunition. The planes flared up into bright fireballs, disintegrated, and fell downward in a rain of burning metal. The Gra Valkas pilots, the elite of their empire, didn't even have time to squeeze their triggers or scream over the comms. They were simply crossed off the list of the living.

  Those in the second wave, seeing the instant demise of the vanguard, broke formation.

  —Enemy scattering. Decreasing speed. Panic. Perhaps the scm want to regroup and strike from all sides simultaneously, hoping to overload the targeting system,— reported the Mirishial warrior-operator, watching the chaotic flailing of the surviving planes through the mana-crystal monitors.

  —Fools. You cannot hide from the light,— Meteos chuckled. —Continue operations. All batteries—engage at will. Rapid fire, on readiness! Not one of these demonic spwn must so much as scratch the paint on my ship!

  —Acknowledged!

  Deep within the bowels of the levitating fortress, inside the shielded fire-control bay, a rite was underway that defied the understanding of modern mages. The "Atrata" complex was not simply a "gun." It was an autonomous ecosystem of destruction.

  Deep inside the weapon's housing, crystalline converters devoured pure mana from the central reactor with a howling scream, forcibly splitting etheric matter. A phase shift occurred: mystical energy was transformed into physical power—into colossal volumes of electricity. Emitters arranged around the barrels unleashed an invisible pulse into space—a stream of high-frequency electromagnetic waves.

  They slammed into the swarm of "Antares" fighters, bounced off their duralumin skins and spinning propellers, and returned in nanoseconds.

  The computing core—the cold brain of this machine—processed the data in an instant. Speed, mass, thrust vectors, air currents—every variable was accounted for. The system didn't just "see" the enemy. It knew where every fighter would be a second later, cross-referencing their trajectories against the ballistics of its own magical rounds.

  —Target lock stable. Lead deflection calculated. Fire mode: continuous,— the mechanical voice of the system was drowned out by the whine of actuating servos.

  The "" turrets traversed their barrels with unnerving, lifeless precision. And then, a sound with no equivalent in the natural world tore through space.

  Three thousand magical pulses per minute per barrel. A density of fire that turned the air into a solid wall of plasma.

  In the skies.

  It didn't even take a minute—it happened in the blink of an eye.

  For the pilots of the Imperial Armada's 18th Strike Squadron, hurling themselves into a desperate attack, time compressed into a single flash. Accustomed to dodging the clumsy tracers of anti-aircraft guns and the fireballs of wyverns, they found themselves utterly helpless against a mathematically perfect death.

  The sky before them exploded into a grid of azure beams.

  The flight leader didn't even have time to pull back on the stick. The magical round from the "" pa. through his plane like a red-hot needle through b.u. . Engine, c.o. , pilot, tail—all of it was sliced in half along the longitudinal axis in a split second. Fuel tanks detonated, turning the Antares in to a cloud of orange flame and black smoke.

  Time and again, burning and smoking wrecks—what had been the pinnacle of Gra Valkas aviation just a second ago—lost their wings and went into wild, fatal spins. Mangled machines, engulfed in flames, corkscrewed into the leaden surface of the water, sending up fountains of steam.

  Some were less fortunate. Those who took a burst to their bomb racks or torpedo stores exploded right in the air. The flashes were so bright they blinded observers even through the clouds. The sky filled with a rain of burning metal, rubber, and chunks of human flesh.

  —Target lost. Shifting fire. Target lost. Shifting fire.

  Twelve seconds later, the comms, previously choked with the panicked screams of pilots, went silent.

  The 18th Strike Squadron—the elite of the fleet, twenty-four magnificent pilots and machines—was completely annihilated.

  Completely.

  Of the entire attacking swarm, only a pair of fighters from the top cover survived, having been on the periphery of the a. . With eyes bulging in terror, the pilots yanked their control sticks, sending their machines into a dive away from that cursed ring spewing death with the precision of a god.

  On the sea surface.

  On the decks of the Combined Fleet's mangled ships—aboard the Lotto, on the soot-stained cruisers of Mu—men forgot how to breathe.

  The sailors and officers, coated in soot and blood that wasn't their own, watching this extermination were not merely surprised. They were crushed by the sheer magnitude of what they had witnessed.

  They were used to Gra Valkas dominance. They were accustomed to the fact that the steel birds were faster, higher, and deadlier than magic. No matter what moves they made, no matter what cunning tactics they employed, the sky had always belonged to the Gra Valkas Empire. That was an axiom.

  But now, that axiom had been ground into dust.

  They watched as the Celestial Ship of the Ancients, nonchalantly, as if brushing away pesky flies, incinerated an entire aerial army.

  —Did... did you see that?— a young midshipman on the bridge of a Mirishial cruiser whispered, unable to believe his own eyes. —They just vanished. They burned!

  Weary, haggard faces were illuminated by the glare of burning debris raining down from the heavens.

  For the first time in long weeks of humiliating defeats, a timid, dim, yet undeniable hope for victory in this cursed battle took root in the hearts of the warriors of this world, somewhere beneath the layers of fear and hopelessness... A hope laced with terror at the sheer power that had come to save them.

  At the same time.

  Flagship Battleship of the 1st Heavy Strike Group, the Betegris(Kaiser-class).

  Combat Information Center (CIC).

  —How?...— the senior radar operator whispered, stunned and barely audible. His face, bathed in the ghostly emerald light of the circular screen, had turned ash-grey.

  Fingers in uniform gloves, usually working with the sureness of a surgeon, now trembled treacherously as they twisted the gain k.n. . He was trying to do the impossible—bring back the dead. A "hash" of dozens of tiny blips should have been pulsating on the oscilloscope screen—the hundred planes of the 18th Squadron commencing their attack. The airwaves should have been jammed with call signs.

  But the screen was sterile. In that sector of the sky where the fury of Imperial aviation had raged a minute ago, now a dead, ringing void reigned. The IFF transponders were silent, down to the last one. Only the lone, fat, all-suppressing blip of the "Object" continued to pulse in the center, and slowly fading "echoes" radiated from it—debris falling into the water.

  But something else mixed with the sticky, cold fear that had begun to clench the operator's stomach. He saw how this "Blob" was moving. Not chaotically, but with the single-minded purpose of a predator. And it was growing.

  —What is it? Why the silence?!— a grim, demanding growl sounded right by his ear. Vice Admiral Kaon, who had approached soundlessly from behind, loomed over the console like a storm cloud.

  The radio operator flinched involuntarily, hunching his head into his shoulders. Reporting such news to his commander was tantamount to reading out his own death sentence.

  —Contact lost, Your Excellency...— he squeezed out, looking not into the admiral's eyes, but at the treacherous sweep line. —I am registering no return signals. Not one. The airwaves are clean. The Eighteenth Strike Squadron... has been completely destroyed. Time of group elimination—twelve seconds.

  —Is that so,— Kaon's voice did not tremble, but the temperature on the bridge seemed to drop ten degrees. Only those who had known him for a long time noticed the twitch of his thick, battle-grayed eyebrow and how his jaw muscles hardened for an instant. He felt the phantom pain again in the old scars left by Kain's magic. History was repeating itself.

  —Your Excellency! Attention to the screen!— a sudden, panicked shout from the second operator yanked the commander of the First Heavy Strike Group from his grim reverie. —Target vector has changed! The enemy object has completed a turn maneuver! Speed is increasing! It is coming for us! Bearing directly on the center of the formation!

  On the tactical plotting board, the red dot of the "Unknown," as if having savored the destruction of the fighters, separated from the engagement zone and traced a perfect straight line toward the battleship.

  Kaon grimaced, as if from a sudden toothache. His instincts as an old wolf, a survivor of the meat grinder at Ugludes, were screaming. This wasn't just a "big plane." This was Nemesis. And she was coming not to talk, but to burn.

  He straightened abruptly, shaking off the stupor. There was no room for fear. Only anger and steel remained.

  —General Quarters!— his voice, amplified by the megaphone, whipped the ears of everyone in the command tower. —Man all battle stations! Prepare to repel air attack! Anti-aircraft batteries—Sector Zero! Main caliber guns—load time-fused shrapnel! We meet this beast with everything we've got!

  —Aye, sir!— the officers barked in a clipped tone, trying to shout over the rising wail of the sirens, and the massive hulk of the battleship began to slowly traverse its turrets toward the approaching shadow.

  Flagship Battleship of the 1st Heavy Strike Group, the Betelgeuse(Kaiser-class).

  Central Communications and Command Post.

  On the battle bridge of the steel leviathan, an oppressive, sticky silence reigned, one that not even the strained howl of ventilation and the clicking of instruments could dispel. The atmosphere wasn't just gloomy—it was charged with the electricity of imminent slaughter. Sailors with faces turned ash-gray lugged zinc crates of anti-aircraft s.h.e. , praying they wouldn't be needed. Gunners, wiping their oily hands with rags, checked the b.r.e.a.c.h.e.s for the tenth time, as if trying to find comfort in mechanics. Radar operators, their eyes inflamed from strain, stared until their vision blurred at the trembling green sweep lines, struggling to separate interference from death.

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  One of the senior comms officers, Lieutenant Veres, sat in the radio alcove, pressing his headphones to his ears so hard the plastic bit into his skin. He was trying to catch even a single word, a single dot of Morse from the doomed 18th Squadron. But the airwaves were dead.

  Suddenly, the needle on the incoming signal indicator swung into the red zone. The headphones exploded not with the crackle of static, but with an unnatural, piercing whistle that instantly shifted into a voice.

  —...Hey!— a louche, dismissive call slammed against the lieutenant's eardrums as if the speaker were standing right behind him. Veres shuddered violently, ripping off the headset.

  But the voice didn't vanish. It boomed directly from the main PA speakers on the bridge, drowning out the turbine hum. This wasn't a radio transmission in the usual sense. The signal was of monstrous power; it was modulating the very circuits of the equipment, smashing through encryption protocols with brute magical force.

  The voice was broadcasting on the secure tactical frequencies of the 18th Squadron, but it was crystal, terrifyingly clear. No tube amplifier hiss, no distance distortion. It was as if the air itself was vibrating with words.

  —Disrespected guests from the Gra Valkas Empire!— the voice was dripping with theatrical pathos and disgust. — Do you hear me, spawn of filth and steel?

  The comms officer went pale. By the laws of physics, Mirishial radios couldn't reach here with such clarity, and allied ships were far away. The source of the signal above them.

  —Your Excellency!— he screamed, staring in horror at the pegged meters. —We have an anomaly! External intrusion into the comms loop! Carrier wave intercepted and amplified! The enemy is using our combat frequencies! They... they are literally speaking through our radar!

  —Son of a bitch...— Vice Admiral Kaon hissed. The muscles in his jaw began to twitch again.

  He walked heavily to the comms station. The fact that this "flying circus" dared not only shoot down his pilots but also hack into his command network sent the old warrior into a fury.

  —Who is this?! Give me that!— he barked forcefully, snatching the headset from the lieutenant's trembling hands. He pulled it over his head, keying the mic with such force the plastic creaked. —Identify yourself immediately! Who is speaking?!

  A pause. And then, a quiet, arrogant chuckle echoed over the air.

  —Oh! Is one of the demonic spawn actually capable of not just growling but understanding human speech? I am surprised,— the other party's voice oozed the poison of aristocratic superiority. —Very well, I shall grant you the honor. I am Meteos Rogrider. Commander of the Aerial Battleship Pal Chimera, hull number zero-two. The very ship that just swatted your "iron birds" like flies. Whew, you really gave me a task, matching the resonance of your primitive radio waves... Barbarian technologies require barbarian efforts.

  Hearing the name, Kaon felt the old scars from Kain's magic on his chest begin to ache again. "Rogrider." Old blood. Magic elite. The same tone the fanatics used in Ugludes before they started burning prisoners.

  The face of the First Heavy Strike Group's commander filled with blood, covered in beads of cold sweat. It wasn't respect for t. . It was an allergy to mages.

  —What do you want... Meteos?— Kaon demanded coldly, cutting him off. —Did you come on the air to brag before I shoot your tub out of the sky?

  —I wish to deliver a final warning to you, barbarian,— Meteos's tone turned to steel.

  —A "warning"?— Kaon smirked crookedly, maliciously.

  —Precisely,ahem,— Meteos cleared his throat, as if preparing to read an edict. —Listen to me carefully. Get the hll out of here. back to whatever hole you crawled out of. Remove your troops from the occupied territories of the Second Civilization. Return what you stole. Otherwise... we will simply crush you like c.o. . Without mercy. Do you understand?

  If any native of the New World, be it a merchant from Raxas or a n. from Leifor, had heard this speech delivered in the tone of an arbiter of fates, they would already be face down in the dust, pouring ashes on their head and praying for a quick death. To the locals, thePal Chimerawas a myth, a nightmare from children's fairy tales made flesh.

  But Kaon wasn't a local. He was a son of Yggdra, and he had survived the hll of Ugludes. In Meteos's voice, he heard not divine power, but the familiar arrogance of Kain's priests whom he used to flush out of bas.e.m. with flamethrowers in his youth.

  —That's too much arrogant yap from a dumb ape coming from a country that's done nothing but fatten itself on its featherbeds for three hundred years!— Kaon said caustically, with undisguised disgust. He threw his head back and laughed—nasal, vicious, barking.

  This laughter worked on the crew better than any inspirational speech. The stupor broke. The officers on the bridge, seeing that their admiral didn't give a dmn about the "sky god," bared their teeth. The fear left, replaced by the cold, angry mirth of men who have nothing to lose.

  Kaon abruptly cut off his laugh and leaned into the microphone, his eyes narrowing into icy slits.

  —Listen here, flyboy. When I shoot down your tin can and we get to the wreckage... if you haven't croaked yet, I will personally rip out your filthy tongue and make you eat it. Raw. And without salt. Do you understand me, freak?— he p.r. coldly, hammering out every word.

  —Yes, yes... Your threats are as primitive as your machines,— Meteos mocked him lazily, his voice sounding as if he were brushing the admiral's words aside like the buzzing of a pesky fly. —Go on. Next, we shall crush you without pity, regret, and...

  —We'll see,— Kaon interrupted him, a b.l.o.o.d.y shark-like grin spreading across his face. —But right now you have exactly two options, "demigod": you can go to hll, or you can kiss my imperialss!

  —Die...— the beginning of the Mirishial's angry retort was mercilessly severed by the dry click of a toggle switch.

  The broadcast died. Kaon slammed the headset onto the comms console with force.

  — Enough! The show is over! The circus has burned down!— he barked so loud it seemed the bulkheads vibrated. —ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS! MAIN BATTERY—STAND BY TO ENGAGE! DESTROY THE TARGET!

  With the final word of the command, the bowels of the enormous ship filled with the sharp, piercing wail of the General Quarters klaxons—a sound that reflexively switched the consciousness of any sailor into "war mode."

  The ship instantly transformed into a single, complex, lethal organism.

  Officers and sailors moved swiftly, but without panic or wasted motion—the iron drill of the Empire showed its worth. Every cog in this machine knew its maneuver and task.

  In the deep powder magazines, half-naked, sweating loaders slammed locking mechanisms off the racks, transferring heavy silk powder bags onto the hoist trays.

  On the upper deck, anti-aircraft crews threw off covers, feeding ammo belts and racking bolts with a clatter. Gunners in the main turrets pressed their faces to the optics, checking gyro stabilization. Electricity hummed in the wires, turbines howled as pressure built, and ventilation shafts spat the smells of machine oil, ozone, and human adrenaline onto the deck. The entire fleet—thirty-six steel predators—bristled with gun barrels, all aiming at a single point in the sky.

  A minute later, the senior gunnery officer, pressing his throat mic tight, snapped to attention.

  —Your Excellency! Reports from all units received! Fire directors synchronized. AA defense at Condition One. The entire fleet has completed combat deployment and awaits further orders!

  A flying battleship.

  Kaon hadn't encountered such heresy, defying all conceivable laws of physics and common sense, even in his youth during the hottest meat grinders on the planet Yggdra. The very existence of this hulk, hanging in the air in defiance of gravity, caused physiological revulsion. And the realization that this "thing" had just evaporated an entire assault squadron of his boys in mere seconds made his back muscles turn to stone with tension.

  This battle would be hard. Perhaps the hardest of his life.

  Memory, that ruthless traitor, instantly hurled him thirty years into the past.

  The admiral's bridge vanished, replaced by the freezing mud of the trenches.

  He was a Lieutenant in the Gra Valkas Marines again. He was pressing himself into the frozen earth in the ruins of the Kingdom of Baeris—one of their most loyal vassals, which Kain's fanatics had wiped off the face of the earth along with its population.

  The air back then didn't smell of the sea, but of ozone, burnt flesh, and cordite. It wasn't just machine-gun bursts whistling overhead, but the thunderclaps of combat spells that melted concrete. He crawled over the guts of his comrades, praying to the unknown G. of mechanics that he would reach the enemy breastwork. reach the throats of those sorcerers.

  —Got my revenge...— Kaon whispered dryly, barely moving his lips, feeling the phantom vibration of an assault rifle in his fingers.

  He lived that second again. The lunge. The pin of a "potato masher" grenade yanked out with his teeth. The throw. The dull thud in the enemy trench, the screams. Him, scrambling over the barbed wire tearing his greatcoat. The face of the Kain battle mage—arrogant, clean, twisted in horror when his shield shattered from the shrapnel.

  Kaon didn't shoot. He used his bayonet.

  He remembered how the dull steel entered the enemy's neck with a crunch. A wet rattle followed, then a muffled, gurgling wheeze. The Kainer clawed at him, sparks of magic shooting from his fingers, bashing his head against Kaon's titanium visor, trying to crush his steel gorget with weakening hands. But Kaon pushed. He pushed with all his weight, watching the life leave the eyes of the "superior being."

  The high-pitched whine of shell shock cleared in his ears again—a sound he had long gotten used to, but which always returned when he smelled a lot of blood.

  Sudden movement nearby pulled the Commander out of the sticky haze of memory.

  His right hand, Chief of Staff and old friend Rear Admiral Bat, gripped the bridge railing so hard his leather gloves creaked. The old sea dog radiated anxiety with his entire being. But this wasn't the anxiety of a coward. It was the agitation of a fighting dog seeing an enemy but unable to reach its throat.

  Bat hadn't shaken this habit—vibrating with adrenaline before a fight—even back in Ugludes, when a Kain mage burned through his helmet visor with a "beam of light," boiling his eye. Despite the h.e. pain, growling like a beast, Bat had charged the bstard and beaten him to death with his own melted helmet, turning the enemy's head into hamburger.

  —Bat, knock it off,— Kaon reproached him quietly but firmly. —Your agitation and impatience are bleeding over to the watch. You're making the men nervous. We are on a battleship, not in a bayonet charge.

  Bat twitched as if struck, and slowly unclenched his fingers, leaving indentations in the lacquered wood of the handrail.

  —Right, of course... forgive my transgression, Commander,— he growled, waving it off, but continuing to drill into the horizon with his single healthy eye until blood vessels popped.

  —What's causing this impatience?— Kaon asked calmly.

  Bat turned sharply, his scar-ravaged face twisting.

  —What in the h.e.l.l?! The surviving flyboys are screaming over the radio that it's an "invulnerable incomprehensible something"! That bullets are bouncing off it! Humongous, like a dmn city!— Bat spat irritably onto the deck—a gross violation of protocol, but right now no one paid it any mind. —What are this beast's vulnerabilities? Where is the reactor? Where are the magazines? What shells do we use—HE or AP? How do we kill them, for Christ's sake?! I don't have enough intel, Kaon! This local magic is driving me insane. I'm an artilleryman; I need coordinates and physics, not fairy tales. I have no idea how or when to deliver a killing blow if I don't know what it's made of...

  The face of the executive officer mixed the bewilderment of a man of the technological age, professional hatred for magic, and bitter frustration.

  But a faint, cold, almost predatory smile appeared on the Commander's face. The smile of a man who realized that the enemy, while terrifying, was material.

  —Well then... Since we don't know dragon anatomy,— Kaon sighed, adjusting his cap, —it looks like we'll study it the old-fashioned way. Through vivisection.

  Bat froze, looking at his commander quizzically.

  —Reconnaissance by fire?

  —Precisely,— the Commander nodded slowly. —With the main battery.

  Flagship Sky Dreadnought "Pahl Chimera-02" ("Tiamat").

  Strategic Command Sphere.

  Inside the ship's battle citadel, hidden in the very heart of the colossal disk, there was no wind and no sound of the battle raging outside. A sterile, deathly silence reigned here, broken only by the low, bone-deep hum of the crystal accumulators. The air smelled of ozone, static charge, and something faintly ancient—like the dust of tombs.

  The walls of the circular chamber were made of active psycho-crystal. At the operators' command, they turned transparent, projecting a full 360-degree panorama with frightening, unnatural clarity. The crew seemed to float in the void among the clouds.

  —Approach trajectory is stable. Intercept vectors calculated. Visual and mago-sensor contact with the enemy's main formation in ten minutes,reported the senior tactical operator in a mechanical voice devoid of human inflection. His figure was concealed beneath a blank white mask, and his fingers—linked to the console by silver thread-like interfaces—fluttered over holographic runes.

  —Eliminate them,said the man seated on the command dais, his tone cold, almost of those creatures is to survive. Erase them.

  —Yes, Commander!barked the operator. He made a complex gesture, and the magical display before him burst into a myriad of golden sparks with a dry electric crackle, confirming the order had been entered into the ship's central mind.

  Commander Meteos slowly raised his hands to his face. Hidden clasps clicked. He removed his smooth, featureless Department mask and carefully placed it on the armrest of his throne. Beneath it was the face of an aristocrat—pale, refined, with eyes lit by the icy flame of fanaticism.

  He reached for the inlaid table, where an uncorked bottle of collector's wine,Tears of Sunset, and a slender crystal glass awaited. Slowly, savoring each movement, he poured the ruby liquid. It was a ritual. A display of absolute calm in the face of an enemy he considered no more than dust beneath his feet.

  Meanwhile, the ship's "organism" was awakening for the kill. The aether filled with short, clipped reports from operators whose minds were synchronized with the ancient systems:

  —Authorization for Omega Protocol granted! Limiters disengaged!

  —Combat algorithm activated! Targeting data uploading!

  —Check critical nodes and cooling systems! Antigravity loop—status?

  —Critical nodes nominal! Hull vibration within tolerance!

  —Guidance systems—calibration complete! Conversion-type shields at full power!

  —Increase voltage in the mana-bearing circuits and runic channels! Ten-percent overload!

  —Voltage increased! Mana flow stable! No anomalies detected!

  Around Meteos, the symphony of techno-magical warfare rose to life. The officers of his Department—men who had abandoned their names in service to the Mysteries—worked as one flawless, perfectly synchronized mechanism, a living extension of the ship itself.

  The commander gently swirled the wine in his glass, watching the liquid leave oily trails along the crystal. He took a sip, savoring the bouquet, then shifted his gaze to the main observation crystal, where the ships of Gra-Valkas appeared as gray, ugly blotches on the water below. In his eyes mingled the disgust of a scientist studying cockroaches and the predatory delight of an executioner.

  —Let's see who rips whose throat out, you demonic spawn,Meteos murmured with quiet certainty. He took another sip, and a bloodthirsty, animal grin crept across his noble face.

  There was a dark irony in it all.

  This colossal sky dreadnought—crown jewel of engineering and a masterpiece of destruction—had once been built by theRavernal Empire. The very same Ancient Magical Empire whose name was cursed across the ages, the force that, a thousand years ago, had plunged this world into an abyss of absolute terror, slavery, and hopeless agony.

  And now that black, ominous legacy served as the shield of the Holy Mirishial Empire— to cast the fleet of these new demonic creatures, who had taken human form and brazenly invaded his world, into a depth of primal fear and terror beyond anything they could have imagined, even in their darkest nightmares…

  Flagship Battleship of the 1st Heavy Strike Group "Betelgeuse" (Kaiser-class).

  Central Fire Control Station.

  The tense, ringing silence of anticipation was shattered not by a radio report, but by the frantic scream of the lookout from the upper crow's nest, loud enough to drown out even the wind howling through the antenna rigging:

  — VISUAL CONTACT! Object dead ahead! High altitude!

  The sailor pointed with a trembling hand toward the distance, where the horizon had suddenly darkened. An enormous shadow spread across the leaden waters of Bauolos. Something colossal, vast enough to blot out the meager northern sun, was emerging from behind the clouds, casting a graveyard gloom over the vanguard of the heavy strike group. It was neither a ship nor an aircraft—it was a moving mountain of black metal, defying gravity itself.

  — So that's how it is… murmured Kaon, barely moving his lips.

  He raised a heavy, rubber-coated prismatic binocular set with eighteen-power magnification to his eyes. It wasn't standard imperial optics, but a trophy piece purchased through intermediaries in Mu for an absurd sum—a Russian BPO. The coated glass lenses produced an image of razor-sharp clarity.

  Kaon saw the ripple of defensive fields, the predatory contours of the ring-shaped hull, and the way the massive construct slowly, with an executioner's dignity, turned toward his ships. Fear stabbed at his heart, but the admiral crushed it beneath his familiar fury.

  — Main batteries! His voice was dry and hard, like the crack of a breaking bone. Load special shells! Fuses set for proximity detonation at the calculated intercept point! Fire on my command!

  Special shells… In the artillery magazines, frantic work erupted. Massive rounds marked with scarlet bands were laid onto the elevator trays. They were filled with the newest explosive, Tri-Hex, a compound synthesized by Ragna's chemists only six months earlier. Forty percent more powerful than standard TNT—but temperamental, unstable, and barely tested on the proving grounds. Every shot with that kind of "gift" risked blowing the barrels to hell, but the fleet's survival was at stake.

  — Aye, sir! came the reply from the senior gunnery officer.

  The flagship's massive turrets, armed with 406-millimeter guns—slightly smaller than those of the Atlastar, but still monstrous—lifted their barrels skyward with the heavy growl of hydraulics, hunting for the black disk of the airborne battleship.

  — Attention! Battle stations! All personnel clear the upper decks immediately! blared the siren and the metallic voice of the executive officer over the ship wide speakers. Seal all hatches! Light-caliber crews, take cover!

  The deck emptied at once. The entire crew vanished into the interior compartments behind armored doors like ants retreating into their nest. It was done to avoid pointless casualties: the muzzle blast of the main guns, when fired skyward, created such a pressure differential that anyone left outside would have their lungs and eardrums rupture instantly, their clothes ripped off along with their skin. The steel giant sealed itself tight, preparing to spit fire.

  — Your Excellency! Main guns aligned. Firing data calculated. Ready to fire on your command!

  Kaon took one last look at the looming shadow. The enemy was close. Too close.

  — Main batteries! Salvo… in five! Four! Three! Two! One! Rapid… FIRE!

  In that very second, the world split apart.

  BOOM-BOOM-CRASH!

  A deafening roar, felt not in the ears but in the bones themselves, shook the sea. The monstrous recoil drove the forty-thousand-ton ship down into the water and shoved it backward nearly a full meter, churning foam with its propellers. Tongues of flame half the length of the hull burst from the barrels, instantly vaporizing the moisture in the air.

  Eight shells, each weighing a ton, streaked into the sky, leaving smoky trails behind them.

  — Enemy maneuvering to evade! shouted the radar operator, watching the jumping blip. Rapid altitude gain!

  But the GVE's artillery did not miss.

  High in the sky, directly along the Chimera's course, enormous blossoms of fire erupted. The proximity fuses triggered in perfect sync. Hundreds of steel tubes packed with thermite mixture and shrapnel formed a wall of fire and metal. The powerful midair explosions sent shock waves rolling down to the sea, shaking its surface like an earthquake.

  — Direct coverage! I see flashes on the hull! The shield's flickering! yelled the observer in excitement.

  The joy was short-lived. The smoke cleared. The ring-shaped ship hung in the air, intact and unharmed. The magical barrier had held.

  And not just held.

  — Attention! Activity on the target!

  Kaon saw some vile, mechanical movement begin beneath the lower ring of the Pahl Chimera—something he instantly disliked. Armored shutters parted. From the belly of the leviathan, a Weapon emerged—a complex structure of lenses and crystals, resembling the eye of a cyclops. There was no doubt: this was a doomsday cannon.

  It turned smoothly, predatory and deliberate, toward the Gra-Valkas fleet in formation, choosing its victim.

  The air filled with a sound unlike anything else—nothing like turbines, nothing like the scream of a shell. It was a strange, terrifying noise, a high, vibrating hum at the edge of hearing, growing stronger with every passing second. The sound of reality itself being torn apart.

  The world froze, collapsing into a single point—the blinding, pulsing lens beneath the belly of the skyborne leviathan.

  A moment of silence.

  Then space itself cracked with a sound that made teeth ache even beneath padded headsets. It wasn't the boom of a powder explosion, but the dry, high-frequency snap of an electric discharge, amplified millions of times. A massive mass of compressed energy burst from the weapon, leaving a trail of ionized plasma in the air.

  — What… what just happened?! barked Kaon, momentarily blinded by the flash, as he pressed his face to the armored viewport.

  Two cables off the flagship, the heavy cruiser Rigel, an eighteen-thousand-ton beauty with perfectly balanced lines, shuddered from bow to stern. A blue beam of light struck it not from the side, but from above—punching straight through the deck armor and ripping down through the superstructure to the keel like a red-hot needle through wax.

  — Rigel hit! Multiple through-and-through penetrations! shouted the Combat Information Center officer, pressing his headset tight as the screams of men burning alive poured through the channel. Medium-caliber magazines igniting! Fire in the crew quarters! They can't put it out, sir! It's burning through the metal! Sealing off compartments!

  Kaon clenched his fists so hard the leather of his gloves creaked, threatening to split. He forced himself to breathe slowly, driving the rising panic to the back of his mind. The old soldier knew: emotions right now meant death.

  "Beam weapon. But at what power? They're slicing alloyed steel like paper."

  — Attention! Activity on the target! The ring is moving! the observer reported, his voice bordering on hysteria.

  A transformation was unfolding in the sky. The massive outer ring of the Pahl Chimera, studded with stabilizers, began to spin around its central axis with a low, rising turbine-like hum. Centrifugal force pumped energy into the mana circuits.

  Looking through his captured Russian binoculars, Kaon saw armored shutters snap open in perfect sync across six more ports on the underside of the disk. From them, deadly stingers extended.

  Now all seven cannons, glowing with a deathly blue light, locked onto his formation like predators choosing their prey.

  — Keep firing! Main batteries! Knock their aim off, those bastards! Shrapnel barrage—right on their heading! Kaon cut through the growing whisper of fear on the bridge with cold, ruthless authority.

  Once again, the deafening salvo of the Betelgeuse and the following Alnilam thundered. Sixteen 406-millimeter shells shot skyward, bursting into clouds of steel and fire ahead of the flying fortress. But the Tiamat's magical conversion shield was running at full output. The flashes were swallowed by the bluish film of the field, and the shock waves only made the giant disk sway slightly. Ancient technology, built to stand against gods, effortlessly absorbed the kinetic force of primitive chemistry.

  And once again, cutting through the cannonade, came that strange, humming, crackling sound—like the ice of a frozen lake breaking apart, only louder than thunder.

  This time, the object fired a full volley.

  Seven spears of light pierced the gray gloom of the Bauolos sky all at once.

  One of the beams found the crippled Rigel again, finishing off the wounded ship with a strike near the main turret. The detonation of the primary magazine turned the cruiser into a pillar of flame three hundred meters high.

  — Rigel… sunk. Signal lost.

  The words of the report rang in Kaon's head like a funeral bell, bringing back the cursed ringing of concussion from the trenches of Ugludes. But the dead silence on the bridge lasted only a moment. Among the veterans of the GVE, fear burned out quickly, leaving behind nothing but cold calculation.

  The unknown was frightening—but once the enemy started shooting, it became understandable. It was simply a very powerful, very high-altitude artillery platform.

  — Enemy object changing course! It's not descending! shouted the rangefinder operator.

  Having already received reconnaissance data on the anti-air strength of the Gra-Valkas fleet, the Mirishial commanders weren't suicidal. They knew about the "steel wall" of 25-millimeter auto cannons and had no intention of flying into it headfirst. They used their main advantage: altitude and range. They struck from above, staying outside the reach of most of the squadron's anti-aircraft guns.

  A flash to the right. Another to the left.

  — Heavy cruiser Titan—hull rupture! Elora—direct hit on the bridge! Loss of command! They're burning, Admiral!

  Kaon ground his teeth. Chips of enamel crunched in his mouth.

  "Bastards. They're wiping us out. Shooting us like targets at a firing range, taking advantage of the fact that our guns can't elevate high enough and the AA can't reach them. To them, we're just targets floating on the water."

  He had counted on the enemy, drunk on its own power, descending lower to finish them off for good. Then they would have met it with a hurricane of point-blank fire. But the enemy was smarter. The adversary was more agile.

  They needed a move that would break this chess match. They needed a gambit.

  Kaon's gaze fell on the formation map. Small, fast triangles on the flanks. Destroyers. The fleet's expendable pieces, their crews famous for a kind of frostbitten, borderline-suicidal bravery.

  — Destroyer squadron commander! Kaon barked, grabbing the microphone. His face turned to stone. He was sending men to their deaths to save the core of the fleet. All ahead full! Push the boilers to emergency power! Deploy maximum smoke screen! Move into the object's projected shadow on the water! Attack its… shadow! Fire all calibers straight up! Turn the air beneath it into hell! Blind their radars and rattle their gunners! Draw their fire onto yourselves!

  The order was understood instantly. The destroyers, belching thick clouds of oily black smoke from their funnels, broke formation and surged forward, fanning out as they raised their gun barrels toward the sky—straight into the blazing jaws of death.

  The commander had just sent the light cavalry against a dragon.

  Flagship Sky Dreadnought "Pahl Chimera-02" ("Tiamat").

  Strategic Command Sphere.

  — Heavy cruiser–class target: thermal hull destruction confirmed. Signature fading. Target eliminated, reported the senior mana-pulse fire systems operator in a cold, monotone voice, as if reading an inventory list of written-off equipment. Detecting a new threat. Class: destroyer. Initiating targeting protocol.

  Across the giant panoramic mana-projection surrounding the command sphere, a real-time vision of a technological apocalypse unfolded. What remained of the vanguard of the 1st Heavy Strike Group of the Gra-Valkas Empire—those arrogant "lords of the seas"—was turning, before their eyes, into a drifting graveyard of burning hulks and spreading oil slicks.

  Standing at the center of the command sphere, Meteos Rougrider slowly lowered his glass.

  — An Ancient… Magical… Empire, he muttered, barely moving his lips. In his eyes, accustomed to charts and data schematics, the orange flashes of foreign deaths were reflected—but he was seeing something entirely different. Terrifying… Simply beyond comprehension.

  His mind refused to accept the dissonance.

  The Gra-Valkas Empire. "Demons from the West." The enemy that had crushed Leifor in five days and annexed it within a month, shattered the armies of the Second Civilization on land, and casually destroyed the pride of Mirishial—the Zero Magic Fleet—in the waters of Cartalpas. Their steel machines had seemed indestructible, their tactics flawless.

  And yet, it had taken his homeland only the slightest crack of the door to its darkest basements—only the decision to loosen the Department's restraints and release this—for the "invincible" fleet to prove surprisingly fragile, like soft material waiting to be cut.

  "It doesn't matter how strong the Mirishial Empire is today," Meteos thought with a bleak clarity that chilled his blood. "Judging by the decrypted tablets and the analysis of the memory core, the Ravernal Empire didn't consider the 'Pahl Chimera' a superweapon. They built them in batches. Dozens. Hundreds. To them, a ship capable of winning a global war of our era alone was… a standard police unit. An aerial barge for punitive operations against rebellious spear-wielding savages. As commonplace as a wagon is to us."

  Comparing the present-day strength of the Holy Empire—struggling to keep just five such giants airborne while draining the economy dry—to the Ancient Magical Empire at the peak of its power, Meteos felt like a child who had stolen his father's pistol. The latter had been an absolute, insurmountable force. Meteos soberly assessed their chances in the coming conflict foretold by Emor. Not the chances of victory—no. The chances of survival as a species.

  The thought of the imminent return of the Masters twisted the Department chief's stomach into knots, and a migraine clamped down on his temples.

  A genetic terror, once felt by his distant ancestors under the whips of Ravernal a thousand years ago, echoed like a funeral bell in the blood of the aristocrat.

  Meanwhile, the methodical slaughter continued on the observation screen.

  Enemy heavy cruisers burst into flame one after another under hits from the 150-millimeter secondary mana-pulse guns mounted on the ship's "belly." Their design flaw was fatal: these steel boxes carried thick side armor meant for duels with other ships, but their decks were thin.

  Blobs of concentrated magic, falling from the zenith, pierced the steel like a red-hot knife through butter and detonated deep inside the hulls. Ships split apart like overripe fruit or flared up like match heads when their magazines exploded.

  "And this isn't even full power," Meteos noted grimly to himself. "With the rapid-fire '' batteries and the main guns still silent, we're using barely thirty percent of the system's potential. There's a vast gulf between what we've deciphered and what's actually built into this hull."

  If his subordinates—those brilliant fanatics in masks—managed to crack the access codes to even a few more of the locked Ravernal magical targeting equations, the Chimera's operational capabilities would increase by orders of magnitude. But even this was more than enough.

  On the display, another Gra-Valkas destroyer that had dared to open fire split in two and began to sink.

  Meteos shook his head, driving away thoughts of the future. The present needed finishing first.

  — Colmed! he barked into the empty command chamber.

  The air before the Department chief thickened. A personal magical communications display formed, and on it appeared a man with sharp elven ears, framed by the humming mana converters of the reactor compartment. His face, like everyone else's here, was hidden behind a smooth white mask.

  — Chief Technician on the line. Systems nominal, he reported calmly, giving a slight bow.

  — Cut this farce of shooting up the escort. It's a waste of gun resources and time, Meteos ordered sharply. Those small targets out there don't concern us. Destroying the flagship is the top priority. We cut off the head of the snake.

  — Yes, sir, the technician replied without a single extra question. The elf's image flickered and vanished, dissolving into a spray of golden sparks.

  Meteos shifted his focus back to the sensor sphere.

  — Air report!

  — No signatures of enemy monoplanes detected within engagement range. The sky is clear.

  — Excellent. Divert power from the anti-air circuits to hull protection. Increase the Magical Barrier output on the lower projection to maximum! We're closing the distance.

  — Aye! Shield concentration—lower hemisphere!

  The black bulk of the Pal Chimera, having destroyed most of the escort ships of the 1st Heavy Group, tilted forward. Leaving a trail of distorted air in its wake, the Ancient Flying Fortress advanced slowly, yet with the inevitability of a glacier, toward the center of the enemy formation. It was heading straight for the flagship battleship Betelgeuse, ready to blot it out beneath its shadow and crush it with one final, devastating strike.