Furina's Flying Style

The Following Day—Doubt, Discovery, and the Ace That Shouldn't Exist

A lone F-15E Strike Eagle sat motionless inside Hangar 3 of Korovograd Air Force Base, its dark gray frame illuminated by the cold morning light filtering through the open hangar doors. The aircraft, belonging to Primordial One, had just undergone a full post-mission inspection after last night's operation.

Overseeing the final checks was none other than Albedo, the Aircraft Alchemist, accompanied by his assistant, Sucrose.

They worked in silence, their movements precise, methodical—each adjustment performed with a level of expertise most mechanics could only dream of. Every tool had its place. Every motion had purpose.

Albedo wasn't just another engineer. He was an artist.

With a final glance at his clipboard, he clicked his pen and looked up.

"Everything is in order, Ms. Gunnhildr. The plane is still in excellent condition."

Standing nearby, arms crossed, was Jean Gunnhildr—The Dandelion herself.

She nodded. "Thanks, Albedo."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and exited the hangar. Outside, a black service vehicle idled near the tarmac. She climbed in, started the engine, and drove toward the base headquarters.

Albedo remained where he was, watching her leave, deep in thought.

During the debrief, something had stuck with him.

A single fighter had gone head-to-head with an Su-57.

Alone.

And held it off long enough for the others to escape the kill zone.

That kind of reckless bravery—no.

That kind of flying.

Who the hell was capable of that?

His eyes drifted toward another aircraft parked just outside the hangar—a Mirage 2000-5.

Performing routine inspections beside it was Wriothesley—Drowned Three.

Their eyes met.

Albedo raised a brow.

Wriothesley raised one back.

A beat of silence.

Then, Albedo sighed and signaled him over.

"Hey! Wriothesley! Got a second?"

A Conversation in the Alchemist's Workshop

Inside Albedo's personal workshop, the air was thick with the scent of engine oil, steel, and something unmistakably mechanical.

Schematics, blueprints, and disassembled aircraft components cluttered every surface—meticulously arranged, yet overwhelming to the untrained eye. The dull glow of a desk lamp cast long shadows over stacks of paperwork and half-finished calculations.

Albedo and Wriothesley sat across from each other, neither speaking at first.

Then—Albedo leaned forward.

"I'll be straight with you."

No preamble. No hesitation.

"Were you the one who went head-on against that Su-57?"

Wriothesley let out a short chuckle, shaking his head.

"I wish. But I don't have the balls for that." He smirked. "That was all Waltz."

Albedo's expression remained unreadable.

"Waltz?"

"Yeah. Furina de Fontaine."

Snap.

A single snap of Albedo's fingers as realization clicked into place.

His voice was flat.

"Ah. Imena's murderer."

Wriothesley's smirk faltered—just slightly.

"That's what they say, yeah." He exhaled. "But between you and me? I doubt it. Either way—doesn't matter right now."

Albedo's sharp gaze locked onto him.

"Tell me what happened."

Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes flickered toward the ceiling, as if replaying the chaos in his mind.

"It was a mess. Overcast skies, freezing conditions. We were running interference for Primordial Squadron so they could get the hell out of there."

Albedo tilted his head. "Was she reckless?"

Wriothesley let out a dry chuckle.

"Reckless? Maybe. But it didn't matter. She got the damn job done."

He leaned forward, tone more serious now.

"She's the only one who takes the enemy head-on. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Hell—she chased that Su-57 down, solo. Landed a few rounds on it, too."

Albedo's eyebrows rose slightly.

"And you're saying she survived?"

Wriothesley nodded.

"Not just survived—she made that shit look normal. Like it was just another day in the sky." He exhaled. "In this squadron? We usually fly like we have a goddamn death wish. But her?"

His gaze sharpened.

"She flies like she already knows she's gonna win."

Albedo's fingers tapped against the table, processing.

"So you're telling me… the 'hero' in all of this was Furina?"

Wriothesley didn't even hesitate.

"That's right. And if you ask me? She's no murderer. Someone set her up."

Albedo's expression darkened.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then—

"Do you… feel a sense of pride?"

Wriothesley let out a soft chuckle.

"Of course."

His voice was steadier now.

"The whole squadron does. We've lost pilots before—two, three, sometimes even four in a single mission.

But now?

Since Furina took lead?

It's different.

Two losses. Across two major operations.

That's unheard of for us."

Albedo's mind was already racing, theories forming like puzzle pieces slotting together.

Something wasn't right.

The Pilot That Shouldn't Exist

Albedo's voice was calm—but measured.

"What's her flying style like?"

Wriothesley grinned.

"Elegant. Efficient. And fucking insane."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"She barely even uses flares or chaff to shake missiles. Most pilots panic. She doesn't. Instead, she just pulls some crazy-ass Pugachev maneuvers—even full Cobras. It's like she already knows exactly how to make a missile miss before it even gets close."

Albedo narrowed his eyes.

"That's not normal."

Wriothesley scoffed. "No shit."

Then, Albedo stood up.

His expression remained unreadable.

But his voice?

Dead serious.

"I need to take a closer look at her plane."

Wriothesley raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

Albedo turned toward the hangar entrance.

Beyond it, Furina's Dassault Rafale M sat on the tarmac, its deep blue, sky blue, white, and black livery shimmering under the morning sun.

Even from this distance—he could see the three black slashes.

The Sin Lines.

A mark of disgrace.

A death sentence in the sky.

Yet—

She had survived.

Again.

And again.

And that was a problem.

His voice remained calm.

"Because something doesn't add up."

His gaze lingered on Furina's aircraft.

"She shouldn't exist.

Not here.

Not in this squadron."

A pause.

Then—Albedo turned back toward Wriothesley, his expression unreadable.

"And I intend to find out exactly why."

The Following Week—Unlocking the Truth Behind Waltz's Jet

A Machine That Shouldn't Exist

At exactly 0700 hours, Furina's Dassault Rafale M was towed into Hangar 4 of Korovograd Air Base, its sleek, predatory silhouette casting sharp, angular shadows against the dimly lit concrete floor. The hum of the tug's engine faded as the aircraft rolled to a stop, its presence alone commanding attention.

And waiting for it—was Albedo.

Hands buried in the pockets of his oil-streaked lab coat, sharp golden eyes tracked the jet's every detail with surgical precision. He didn't move immediately, didn't speak. Just stood there, staring.

It was finally here.

The most mysterious plane in the entire goddamn base.

He took a slow step forward, boots clicking against the floor, his breath steady—his heart, however, was anything but.

Something was off.

The deep blue, sky blue, white, and black livery was still flawless, the colors flowing seamlessly across the airframe like a living storm. Not a single scratch. Not a single burn. No wear, no fading—nothing.

Impossible.

After surviving an Su-57 in a knife fight, evading a drone swarm, and punching through a fucking thunderstorm at high speed, it should've had stress marks. It should've had airframe fatigue. It should've been showing some kind of battle damage.

But it wasn't.

Then his gaze shifted toward the tail.

And that's when he saw the first crack in the illusion.

The three jagged black slashes—the infamous Sin Lines—were peeling. The paint protection film was wearing off.

Albedo stepped closer, brushing his fingers over the tail fin. The film wasn't degrading because of time. It wasn't peeling because of the elements.

It was peeling because this jet had been subjected to speeds, forces, and maneuvers that should've torn it apart.

And yet—

It was still here.

Still intact.

Recognition—A Ghost from the Past

Then, his eyes landed on something else.

Beneath the canopy, stenciled in bold white military font, was the serial number.

Albedo froze.

His breath caught.

His stomach twisted.

Because he knew that number.

"One Zero One Three. Foxtrot Foxtrot…"

A long, heavy silence.

Then, a whisper.

"No. Fucking. Way."

This wasn't just any Rafale M.

This was the Rafale M.

A prototype.

The one he had personally worked on.

The one he had personally modified beyond its limits.

The ultimate Rafale.

A machine fine-tuned to perfection. A machine that was never meant to leave the development program.

And yet—somehow, some way—Furina had gotten her hands on it.

Albedo exhaled sharply, stepping closer, his fingers running along the fuselage.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. This jet wasn't supposed to leave Dassault's project list. And yet…"

His voice trailed off, his hands trembling slightly.

Then, he crouched near the twin Snecma M88 engines, running his palm along the heat-scorched exhaust nozzles.

A slow inhale.

Burnt carbon.

The scent of a machine pushed past its limits.

But not breaking.

Not failing.

Still surviving.

Albedo quickly retrieved his notepad, scribbling down every detail in rushed, urgent strokes.

Engines: Pushed beyond tolerances. Should be failing, but they aren't.

Fuselage: ZERO structural warping. Should have hairline fractures, but it's perfect.

Fly-by-wire response: Instantaneous. No lag, no delay. Like an extension of the pilot's body.

G-Load Capacity: Too high for standard Rafales. Shouldn't even be possible.

A slow smirk crept onto his face.

He already knew the answer.

This was a one-off.

A machine built for one purpose.

And it wasn't just "special."

It was a fucking nightmare in the sky.

Albedo's eyes flickered with something between admiration and disbelief.

"The ultimate Rafale… never in my wildest dreams did I think this plane would actually be assigned to a pilot…"

His fingers tapped against the cold metal skin of the aircraft.

Then, a chuckle.

"And yet, here it is. And it's flown by Furina herself."

The Final Upgrades—Because Perfection Wasn't Enough

Over the next two weeks, Albedo did what only he could do.

He took something already perfect—

And made it even better.

The engines? Overhauled. Restored to absolute peak efficiency.

The engine management computers? Upgraded. More thrust. More power. More speed.

The avionics? Fine-tuned to razor-sharp precision, ensuring seamless control in the most extreme conditions.

The Rafale M was already a monster.

Now?

Now, it was something else entirely.

Something beyond conventional understanding.

Something that should never be allowed in a warzone.

But here it was.

And it belonged to the deadliest convict in the skies.

The Final Test—Perfection Unleashed

By the time Albedo finished, he stepped back, exhaling slowly, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The hangar was silent.

And before him—gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights—stood his masterpiece.

A war machine unlike any other.

Albedo crossed his arms, his sharp golden eyes drinking in every detail.

Then, a quiet chuckle.

"With these upgrades, Furina will accelerate harder. Faster. She'll be able to chase down anything in the sky."

His smirk deepened.

Because now—his ultimate creation was back in the fight.

A prototype aircraft, engineered beyond reason.

A jet he had once built in collaboration with Dassault Aviation…

Now belonging to the Ace of Drowned Squadron.

He stepped forward, gloved fingers brushing against the golden emblem on the tail—

A crown over flowing water.

Furina's personal symbol.

A mark of elegance.

A mark of power.

And now—

A mark of absolute fucking dominance.

The hangar doors groaned as they slid open, flooding the space with daylight.

Ground crews moved in, securing the Rafale, towing it back to Drowned Squadron's apron.

Albedo watched as it disappeared into the sunlight, his smirk never fading.

Because with these upgrades—

Furina was about to reach the next level.

And he couldn't fucking wait to see what she would do with it.