Hearthguard Cairn, Oakenbrew Mansion

  Inside Calgirra Oakenbrew’s office, Calgirra herself sat behind the desk, posture straight, hands folded, eyes empty.

  In front of her, lies the church compact mana-comm, glowing softly.

  “So, we lost contact with the Goldenclaws…” Priestess Gabrielle’s voice came through, calm and distant.

  “Yes, Priestess,” Calgirra replied obediently. Her voice was flat, stripped of emotion by layers of enchantment. “It’s been hours since we have been able to reach the Boulderhelm assault units or the plantation base.”

  “…”

  Silence followed as the priestess went into a deep thought..

  “Go make the broadcast. We go with the contingency plan.”

  When Gabrielle finally spoke again, her tone was cold, sharp, and decisive.

  “We have to assume Dwordoug Axebreaker is still alive.”

  “Very well, Priestess,” Calgirra replied. “I shall go and deliver my testimony.”

  Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a hint of fear. The enchantment made sure of that.

  “And for your suicide,” Gabrielle continued, voice unchanged, “make sure it gets broadcasted as well. That should make every dwarf upset, and give doubt to whatever Dwordoug will say later.”

  “Understood, Priestess,” Calgirra nodded once.

  The mana-comm dimmed. The transmission cut. Calgirra then turned to a normal mana-comm on her desk.

  “Prepare my car,” she said. “I’m heading to the broadcast station.”

  “Yes, madam,” came the immediate reply.

  She stood up smoothly, adjusted her coat, and opened the drawer of her desk.

  Inside rested a hand cannon. Heavy. Brutal. Beautifully crafted. Calgirra took it without ceremony, closed the drawer, and walked out of the office.

  ---

  Hearthguard Cairn, Broadcasting Station

  Moments later, Calgirra stood inside the broadcasting room, flanked by her two personal bodyguards. The studio control room was chaos—staff rushing between consoles.

  “Why is it taking so long?” Calgirra demanded.

  “I–I’m sorry, Council Member,” the studio producer replied, sweating through his collar. “It takes time to set up a nationwide broadcast, and your request was so… sudden.”

  “So how much longer?” Calgirra cut in.

  The producer turned to the operator beside him for answer.

  “Power output is maximum… mana-wave signal is stable…” the operator muttered, fingers dancing over the console. “I think we’re ready.”

  “It’s ready now, Council Member,” the producer said quickly.

  “Very well.” Calgirra straightened her coat. “Start the broadcast.”

  She stepped out of the control room and onto the stage, the lights washing her in white glow. At the center stood the mana-comm pedestal, polished and waiting.

  Calgirra placed her hands neatly at her back and faced it.

  “My fellow Dwargonian, this is Council Member Calgirra Oakenbrew speaking,” she began calmly. “I—”

  HUMMMMMMM—

  But suddenly the mana-comm dimmed.

  Then went dark.

  “…?”

  Calgirra turned slowly toward the glass window of the control room.

  On the other side, the staff were already surrounded by soldiers. Her two bodyguards were already on their knees, hands raised, faces pale.

  Silence crushed the studio.

  “Unfortunately,” a familiar voice said, “your broadcast ends here, Calgirra.”

  Dwordoug Axebreaker stepped into the studio.

  He walked like a man who had already buried this moment in his mind and was now just digging it back up. Soldiers followed behind him, forming a tactical position.

  Their rifles turned toward Calgirra.

  “Dwordoug…” she muttered. “You’re back…”

  “Yes,” he replied, voice low and iron-heavy. “I am.”

  Another figure entered behind him.

  Tubrat Silverfist.

  He stopped beside Dwordoug.

  “It’s over, Calgirra,” Tubrat said confidently.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Huh.” Calgirra tilted her head slightly. “I guess it is over.”

  “Please get down from the stage,” Tubrat continued.

  “…Unfortunately, I can’t.”

  Her hands moved.

  Smoothly.

  Efficiently.

  From behind her waist, she drew the concealed hand cannon and raised it to her own head.

  “!!!”

  “I still have to finish my duty to the Priestess. And to the Goddess,” Calgirra said flatly.

  “CALGIRRA, NO!” Dwordoug roared.

  BOOM!

  Smoke burst from the muzzle.

  But Calgirra did not fall.

  Her arm was wrenched upward mid-shot, the bullet tearing into the ceiling instead. A hand locked around her wrist.

  Levi stood beside her, smiling.

  “Unfortunately,” Levi said pleasantly, still holding her hand, “we still have a lot of questions for you, Council Member Oakenbrew.”

  “Demon…” Calgirra hissed, struggling against his grip. “I assume you and Dwordoug are here to stop the war?”

  “Yep,” Levi nodded. “And what about you, Council Member? Are you here to kill yourself?”

  “I am,” Calgirra replied without hesitation.

  Levi’s smile widened. The requirement for his demonic skill has been met.

  “And my next question,” Levi said cheerfully, “who is this Priestess you mentioned earlier?”

  “I have no obligation to answer you, demon.”

  “Oh?” Levi blinked. “That’s weird… ahhh, I get it.”

  “What’s wrong, Minister?” Dwordoug asked.

  “It seems our Council Member here is under some enchantment,” Levi said lightly, tightening his grip as Calgirra struggled harder. “A powerful and holy one, I might add.”

  “What!?” Dwordoug and Tubrat said together.

  “Kukuku, but don’t worry.” Levi waved dismissively. “It might take more time.”

  Then his grin went more wide.

  “But I believe I can still persuade her.”

  ---

  Super Dreadnought Wavecrusher

  Once again, the Tri-Border Ocean was calm.

  The sea was flat, the wind was gentle.

  And once again, the Dwargonian fleet disturbed the peace.

  This time, they brought more.

  Four hundred eighteen Dwargonian warships.

  Two hundred seventy-four airships.

  Steel and iron filled the horizon like a moving mountain range, blotting out the sky itself. Across from them, the Ravendawn fleet looked painfully small—just nine massive mechanical ships.

  Yet none of the Dwargonian sailors were smiling.

  Especially not when they saw the Murican warships, waited several kilometers behind the Ravendawn line, silent and still.

  “Sir, all units are in position.”

  The report snapped Admiral Durnick back to the bridge.

  He nodded slowly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the sea.

  Inside him, two voices argued.

  One screamed for blood—for Dwordoug, for the nine thousand sailors lost, for every humiliation burned into Dwargonian memory.

  The other begged him to stop. To end this without more bodies sinking into the deep.

  But admirals were not expected to listen to their better angels.

  They were expected to choose the least terrible outcome and live with it.

  “All ships…” Durnick began, his voice steady despite everything. “Begin the ass—”

  “URGENT MESSAGE FROM THE CAPITAL!”

  The shout tore through the bridge before Durnick finished his order.

  Durnick turned sharply.

  “A–Admiral!” the communication officer stammered. “You are requested to speak on the mana-comm. They say it’s the Grand Marshal.”

  “?!”

  For the first time that morning, the calm Admiral Durnick looked genuinely startled.

  And everyone on the bridge felt it.

  ---

  40 Kilometers Away From There

  Far from the fleets, a humble merchant ship drifted lazily on the waves.

  It was painted dull brown, its sails patched, its deck cluttered with crates. To any observer, it was boring.

  That was the point.

  On its deck, several priests stood around a relay array, feeding the image of the coming battle to church listening posts across the region.

  “Father Idril, how does the situation look from up there?” a human priest asked.

  He turned to an elf priest standing stiffly, eyes glowing faintly as he held a mana-comm crystal. His body was still, locked in trance, sharing the vision of his divine condor familiar with every listening post.

  “The Dwargonian fleet is in position, Father Cedric,” the elf priest replied calmly, without turning off his trance.

  “Very well. Nothing has changed then.” The human priest nodded. “The Meridinian fleet is already en route to join the battle.”

  “But…” the elf priest said, brow tightening. “I cannot help but notice something strange, Father Cedric.”

  “What is it?”

  “None of them have moved.”

  The human priest frowned.

  “Neither Dwargonian… nor Ravendawn… nor the demons,” the elf priest said slowly.

  “Hm. That is odd…” Father Cedric muttered. “Very well. I shall update the base and the Meridi—”

  “UGHH!!”

  Suddenly the elf priest screamed and staggered backward, clutching his eyes. The crystal fell, clattering across the deck.

  “FATHER IDRIL!” the human priest shouted, catching him before he collapsed. “What’s wrong?!”

  “My familiar…!” the elf gasped, breath ragged. “It’s gone!”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “I–it’s been killed!” the elf priest wheezed, pain still rippling through his body. “Something killed it… but I cannot see any—”

  KABOOOOOOOOOM!

  The sentence ended in fire.

  The merchant ship vanished in a massive explosion, the ocean swallowing the wreckage in a heartbeat.

  No one aboard had time to understand what happened.

  ---

  1,000 Meters Underwater

  The cause of the explosion lay far below the surface.

  Silent. Steady. Patient.

  A Murican Ohio-class submarine slid through the dark water.

  “Kill confirmed,” the sonar operator reported.

  “Hahaha! Good—good!” the submarine captain laughed, clapping his hands together in delight.

  The captain was a selkie—sleek, grey-skinned, with a perpetual grin that made everything he said sound like a bad idea having fun.

  “Good hit, Angler One,” a voice came through the comm. “Stand by for next target coordinates. Dark Moon out.”

  “Aye aye~” the captain sang, flopping back into his chair like a man who had just finished a chore.

  His XO stood beside him, arms folded.

  “You know, blowing things up is fun,” the captain said cheerfully, “but the waiting parts are boring.”

  “What did you expect, sir?” the XO replied dryly. “They’re disguised. We can’t just sink every merchant ship in the area. We need to be precise and efficient.”

  “—precise and efficient,” the captain echoed at the exact same time, in the exact same tone, mocking him.

  The XO stared at him.

  Silently.

  Judging.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” the captain scoffed, waving a hand. “You’ve said it like a hundred times. Jeez, you really sound like my principal.”

  The XO exhaled through his nose. “Please just let Dark Moon do their job, Captain. Hunting mana-signatures is still a relatively new thing for us.”

  Thanks to intel recovered from the Goldenclaws headquarters and Calgirra Oakenbrew, Murica now knew exactly how their enemies operating.

  And Murica, being Murica, responded the only way it knew how:

  By blinding everyone first.

  Across the ocean, the submarine fleet moved methodically, hunting down every pair of enemy eyes with surgical calm and extreme prejudice.

  ---

  6,000 Meters Above the Surface

  Unfortunately, the same level of precision was a little harder to maintain in the sky.

  Eight AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters spread out in a loose hunting formation, sweeping the airspace like bored apex predators.

  “Hee~re birdie-birdie-birdie,” one pilot sang lazily while scanning the clouds.

  “Dark Moon…” the gunner whined over comms. “Why can’t you just tell us which birds have high mana-signatures?”

  “Can’t do, Hunter Four,” Dark Moon replied, irritation clearyly leaking. “For the third time—ships are slow and easy to detect. Birds are not. Just keep patrolling and blow up any giant birds you find. Dark Moon out. Again!”

  The channel clicked dead.

  The gunner sighed. “You think the environmentalists on Painstagram will be mad if they ever find out what we’re doing?”

  “Ooh! Ooh! Radar caught another bird!” the pilot suddenly shouted, pointing at a blip. “Big one!”

  “Oh thank goodness,” the co-pilot muttered, already locking in.

  The Viper banked sharply, rotors screaming as it changed direction toward the giant bird, without even caring if the bird is innocent or not.