The First Sortie.
Charybdis Air Force Base – The Arrival of a Legend
The morning air at Charybdis Air Force Base carried the unmistakable scent of aviation fuel, scorched rubber, and heated metal—the essence of warbirds primed for the sky. The constant mechanical symphony of whining jet engines, hydraulic actuators, and distant afterburners painted a portrait of a base perpetually on the edge of battle.
This wasn't just any airbase. Charybdis was Fontaine's shield and spear, a fortress in the sky. Within its hardened shelters and sprawling runways, some of the finest aviators in the Armée de l'Air honed their craft. And at the very top of this food chain stood the 405th Tactical Fighter Squadron—better known by their legendary callsigns:
Tidal Squadron – The hammer of Charybdis, Fontaine's premier air superiority unit, aggressive and relentless.
Nocturne Squadron – The silent executioners, specialists in both air-to-air and precision air-to-ground operations.
The flight line was alive with activity. Ground crews rushed between aircraft, performing last-minute pre-flight checks. Engineers swarmed over open panels, recalibrating avionics, adjusting weapons systems, and running diagnostics. The sharp scent of burnt kerosene and hydraulic oil mixed with the crisp morning air. Rows of fighter jets sat on the tarmac—silent, lethal, waiting.
And today, among these seasoned warriors, a new legend walked into their ranks.
Furina De Fontaine.
The rookie phenom everyone was talking about.
Her name had already spread like wildfire. Just months out of the Fontaine Royal Air Force Academy, she had shattered records, defied expectations, and showcased the kind of raw, unshakable talent that couldn't be ignored. She wasn't just another promising pilot—she was already flying on the edge of ace status.
Now, she was standing here. Charybdis Air Force Base. Assigned to Nocturne and Tidal Squadron.
And with her came a machine worthy of her name.
Dassault Rafale M – 1013-FF
Her jet was unlike any other on the flight line.
A Dassault Rafale M.
Naval, multi-role, and combat-proven.
But it wasn't the type of jet that made it special. It was what it represented.
Deep blue, sky blue, white, and black flowed seamlessly across the airframe, mimicking the movement of water in a storm.
A golden emblem on the tail—a crown over flowing water—stood as a mark of dominance.
Beneath the canopy, in bold script, were the words:
"Élégante et Efficace."
Elegant and Efficient.
It was more than a motto—it was a warning to anyone who faced her in the skies.
The Walk to the Briefing Room
Furina's boots echoed lightly against the polished concrete floors as she strode through the dimly lit corridors of Charybdis' command building. The faint hum of overhead fluorescents buzzed above her, their cold glow casting long shadows against the walls.
The smell of strong black coffee, machine oil, and military-grade disinfectant filled the air—a scent she was already far too familiar with.
Beside her walked a seasoned officer, his flight suit faded with years of combat experience. Unlike the younger pilots, his posture wasn't rigid but relaxed, the look of someone who had flown too many dogfights and watched too many friends vanish from radar.
Still, as he glanced at Furina, a smirk tugged at his lips.
"I have to say, Lieutenant Furina, it's an honor to finally meet you."
Furina raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable.
"Seriously?"
The officer nodded. "Damn right. We've seen your flight footage. The way you handled your Rafale..." He let out a low chuckle. "You fly like a goddamn specter. Even some of our veterans struggle to pull off those maneuvers."
Furina smirked slightly, shaking her head. "I just flew how I was trained. That's all."
The officer scoffed, his voice tinged with amusement. "Don't play modest. That high-G barrel roll during the mock dogfight? You practically broke the laws of physics. How much did you pull?"
Furina let out a small sigh. "Twelve G's."
The officer stopped mid-step. "Twelve!?"
She nodded. "Yeah. The aircraft was deemed unairworthy afterward. Structural damage was too severe. But that's what training is about—pushing yourself and the jet to its absolute limits."
The officer let out a low whistle. "Damn... That's the brutal part of this job, huh?"
Furina didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Every fighter pilot knew the risks.
One miscalculated maneuver. One split-second hesitation. One bad decision in a dogfight.
That was all it took to go from a rising ace to a memorial nameplate.
And Furina had no plans of letting that happen to her.
The Briefing Room Doors
At the end of the hallway stood the cold steel doors of the briefing room. The air here was thicker, heavier.
This wasn't just a doorway. This was the threshold between preparation and combat.
The officer stopped, placing a firm hand on Furina's shoulder.
"Good luck in there, Lieutenant."
Furina smirked. Confidence flashed in her deep cerulean eyes.
"I don't need luck, sir."
The officer chuckled and walked away, leaving Furina alone.
She exhaled sharply. One deep breath. One last moment of stillness.
Then, she stepped forward, pushing open the doors.
The Briefing Room
The moment Furina stepped inside, the energy in the room shifted.
Dozens of fighter pilots, flight officers, and squadron leaders were already gathered. The scent of burnt aviation fuel clung to flight suits, mixed with stale coffee and the sweat of long hours spent in the cockpit. The room buzzed with conversation—stories of past sorties, mission gossip, and the occasional burst of laughter.
Then, they saw her.
Conversations died down. Heads turned. A few smirks appeared.
"Well, well. There's our hotshot rookie from the Academy," someone called out, their tone laced with amusement.
Furina inhaled sharply. Here we go.
The squadron members didn't hesitate to size her up, forming a loose semi-circle around her. Some looked on with curiosity, others with mild skepticism. But no one could deny the truth—she had already built a reputation before even stepping into an operational squadron.
The first to approach was Lyney, the lead pilot of Tidal Squadron. His presence was immediate—an easy confidence, a charismatic smile that spoke of both experience and charm. His flight suit was crisp, the Fontainean flag patch on his shoulder standing out.
"Welcome aboard, Furina. Glad to have you with us." He extended a gloved hand.
Furina met his gaze, clasping his hand in a firm shake. "Glad to be here, sir."
Lyney chuckled, shaking his head. "No need for 'sir.' My TAC name is Magician, but you can call me whatever you like."
Furina smirked. "Magician, huh? I'll keep that in mind."
Lyney then gestured toward another pilot standing just behind him—a woman with sharp, calculating eyes and an unreadable expression.
"This is my sister, Lynette—callsign Ritesword. She leads Nocturne Squadron."
Lynette gave a slight nod, her emerald eyes studying Furina with quiet scrutiny. "Welcome to Charybdis, Furina."
Furina returned the nod. "Looking forward to flying with you."
More introductions followed, each pilot carrying a distinct presence—some boisterous and easygoing, others more reserved and calculating. Despite their differences, there was an unspoken bond among them. They had all been through grueling training, brutal missions, and losses.
And now, Furina was one of them.
Then, right on cue, the commanding officer stepped onto the stage.
Mission Briefing
"Alright, is everyone here? Good. Settle down—let's get this briefing started."
The room shifted into strict focus. Pilots took their seats, the usual banter fading as the massive digital display at the front of the room flickered to life. A high-resolution map of Teyvat appeared, the Fontainean and Charybdis region highlighted in red.
The commanding officer scanned the room, his voice steady but firm.
"First and foremost, I'd like to give Furina a warm Charybdis welcome. We've reviewed your flight records. Impressive work so far."
Furina sat upright, offering a respectful nod. "Honored to be here, sir."
The officer nodded back before turning to the display. The screen zoomed in, focusing on an area north of Charybdis airspace.
"A few hours ago, our radar site detected a group of unidentified aircraft approaching our airspace."
A click.
The display changed. Grainy infrared images flickered onto the screen—two massive aircraft, their distinctive silhouettes unmistakable.
A Tupolev Tu-95 and a Tu-22M.
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Those are Snezhnayan bombers," someone muttered.
The commanding officer's expression hardened.
"Thirty minutes ago, all communication with the radar station went dark. Satellite imagery confirms structural damage—possibly a missile strike. That leads us to one conclusion..."
He let the weight of his words settle before finishing.
"The Snezhnayan Ceasefire Agreement has been broken for the first time in almost forty years."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Some pilots exchanged tense glances. Others clenched their fists. They all knew what this meant.
"As of this moment, Charybdis Air Force Base and the Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force are on high alert."
A click. The map updated again, displaying a red trajectory line pushing toward Fontaine's airspace.
"Your mission is simple: Intercept these aircraft. Force them to turn back or land. If they refuse or retaliate—"
The commanding officer's gaze locked onto the squadron.
"Shoot them down."
The weight of the order pressed down on the room. For some, it was a return to the battles they had trained for. For others, it was a grim realization.
And then—
A thunderous explosion.
The entire building shook violently. Windows rattled. Loose papers fluttered into the air as a deep shockwave rippled through the walls.
BOOM.
What the hell was that?!
Pilots instinctively ducked, some reaching for their sidearms out of reflex.
A lieutenant bolted toward the nearest window—then froze.
His voice rose in sheer horror.
"Smoke's rising from the carrier! We're under attack!"
The doors to the briefing room slammed open.
An officer burst inside, out of breath, panic in his eyes.
"Everyone! Unidentified aircraft overhead—one of them is flying the Snezhnayan flag!"
The commanding officer's teeth clenched. His voice dropped into a furious snarl.
"Everyone, SCRAMBLE! Get to your planes! Shoot down every last one of them!"
No hesitation.
The briefing room erupted into chaos. Chairs slammed backward, boots pounded against the floor. Flight suits rustled as pilots sprinted toward the exits.
Klaxons blared throughout the base.
The moment they stepped outside, chaos greeted them.
Columns of black smoke twisted into the sky, rising from the shattered airbase. The acrid stench of burning fuel mixed with the metallic bite of explosives. Fighter jets screamed down the runway, afterburners blazing, claws of blue fire carving into the night.
A thunderous BOOM rocked the base. Debris erupted into the air, metal fragments raining down like shrapnel.
"Medic! We need a medic over here!" A soldier dragged a wounded airman from the flaming wreckage of a transport truck. Another sprinted past Furina, rifle in hand, heading toward the perimeter defenses.
Another detonation. Too close. The force of the shockwave rattled Furina's ribs, her boots sliding slightly on the trembling tarmac.
Then—shadows streaked across the night sky. Enemy fighters.
They were already inside the perimeter.
Furina's breath hitched. Her heartbeat slammed against her chest.
This isn't a drill.
This wasn't a training exercise.
This was war.
And if she didn't get airborne now, she would die with the base.
Her War Machine – The Dassault Rafale M
Ahead, nestled in the final intact hangar, her Rafale M awaited.
A predator in a cage. Its sleek, angular design reflected the dim emergency lights. The deep blue, sky blue, white, and black of its livery were now marred by drifting ash. The golden emblem on its tail—a crown over flowing water—remained untouched.
Beneath the canopy, a quiet declaration of her combat philosophy:
"Élégante et Efficace."
Elegant and Efficient.
She vaulted up the ladder, swinging into the cockpit with practiced speed. No wasted motion. Every second counted.
Helmet snapped on. Oxygen mask secured.
She powered up the avionics.
Engine Start – Bringing the Beast to Life
Click.
Main Electricity Switch—Standby to Right.
A deep, mechanical whine echoed as the right engine spooled up, turbines spinning at breakneck speed.
RPM climbing past 25% N2.
She flicked the Fuel Cutoff lever to Idle.
Ignition.
A throaty, mechanical snarl filled the cockpit. The Rafale M growled awake, shaking as its M88-2 turbofan engine came online.
"One down." Her voice was steady.
Left engine—same process.
Another ignition. Another roar.
The canopy slammed shut, sealing her inside. The world outside faded into a dull, muffled chaos. Only the heartbeat of her war machine remained.
Taxiing Into Hell
Brakes released. Throttle nudged forward.
The Rafale M rolled onto the taxiway, emerging from the hangar into pure bedlam.
Tracer rounds slashed through the air. AA defenses screamed in protest, trying desperately to fend off the incoming assault. Missiles shrieked overhead, leaving glowing trails of destruction.
Ahead, a Super Hornet taxied alongside her, its pilot flashing a quick, tense salute. They were the last ones left on the ground.
The radio exploded with chatter.
"Tidal Three's been hit! Punching out—"
"We've lost ground control!—"
"Tidal Two, your callsign is Tidal Two. Verify and readback!"
She gritted her teeth, clicking her mic.
"Tidal Two, checking in."
The tower's voice barely cut through the static.
"Tidal Two, Runway 30 is clear for takeoff, but you need to—SHIT—INCOMING! INCOMING!"
A fireball bloomed near the far end of the runway as a missile slammed into an F-15, ripping it apart mid-takeoff. The blastwave rattled her canopy.
No hesitation.
"Righto. Let's get this over with."
She slammed the throttle forward.
Clawing Into the Sky
Twin M88-2 engines unleashed their fury.
Afterburners detonated behind her, a concussive shockwave of fire and acceleration erupting as the Rafale M shot down the runway like a bullet.
The cockpit trembled. The G-forces hit her like a hammer.
120 knots.
150 knots.
180 knots.
Rotation speed.
Furina pulled back on the stick.
The Rafale M leapt off the tarmac, wings biting into the night air.
Gear up.
IFF updating.
Altitude climbing.
Missile lock warning.
"Waltz, break left! Break left!"
The fight was on.
Her radio exploded with chatter.
"The aircraft carrier is on fire… and listing hard!"
That was Calcagni, Nocturne Two—his voice carrying an edge of disbelief.
"Most of the harbor's gone."
Lynette's voice cut through the frequency, calm but razor-sharp.
"Time to stop this bullshit. We can't afford any more casualties."
Then came the command.
"All squadrons, let's take out these bastards. It's go time."
Check-ins followed in rapid succession.
"Nocturne Four, understood."
"Nocturne Two, roger."
"Tidal One, affirm."
"Tidal Two, confirmed," Furina responded without hesitation.
She flicked her gaze to her HUD, scanning for targets. The battle had already escalated into a full-scale aerial brawl, and they were late to the fight.
First target spotted.
12,000 meters ahead.
Her fingers twitched over the throttle as her eyes locked onto the incoming bombers.
Lynette's voice returned.
"Waltz, form up with Tidal One."
Before Furina could respond, another voice cut into the comms, one that sent a chill through her.
"This is AWACS Zaytun. Take all enemy aircraft down. They've hit us hard. Stay sharp for any escort fighters protecting the bombers."
Lynette responded first. "Wilco."
Just as Lyney radioed Furina—
She blazed past him at high speed.
"Furina! You're supposed to form up on me!"
She narrowed her eyes, gripping the stick tighter.
"Now's not the time! We need to take out those bombers before they cause any more damage!"
Lynette clicked her mic.
"She's right, brother. But form up with Waltz—don't lose her!"
Lyney sighed through the radio. "Wilco."
His F-35 Lightning II accelerated to keep up, but Furina was already closing in on the first target—a Tupolev Tu-95 Bear, a massive four-engine strategic bomber designed to carpet bomb entire cities if given the chance.
Her right thumb flicked the weapon selector switch.
Special Weapon 1 – Long-Range Air-to-Air Missiles.
The targeting reticle snapped onto the bomber, flashing red as the radar locked on.
Solid tone. Lock confirmed.
Two missiles away.
"Fox Three!"
The twin AMRAAMs streaked forward, slicing through the sky like spears of death.
The first missile struck dead center, detonating inside the fuselage. A moment later, the second missile connected with the tail section, shearing it off in an eruption of fire and shrapnel.
The Tu-95 tumbled into a death spiral, flames engulfing its wing as it plummeted toward the ocean below.
AWACS confirmed the kill.
"Splash one, Waltz! Good work!"
But there was no time to celebrate.
More bombers were inbound—escorted this time.
Her heart pounded harder against her ribcage, adrenaline surging through her veins.
She pushed the Rafale to its limits, afterburners screaming as she tore through the sky.
This wasn't just a mission anymore.
This was a statement.
She wasn't here to play it safe.
The radio crackled again.
"We've got two more bombers and an escort. Bearing 310."
Furina's grip tightened around the control stick.
"Wilco," she responded, already adjusting her heading.
She wrenched the sidestick into a tight 90-degree bank, G-forces slamming her against her seat as the Rafale pivoted toward the new targets.
The two Tu-95 bombers were dead ahead, their silver fuselages gleaming in the dim light. But this time, a MiG-25 Foxbat was moving with them—a Mach 3-capable interceptor designed to kill anything that got too close.
Her missile lock tone chirped.
Target: Bomber No. 3.
Two more missiles away.
"Fox Three!"
The missiles cut through the air, contrails spiraling behind them before striking true.
A blinding explosion erupted beneath the Tu-95's fuselage. The aircraft shuddered violently, its wings buckling as the fireball tore through its frame. The tail section ripped away, flung into the void as the bomber crumbled, disintegrating into a storm of twisted metal.
No survivors.
But there was no time to admire the wreckage.
The MiG-25 had seen everything—and it was angry.
Her warning systems screamed in protest.
LOCK-ON DETECTED.
INCOMING MISSILE.
A high-pitched beeping filled the cockpit as her radar warning receiver flashed red. The MiG-25 had fired an R-40RD air-to-air missile, and it was coming in hot.
Shit.
"Defensive maneuvers!" AWACS Zaytun barked over the radio.
Furina didn't hesitate.
She snapped the stick hard right, slamming her throttle forward to full afterburner. The Rafale bucked under the sudden maneuver, the G-force pressing against her chest like a vice.
The missile streaked past her by meters, barely missing her wingtip as she rolled into a high-G barrel roll.
"That was too fucking close," she muttered under her breath.
Her countermeasure panel flashed. Chaff deployed.
But the MiG-25 wasn't done.
The enemy pilot pulled into a steep climb, circling back for another attack run.
Furina's mind raced. The Foxbat was faster than her Rafale—especially at high altitude. If she let it dictate the fight, she was fucked.
Time to flip the script.
She yanked the stick back, pulling the Rafale into a near vertical climb, airspeed bleeding away as she forced the jet into a post-stall maneuver.
The MiG-25 overshot.
"Got you, asshole."
The moment the Foxbat passed in front of her, she rolled her jet over, dropping in right behind it.
Missile lock acquired.
Her breathing steadied.
Thumb on the trigger.
"Fox Two!"
The Magic II heat-seeker leapt off the rail, chasing the MiG's twin engines like a predator locked onto its prey.
The MiG pilot had no time to react.
The missile struck the Foxbat's right engine, detonating on impact. The aircraft immediately burst into flames, its right wing snapping off as the wreckage tumbled through the sky.
"Splash one, Waltz!" AWACS confirmed.
Furina let out a slow breath, watching the MiG's fiery remains spiral toward the ocean.
Her fingers flexed around the control stick, knuckles white.
One down.
But the battle wasn't over yet.
She banked back toward the incoming wave of bombers, adjusting her heading.
This wasn't just a counterattack.
This was payback.
But she had bigger problems.
Another MiG-25 had latched onto her six, refusing to break off.
Her radar warning receiver blared in her ears—
The bastard was on her tail.
Not in missile range yet, but close enough to be a problem.
"Alright, asshole. Let's see if you can handle this."
Furina yanked the throttle to idle—
Snapped the stick back—
And sent the Rafale into a vicious, stomach-churning 90-degree climb.
A Cobra Maneuver.
Her canopy filled with sky as she bled speed in an instant.
The MiG-25, still locked on, shot forward—
Right past her nose.
Big fucking mistake.
The second it overshot, she rammed the throttle back forward—
The Rafale's twin engines snarled to life, slamming her into the seat.
Her HUD flickered red.
Target locked.
She didn't hesitate.
"Fox Two!"
A single AIM-9 Sidewinder shrieked from the pylon, a white-hot lance of death.
The MiG-25 pilot had no time to react.
No time to break.
No time to flare.
The missile hit center mass—
The fuselage detonated, fireballing into a blinding explosion.
The Foxbat disintegrated midair, its shattered remains streaking toward the ocean.
A lone parachute bloomed as the pilot punched out, his aircraft already reduced to burning wreckage.
"Another splash for Tidal Two!"
AWACS Zaytun's confirmation rang in her headset.
Furina exhaled sharply.
One less threat.
But the fight was far from over.
She tore her eyes from the wreckage below and snapped her gaze back to her HUD.
More blips.
More bombers.
More escorts.
And the war was still burning.
Breaking the Formation
"Copy. Moving in."
Furina slammed the throttle forward, sending her Rafale screaming ahead.
Twin blue-white flames erupted from the afterburners as she rocketed through the sky.
Her comms crackled—
"Waltz! Form up! Don't go charging in alone!"
Lyney's voice. Sharp. Frustrated.
She ignored it.
She wasn't here to play it safe.
She was here to win.
Lyney cursed, gritting his teeth as his F-35 surged forward, struggling to keep pace.
"Goddammit, Furina—form up!"
She finally eased back on the throttle, letting him close in.
Now, two jets streaked through the chaos together—
The briefest moment of calm in a sky filled with fire.
But she could feel it.
Something was wrong.
A storm was coming.
Something unseen.
The air was humming with it.
Then—
A new voice cut through the radio.
The Unseen Threat
"This is HQ to both Tidal and Nocturne Squadrons. Confirm if there are any drones in the vicinity? Over."
Furina frowned.
Drones?
That made no sense. The enemy relied on manned bombers—
They didn't field drones in this airspace.
Lynette's voice cut through, sharp and impatient.
"Drones? We don't see any fucking drones!"
A split-second pause.
Then, AWACS Zaytun again—
"Three bombers and four escorts, bearing one-three-five!"
Targets confirmed.
Furina's lips curled into a smirk.
"Copy!"
Her fingers tightened over the throttle.
Adrenaline crashed through her veins like a lightning strike.
Her Rafale wasn't a machine anymore.
It was her.
Without another word—
She slammed the throttle forward.
The M88-2 engines screamed, afterburners lighting up like hellfire as she surged ahead.
Lyney cursed.
"FURINA! GODDAMN IT—"
But he had no choice.
He punched the throttle.
His F-35 shot forward—
Chasing her.
But she was already gone.
"Tidal One! Do not lose her!"
Lynette's voice carried an annoyed scowl.
But beneath it—
There was something else.
Something unspoken.
Concern.
Furina grinned, her hands steady over the controls.
She wasn't stopping now.
AWACS Zaytun came back in.
"Nocturne Four, splash one."
A moment passed.
"Nocturne Three, splash one."
Then Zaytun's voice turned to Furina.
"That's the last set, Waltz."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Wilco."
Her HUD flashed red. Target locked.
Another Tu-95 loomed ahead, crawling through the sky like a slow-moving behemoth.
Furina already had the shot lined up.
Her thumb flicked the weapon selector.
"Fox Three!"
Two long-range air-to-air missiles shrieked from their pylons, trailing white-hot streaks through the cold sky.
The Tu-95 barely had time to react before the first missile slammed into its fuselage—
A blinding fireball erupted, the cockpit shattering instantly as debris scattered like shooting stars.
The second missile found its mark in the wing root.
A split second later—
The massive bomber came apart, breaking into flaming wreckage that spiraled toward the ocean.
She didn't wait.
Her helmet-mounted display locked onto the next target.
Another Tu-95.
"Fox Three!"
Two more missiles streaked away.
The second bomber was engulfed in a violent blaze, shredded into nothing but fire and twisted metal, its remains vanishing into the waves below.
Her radio crackled—
"Two confirmed splashes! Good kills, Tidal Two!"
But she had no time to acknowledge.
Because four enemy fighters had broken formation.
Heading straight for her.
Her mind blurred into pure instinct.
She wrenched the stick into a brutal 90-degree bank, cutting throttle to idle—
The Rafale whipped through the sky, faster than any of them anticipated.
Two of them overshot instantly.
Dead men flying.
She barely needed to think—her hands moved on their own.
She pulled lead.
Gun crosshair lined up.
30mm cannon—fire.
A burst of tungsten rounds ripped into the first fighter's fuselage—
The rounds punched through the airframe, igniting the fuel tank in a flash of fire.
The aircraft exploded.
Wreckage tumbled, swallowed by the ocean below.
She snapped the stick left—
Another quick roll—
Another squeeze of the trigger—
More cannon fire.
The second enemy fighter disintegrated mid-air, its broken carcass vanishing into a cloud of flames.
Only two remained.
One MiG-25. One Su-30.
The MiG broke left.
The Su-30 stayed with her.
She chose her target.
The Su-30.
The enemy pilot went for a Pugachev Cobra—a bold, arrogant move.
The aircraft flipped nearly upside down, nose high, bleeding speed—trying to bait her into overshooting.
But Furina had seen it coming.
She didn't hesitate.
She executed the impossible.
A blaze of brilliance.
She yanked the sidestick—
Hard.
A perfect 180-degree flip.
For a brief, breathtaking moment—
Her Rafale flew backward.
The world twisted into a kaleidoscope of motion, the force crushing her chest—
But she was in control.
The Su-30 drifted forward.
Completely exposed.
Two Sidewinders away.
"Fox Two!"
Twin AIM-9s shrieked from the pylons, their smokeless trails lancing through the sky.
Impact.
The Su-30 detonated in a spectacular explosion, shredded into a burning wreck as it spiraled into the abyss.
Furina exhaled—
Her heart pounding, her breath sharp.
One left.
The MiG-25 tried to break away.
Too late.
She pulled the Rafale into a 360-degree Cobra turn.
A full aerial rotation—
A maneuver that shouldn't have been possible for her aircraft.
But she did it anyway.
The MiG never stood a chance.
Gunfire.
The enemy jet came apart under a barrage of 30mm rounds.
A final fireball—
A final splash.
"Tidal One, splash one. Tidal Two, splash one."
Then—
AWACS made the call.
"The skies are clear. We've got air superiority."
Furina exhaled.
The battle was won.
But the war—
Was just beginning.
The radio crackled, shattering the silence.
"This is Teyvat United Peacekeeping HQ. We're in the clear. RTB."
One by one, the pilots responded.
"Tidal One. Wilco."
"Nocturne One. Wilco."
"Nocturne Two. Wilco."
"Nocturne Three. Roger."
"Nocturne Four. Affirmative."
Then, finally—
Furina's voice. Calm. Steady. Unwavering.
"Tidal Two. Returning to base."
She inhaled slowly, hands firm on the controls.
The fight was over.
For now.
But the real battle?
It had only just begun.
Minutes later, Nocturne Squadron and Tidal One touched down at Charybdis Air Force Base.
The roar of their engines faded, afterburners silenced—replaced by the low hum of cooling turbines as they taxied down the runway.
Furina remained airborne.
Circling the base.
Letting the final waves of adrenaline settle.
Her heart still pounded—the aftershocks of combat thrumming through her veins.
But her breathing?
Controlled. Even. Steady.
She had proven herself today.
The tower's voice finally crackled through her headset.
"Tidal Two, the runway's all yours. Cleared to land."
She exhaled. Hands steady. No hesitation.
"Cleared to land. Tidal Two."
The Rafale descended with precision, slicing through the sky, the nose aligning perfectly with the runway centerline.
Then—
A clean touchdown.
The wheels kissed the tarmac, the landing gear absorbing the final force of the mission.
As the aircraft rolled to a stop, Furina let out a slow breath.
No casualties.
The mission was complete.
But as she stared out at the burning wreckage smoldering on the horizon, she knew—
This was no ordinary sortie.
This was the beginning of something far greater.
Hours later, the pilots of Tidal Squadron and Nocturne Squadron gathered in the debriefing room.
The usual light banter was absent.
In its place—a heavy, unspoken weight.
The room hummed with quiet anticipation, tension thick in the air. Even the veterans sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the blank screens ahead.
They had just survived one of the most intense air battles in recent history.
And they all knew—
This was just the beginning.
The Base Commander entered, his posture rigid, his expression caught between exhaustion and hardened resolve.
He took his place at the front, scanning the room, eyes moving from face to face—assessing. Measuring.
Then, without a word, he pressed a button.
The screen flickered to life.
A timeline of the battle played before them.
Blue arrows—Tidal Squadron.
Green arrows—Nocturne Squadron.
And then, the red ones.
The enemy's movements.
Slicing through the map like a blade.
The room remained silent.
Each maneuver. Each kill. Each casualty.
Then, the Commander finally spoke.
His voice was low. Heavy. Unforgiving.
"The Harmost is Gone."
A single sentence.
And yet, it carried the weight of an entire nation.
He continued, his tone measured.
"We're still assessing the full extent of the damage to the base and the surrounding area."
A pause.
Then, sharper. Harder.
"The port has taken the heaviest hit."
Another pause.
And then—the words no one wanted to hear.
"We've confirmed that the aircraft carrier Harmost has been sunk."
A ripple of tension passed through the room.
The Harmost wasn't just a carrier.
It was one of Fontaine's most vital naval assets.
And now, it was gone.
The Commander's gaze remained locked on the screen.
"The attackers were confirmed to be Snezhnayan."
A slow inhale.
Then—
"Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force bases across the continent, including those near Snezhnaya, have also been attacked."
The weight of that statement settled into their bones.
This wasn't just an ambush.
It was an opening salvo.
The Commander exhaled, his voice taking on a grave finality.
"Many wars are lost in their opening blows. Failure to recover leads to catastrophe."
Then, for the first time—his gaze lifted.
And in his voice, something new.
Pride.
"But with both squadrons retaliating successfully, everyone in this room might have just changed the tides of this war."
A pause.
Then—
A simple order.
"Everyone's dismissed."
AFTER THE BRIEFING
The room emptied quickly.
Some pilots headed straight for their rooms, exhaustion weighing on their shoulders.
Others made their way toward the cafeteria, seeking comfort in a hot meal.
But three remained.
Lyney. Lynette. Furina.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—just heavy.
A mix of exhaustion. Disbelief. Accomplishment.
Lynette was the first to break it.
She stepped forward, placing a hand on Furina's shoulder.
A small smile.
"Nicely done, Furina."
A pause.
Then—
"Eleven confirmed kills. Officially, you're an ace on your first sortie."
Furina blinked.
Then let out a small chuckle, brushing it off with a shrug.
"Didn't even bother counting. But that sounds awesome!"
The thrill of the fight still lingered in her veins.
Lyney, standing nearby, ran a hand through his hair.
His tone was half-incredulous, half-admiring.
"You know, Furina… I don't know how you handle that Rafale of yours."
A beat.
"But the way you flew today? That was something else."
He shook his head, still processing what he had witnessed.
"Pugachev maneuvers, high-G turns, that ridiculous barrel roll escape—you threw that jet around like it was weightless."
Another beat.
"Beats me how any Rafale could even pull that off."
Furina turned toward the hangar windows.
There it was.
Her Rafale M sat under the dim floodlights, its sleek form almost glowing, the golden emblem on its tail standing stark against the deep blues of its livery.
A silent reminder of what had just transpired.
She exhaled.
"Honestly? I don't know either."
Her voice was casual—but thoughtful.
"I was assigned this aircraft. I was told to stick to it. It has my livery, so it's a one-off."
Lyney nodded slowly, thinking.
"Fair point. You don't know who modified it... so it's anyone's guess, really."
A moment of silence.
Then—
A loud stomach growl.
Lynette smirked.
"Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm starving."
She nudged them forward.
"Let's go eat."
Furina chuckled, shaking her head.
"Alright, let's go."
As they walked toward the cafeteria, the air felt lighter.
But even as they laughed, even as the tension faded—
They all knew.
This was just the beginning.
And war?
War was on the horizon.