Pardoned
One Week and Two Days Later – A New Destination
Korovograd Air Force Base was no longer just an airfield.
It was a war zone in its own right.
C-130 Hercules and C-17 Globemaster cargo planes rumbled across the tarmac, their massive frames dominating the landscape. Engines screamed as ground crews worked nonstop—hauling crates, securing vehicles, guiding personnel into waiting transports. Forklifts weaved through the chaos, carrying pallets of ammunition and spare parts.
This wasn't routine.
This was a full-scale evacuation.
The 51st Teyvat Squadron was being relocated.
Their new home?
Zephyr's Island. A strategically vital landmass off the northern coast of Mondstadt—the closest airbase to the Teyvat Orbital Elevator.
A new battlefield.
The Flightline – Heat, Sweat, and Departure Orders
The midday sun was ruthless.
The heat clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the ever-present scent of jet fuel, scorched asphalt, and sweat.
Soldiers hurried across the flightline, boots pounding against the tarmac. Mechanics barked final orders over the roar of aircraft, wiping grease and grime from their hands as they prepped the last of the fighter jets. The constant hum of engines idling in the background was a low, steady heartbeat beneath the chaos.
Korovograd was shutting down.
And for the first time, the 51st wasn't being treated like prisoners.
No shackles, no guards eyeing them like caged animals.
They were being treated like pilots again.
Inside Albedo's Hangar – Skepticism and New Orders
Inside a cluttered maintenance hangar, Albedo leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, watching the exodus unfold. His golden eyes flickered with something between amusement and exhaustion as he took in the sight of transport planes being stuffed to capacity with supplies and spare parts.
He scoffed.
"Hah. So now we're a real unit? Guess those rumors were true after all."
Beside him, Sucrose adjusted her glasses, watching the frenzy outside.
"Yeah… I overheard some officers talking. We're moving to Zephyr's Island."
Albedo ran a hand through his blonde hair, exhaling sharply. "Fantastic."
His voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Because being a mechanic and an alchemist wasn't enough—now we're 'essential personnel' for the goddamn war effort."
Sucrose hesitated, then sighed. "Well… it makes sense."
She pushed her glasses up, thinking aloud.
"Our jobs aren't changing—we're still keeping these planes in the air. But now? Instead of fixing jets for convicts, we're fixing them for an actual squadron."
Albedo scoffed. Arms still folded.
"That's assuming we even make it to Zephyr's Island in one piece."
Sucrose didn't argue.
Because nothing was ever that simple.
The Briefing Room – The Teyvat Spare Squadron's Last Mission Briefing
The room was packed.
Not just with Drowned Squadron pilots, but with convicts from across the base. Some fresh. Some scarred from war. All carrying the same burden.
The air was heavy—not with fear, but something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Commander Jakob stood at the front, his usual rigid stance unchanged. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. Behind him, a holographic display of the Teyvat continent flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow across the tense room.
Then, he spoke.
"Alright. Seems like the rumors were true."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Some pilots tensed. Others exchanged wary glances.
Jakob's tone remained flat.
"The General Staff Office has officially acknowledged your combat capabilities. Effective immediately—" he paused, scanning the room, his next words carrying the weight of finality.
"All charges have been dropped. You've been pardoned."
Silence.
It hit like a missile.
Some clenched their fists. Others exhaled sharply. A few let out dry, bitter chuckles.
Jakob's sharp gaze landed on Furina.
"That includes you, Waltz."
She didn't react. Didn't smile. Didn't breathe out in relief.
She just leaned back in her chair, tapping her gloved fingers on the desk. Eyes half-lidded.
Like she already knew.
Jakob let the moment settle before continuing.
"Starting today, the Teyvat Spare Squadron is no more. You are now the 51st Teyvat Air Force Squadron—a fully recognized unit."
Another silence.
Then—an undeniable shift in the air.
This was real.
No longer convicts. No longer expendable assets.
They were pilots.
New Orders. New Battlefield.
Jakob turned back to the holographic map, shifting the display.
A new location appeared.
Zephyr's Island.
A small, strategically critical landmass off Mondstadt's northern coast—the closest island to the Teyvat Orbital Elevator.
A new front. A new war zone.
"Your first deployment as a real squadron will be at Zephyr's Island. The northern airfield has been reclaimed, but the rest of the island? Still contested. That'll be your new home."
Then—he smirked.
"A blessing, if you ask me."
Some pilots chuckled. Others didn't.
Then—his expression darkened.
"As for me? My time leading a penal unit is over. Command has reassigned me to a new base—closer to the northern front in Snezhnaya."
A few pilots exhaled in relief.
Jakob caught it. His smirk disappeared.
One Last Task – The Escort Mission
"However—there's one last thing."
The room tensed.
Jakob's expression hardened.
"We'll be making a refueling stop at Zimogorov. It's in Snezhnayan territory, but they've got ties to Teyvat. That said…"
His voice dropped.
"We will still be flying through contested airspace."
The implication was clear.
If the drones attack, we fight.
Jakob straightened, scanning the room before landing on three pilots.
"Furina. Clorinde. Wriothesley. Stay behind."
The trio exchanged glances.
Furina sighed, running a hand through her silver-blue hair.
"Here we go…"
Clorinde folded her arms. "What now?"
The doors shut, leaving only the three pilots and Jakob.
He didn't waste time.
"I need three escort fighters for the Zimogorov route. I want you three. You'll provide air support for the transport convoy. If those drones show up, you keep them the hell away from my plane."
His gaze darkened.
"And if they attack? You protect my plane with your goddamn lives."
Then—his glare locked onto Furina.
The air shifted.
Jakob stepped closer, voice dropping to a near growl.
"You're covered in Imena's blood, and yet here you are, still fucking around in the skies like some goddamn ace."
Silence.
Wriothesley tensed. Clorinde's expression darkened.
Jakob took another step.
"You so much as breathe wrong, and I won't hesitate to shoot your sorry ass out of the sky myself."
Furina didn't flinch.
She smirked.
"Then I guess you better sharpen your aim, Commander."
A long, dangerous pause.
Then—without another word, Jakob turned and stormed out.
The door slammed behind him.
Furina scoffed.
"Tch. Get a load of this asshole."
Wriothesley exhaled. "I can't wait for his sorry ass to be someone else's problem."
Clorinde smirked. "Agreed."
Without another word, the trio left the briefing room.
It was time to pack up.
Furina's Quarters – A Glimpse into the Past
Minutes ticked by.
Furina wordlessly stuffed the last of her gear into her duffel bag.
Her movements were automatic, mechanical—until something caught her eye.
A photograph.
She picked it up carefully, gloved fingers brushing over the worn edges.
A photo of her past. Of Nocturne. Of Tidal Squadron.
The shot was taken aboard the Ousia-Class Carrier, The Blancheur.
Right in front of her Rafale M.
A moment before everything changed.
A moment before she became a convict.
A soft smile ghosted across her lips.
"I hope you're all doing well… Hope to see you soon."
She carefully tucked the photo into her bag, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder.
Final Thoughts – Before the Storm
She took a deep breath.
Then—stepped out of her room.
The mission wasn't over yet.
Departure from Kovorograd
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows over Kovorograd Air Base, stretching across the thinning rows of parked aircraft and stacked cargo containers. The once-chaotic tarmac, which had been a battleground of logistics and last-minute deployments, was slowly quieting as the final waves of transport planes lifted off, engines thundering against the sky.
The war machine was in motion. Relocating. Repositioning. Preparing.
And for Furina, the war was far from over.
She walked across the apron with purpose, her flight suit snug against her frame, the steady weight of her sidearm against her thigh a reminder of where she was—where she'd been. Her boots struck the concrete with confidence, but the air around her was heavy. Electric. The scent of burning jet fuel, the clatter of cargo, the distant whine of turbines spooling up for departure—they all blended into the background.
Then, she saw it.
Her Rafale M.
Sitting exactly where she left it—sleek, pristine, and battle-worn in spirit.
This jet had fought for her. Bled for her. Saved her ass more times than she cared to count. And yet, here it stood, untouched by hesitation, by fear. It was ready—just as she was.
Her eyes flicked toward the tail.
The three black strikes—the branding of a convict, a war pawn, a tool of the system—were gone.
Furina exhaled softly.
A fresh start. At least, on the surface.
She crouched beneath the fuselage, hands moving on instinct as she unlatched the centerline travel pod. The hydraulics let out a quiet hiss as the hatch swung open. The empty compartment waited, ready.
Without hesitation, she shoved her duffel bag inside, securing it in place before slamming the hatch shut.
As she stood back up, two figures emerged through the heat haze, their silhouettes distorted by the shimmering exhaust fumes rising from idling aircraft.
Clorinde. Wriothesley.
They walked with the same air of quiet confidence, the same silent understanding of survivors.
Clorinde—her posture straight, her discipline unshaken.
Wriothesley—calm, easygoing, but always aware.
Like Furina, they were once criminals. Once outcasts. Once disposable.
But now?
They were something else entirely.
Cockpit – Sealed In
Furina climbed the integrated ladder, gripping the metal rungs as she ascended into the familiar embrace of her cockpit.
The canopy's interior glass reflected her helmet as she settled into the ejection seat, the cockpit's displays already humming softly in the dim light.
With practiced precision, she reached for her helmet.
Her fingers brushed the smooth surface for a moment.
Then—she pulled it over her head.
Click. The visor locked into place.
Snap. The oxygen mask secured tightly.
She keyed her radio.
"Drowned Two. Drowned Three. How copy?"
A brief pause.
Then—two familiar voices crackled over the comms.
"Drowned Two, five by five." (Clorinde.)
"Drowned Three, loud and clear, Waltz." (Wriothesley.)
Satisfied, Furina reached for the canopy switch.
With a hiss, the glass shield lowered, sealing her inside. The cockpit became a world of its own—a realm of instruments, displays, and raw power waiting to be unleashed.
She moved swiftly, flipping the main electrical switch from STBY to RIGHT.
The first M88 engine began its startup sequence.
The deep whine of the compressor spooling up filled the cockpit as the RPM climbed past 25%.
She nudged the Engine Management Lever to IDLE.
A soft roar. The engine came alive.
She repeated the process for the left engine.
Within moments, both turbines were humming, stabilized, and ready.
She switched channels.
"Drowned Squadron. Let's get out of here."
Clorinde responded immediately. "Wilco. Drowned Two, following Waltz."
Wriothesley followed. "Drowned Three, following the pack."
Furina exhaled, releasing the brakes.
She nudged the throttle forward, and the Rafale rolled onto the taxiway.
Behind her, Clorinde's Su-27 and Wriothesley's Mirage 2000-5 followed, their twin exhausts glowing faintly in the fading sunlight.
The three of them moved in perfect formation.
Their final flight from Kovorograd had begun.
Cleared for Takeoff
The runway threshold loomed ahead.
Furina lined up, staring down the long stretch of concrete and asphalt.
The comms crackled.
"Drowned One, this is Tower. You are cleared for takeoff. The Base Commander's plane already departed."
Then—a pause.
And for the first time in her life—
The voice on the radio softened.
"Well, Waltz… this is where we part ways. I hope we meet again, in better circumstances. And in different squadrons."
Furina blinked.
Tower had a change of heart.
She let out a quiet chuckle, barely a smile forming under her mask.
"Tower, Waltz is cleared for takeoff. See you around, Tower."
Then—she slammed the throttle forward.
Twin afterburners ignited, blasting flames of orange and blue.
Her Rafale surged forward, pressing her into her seat as it screamed down the runway.
120 knots.
150 knots.
180 knots.
She pulled back gently on the sidestick.
Rotation.
The nose lifted.
The wheels left the ground.
She was airborne.
She reached for the gear lever.
Click. A mechanical hum.
The landing gear retracted, its doors sealing shut.
Below, Clorinde and Wriothesley followed suit, their aircraft launching skyward.
The three fighters ascended in perfect unison, breaking free from Kovorograd's grasp.
Their destination? Jakob's C-17 transport.
Their mission? Escort it safely to Zimogorov for refueling.
And if they ran into trouble?
Well…
They'd handle it.
Just like they always did.
Cruising into Hostile Skies
At 35,000 feet, the C-17 Globemaster carrying Colonel Jakob soared through the twilight sky, a massive, lumbering shadow flanked by three lethal silhouettes.
Furina's Rafale M.
Clorinde's Su-27 Flanker.
Wriothesley's Mirage 2000-5.
The world below stretched as a dark abyss, the faint glow of distant warzones and ruined cities dotting the landscape like dying embers.
Their destination: Zimogorov Airfield.
Their ETA: Twelve minutes.
So far, the flight had been uneventful.
Then—the radio crackled.
"Drowned One, AWACS Justice. We have new orders."
Furina's brows furrowed. Orders? This close to Zimogorov?
Justice's voice came through again, edged with urgency.
"Camouflaged SAM sites detected in the area. Seek and destroy, Drowned One and Drowned Two."
Then—the real warning.
"Kill anyone trying to kill the commander. Even if they're one of us."
A chilling silence.
Then—Clorinde's voice, sharp and venomous.
"Tch. Like how you tried to kill Wolfbite?"
Justice didn't hesitate.
"It was an accident. So shut. Up."
Before the argument could escalate, Jakob cut in, his voice carrying the weight of command.
"Both of you, shut up and begin defending."
Without another word, Furina and Clorinde peeled away from formation.
The hunt had begun.
Striking from Above
Furina pushed her throttle forward, breaking off from the C-17 and scanning the terrain below with her IR camera.
The land was treacherous—rolling hills, deep valleys, ridgelines full of places to hide. Heat signatures flickered on her screen.
Then—her IFF spiked.
A red marker flared on her HUD.
Enemy SAM site detected.
Furina flipped to air-to-ground mode, arming her guided bombs.
TONE. LOCK.
She didn't hesitate.
"Bombs away."
The GBU-12 detached, slicing through the cold night air before erupting into a fireball on impact.
AWACS Justice confirmed the kill.
"SAM site destroyed, Drowned One."
Clorinde wasn't far behind.
Another site. Another lock.
"Bombs away."
A second explosion split the darkness, embers spiraling into the sky.
"SAM site destroyed, Drowned Two."
The mission was progressing smoothly.
Then—
Jakob's voice cut through the comms, his tone colder than the sky above.
"Waltz. The General Staff Office and the Teyvat Union Peacekeeping Commission have doubts that you killed Ms. Imena. Your case will be reopened."
Furina's grip on the stick tightened.
For a fraction of a second, her fingers faltered on the throttle. Imena. That name again. Like an old wound forced open.
Then she exhaled, slow and measured, pushing the thought aside.
Jakob continued.
"Successfully defend me, and maybe you'll be back to being a Lieutenant. Make a good impression."
Furina scoffed.
"About damn time."
More Targets, More Problems
Furina pushed her Rafale's nose down, scanning the terrain.
Her IFF flickered again—another SAM site.
But this one had a radar vehicle.
A direct threat to airborne assets.
She locked on.
"Bombs away!"
The guided bomb streaked toward its target.
Direct hit.
AWACS confirmed.
"Another site destroyed, Drowned One."
Then—the enemy radio crackled.
A new voice. Cold. Precise.
"This is Tenebris Squadron. We have visual on the enemy transport. Engaging."
Furina's blood went ice cold.
She snapped to her radar.
Three Su-30s. Bearing 090.
AWACS Justice's voice came in sharp.
"Three enemy SU-30s inbound."
Furina's instincts kicked in.
"Wilco. Drowned One, engaging."
Clorinde followed.
"Drowned Two, engaging."
The dogfight had begun.
The Hunter and the Prey
Furina reached the enemy first.
The three Su-30s scattered, breaking in different directions.
But one?
One was diving straight for Jakob's C-17.
Not on my watch.
Furina punched the throttle, chasing it down.
The enemy fighter dipped low, hugging the terrain.
A classic move.
Furina smirked.
"Not today, sunshine."
She followed into the dive.
The enemy banked hard left. Then right.
Furina matched every move.
Her HUD flashed. A lock. A tone.
"Fox Two!"
The missile streaked toward the target—
Miss.
Furina gritted her teeth.
"Come on, Furina!"
She fired again.
This time—the missile struck.
The Su-30 erupted into flames, spiraling toward the ground.
AWACS confirmed.
"Splash One, Drowned One!"
Then—
"Splash One, Drowned Two!"
Only one left.
Furina scanned the sky.
There.
The final Su-30 climbed high, trying to force an overshoot.
Furina yanked the stick back, her Rafale climbing straight up after it.
The airframe groaned under the strain, vapor trailing from her wingtips.
Her thrust-to-weight ratio was superior.
She closed the gap.
A lock. A tone.
But she didn't fire a missile.
Instead—she switched to guns.
Her HUD reticle aligned.
She squeezed the trigger.
Tracer rounds ripped through the night.
The Su-30 shuddered, wings and engines torn apart.
A moment later—
It dropped from the sky, engulfed in flames.
AWACS confirmed.
"Splash one, Drowned One!"
The skies were clear.
For now.
New Hunters in the Dark
The battlefield of the heavens was never truly silent.
Even as the last Su-30 fell, a new threat emerged—one that lurked beyond the veil of the night sky.
AWACS Justice's voice snapped through the comms, sharp and urgent.
"More bogeys. Bearing 270. Gripen E's."
Furina's IFF display flickered, painting four fresh enemies in deep crimson.
Her eyes narrowed.
"I got a visual. Engaging."
Clorinde's voice followed, cold and decisive.
"Forming up with Waltz. Engaging."
Like predators chasing prey, the two Teyvatian fighters surged forward, knifing through the night at the edge of the sound barrier.
The hunt was on.
Furina pushed her Rafale to its limits, her breath steady, her pulse a war drum in her ears. The enemy formation loomed ahead—then she deployed her spoilerons, wrenching the jet into a rapid deceleration.
The Gripens scattered, their formation crumbling like startled crows.
Furina smirked.
Got you.
Snapping the spoilers off, she let her speed bleed just enough before she yanked the stick into a brutal high-G 180-degree turn.
The Rafale groaned in protest—but she was already on a Gripen's six.
Her target wasn't green. The pilot had skill.
The Gripen E twisted, jinked, climbed, dove—every maneuver crisp, every escape attempt desperate.
But Furina was relentless.
Her HUD flickered. A lock.
The tone rang sharp in her headset.
"Fox Two!"
The missile streaked forward.
Miss.
Flares burst in the darkness as the Gripen rolled, severing the lock.
Furina's grip on the sidestick tightened.
"Come on, Waltz!"
She fired again.
Another miss.
The Gripen weaved through the black void, an apparition slipping from her grasp.
Enough of this.
She flipped to guns.
The 30mm cannon spat fury, tracer rounds slicing through the night.
A hit—
The Gripen's right wing and engine shredded apart in an explosion of fire and twisted metal.
The aircraft lurched, spiraled downward, flames devouring its frame before it vanished into the abyss.
AWACS Justice confirmed the kill.
"Splash one, Waltz!"
No time to savor the victory.
Her cockpit blared a warning.
Lock-on.
Furina's blood turned electric.
No time to think—
She yanked the stick back, slammed the rudder hard right.
Her Rafale pitched into a savage 90-degree climb before snapping into a full 360-degree yaw spin mid-air.
A move so reckless, so punishing, few pilots dared attempt it.
From her wing, Clorinde's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Holy crap!"
The enemy Gripen blasted past, overshooting beneath her, unable to correct in time.
Furina's grin was razor-sharp.
She flipped to HCAA's.
A lock.
A tone.
"Fox Three!"
The missile ripped from her pylon.
Direct hit.
The Gripen detonated mid-air, its burning wreckage swallowed by the night.
AWACS confirmed.
"Splash one, Drowned One!"
Then—
"Splash one, Drowned Three!"
Furina exhaled, her pulse still spiking with adrenaline.
She chuckled.
"What do you know? Wolfbite actually got a kill."
Wriothesley's voice crackled through the radio, smug.
"That's why they told me to stay!"
Then, at last—
AWACS Justice's voice carried a rare note of relief.
"Skies clear. Form up on the Commander's transport."
Furina steadied her breathing, easing back on the stick.
"Drowned One, Wilco."
Clorinde's voice followed.
"Drowned Two, Roger."
The two jets slipped back into formation, shadows cutting through the moonlit sky.
Ahead, the C-17 Globemaster loomed, intact.
AWACS Justice relayed the final call.
"Good work, everyone. Transport One, prepare for descent."
And then, for the first time, Jakob's voice softened.
"What do you know… support actually kept me alive."
A pause.
"This is significant for the forces."
Furina allowed herself the smallest smirk.
They had done their job.
But the war was far from over.
The Phantom in the Night Sky
For a moment, the skies were calm.
Then—
AWACS Justice's voice snapped through the comms, sharp and urgent.
"Wait! Something's popped up!"
Clorinde groaned. "What now!?"
"Fast-moving bandit! They're fast. Really fast!"
Furina's eyes widened.
"What!?"
Then—
A white streak tore through the formation, an apparition against the night sky.
The unidentified craft surged past them at impossible speed, leaving a turbulent wake in its path. It climbed at a staggering angle—almost perpendicular—then stopped, hovering for a fraction of a second before snapping into a controlled fall. It didn't fly like a fighter—it moved like something alive.
Furina's breath caught.
Her eyes locked onto it.
A white fuselage.
Backward-swept wings.
A razor-sharp nose.
A strange, almost unnatural glow around its control surfaces.
What the hell is that thing?
Then—
It dove.
Straight for them.
AWACS Justice's voice cut through the comms.
"Everyone, defensive formations!"
Then, to Furina—
"Waltz! Take it out!"
Her expression hardened.
"Roger."
Dancing on the Edge of Death
The phantom aircraft roared past her.
Furina slammed her throttles forward, the twin M88 engines howling as she pursued.
The ADFX-10 responded instantly, climbing again, hard. It wasn't just fast—it was vicious.
Furina gritted her teeth, yanking the stick back, her Rafale clawing for altitude in pursuit.
Then—
It snapped downward.
A brutal vertical descent.
"Tch!" Furina reacted instantly.
She slammed her throttles to idle, yanked the sidestick back, and let the Rafale flip nose-over in midair.
She throttled back to full, rolling inverted before diving after it.
The lock-on tone screamed in her headset.
"Fox Three!"
Two HCAA missiles streaked from her pylons.
One missed.
One struck.
But—
The ADFX-10 barely flinched.
The sleek fighter twisted unnaturally, its wingtips glowing faintly as if redirecting the force of the impact. The fuselage bore scorch marks, but it kept moving.
Furina's heart pounded.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me!"
The terrain warning system blared.
TERRAIN! PULL UP!
The enemy pulled up first.
Furina's instincts screamed at her.
She yanked the stick back, pulling into a brutal 9G climb.
Her vision blurred, edges darkening—
7…
8…
9Gs…
The Rafale shuddered, but it held together.
Albedo's modifications were working.
Then—
She stabilized.
And the chase continued.
The Final Kill
The ADFX-10 climbed again.
No. You're not getting away.
Furina yanked her stick back, Rafale surging after it.
Her HUD flashed green.
A lock.
A tone.
"Fox Three!"
Two HCAA missiles launched.
A flash.
A roar.
The ADFX-10 erupted in a fireball, its shattered frame tumbling toward the ground.
For a moment, the only sound in Furina's cockpit was the ragged sound of her own breathing.
Then—
AWACS Justice's voice returned, almost uncertain.
"Waltz… bandit down?"
A few seconds of tense silence.
Then—
"Confirmed. Bandit down!"
A relieved exhale.
"Skies clear!"
Furina let out a slow breath, tension easing.
Then—
"I'll admit… it's a breath of fresh air having you here, Waltz."
She smirked, shaking her head.
"Damn right."
A New Arrival
As the squadron descended toward Zimogorov Air Force Base, a new transmission crackled through the comms.
AWACS Justice's tone shifted—something different in his voice.
Not sarcasm. Not exhaustion.
Something else.
Tension.
"Everyone, stand guard! We've got allied fighters inbound!"
Furina's heart skipped a beat.
"Who could it be now!?"
The sky ahead was clear. But her radar painted several incoming contacts—closing fast.
A formation.
Military-grade.
Not strays.
Not mercenaries.
Not unknowns.
AWACS Justice hailed them.
"This is the Teyvat 51st Air Force Squadron. What's your affiliation?"
Then—
A female voice.
One that cut through the noise like a blade.
Furina froze.
Her breath hitched.
Her hands tightened around the sidestick.
She knew that voice.
Too well.
"Justice? This is the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. This is Primordial One. Dandelion."
The comms fell silent.
Half a second—then—
AWACS Justice responded, his usual sharp tone cracking with genuine surprise.
"Primordial Squadron? What are you doing here?"
A soft chuckle.
"We were chasing an experimental drone around here."
Then—an amused, teasing edge.
"And I won't be surprised if Waltz took it out already."
Furina exhaled sharply, shaking her head with a small laugh.
"Of course, it had to be you."
A New Offer
The Commander cut in, his voice as rough and tired as ever.
"This is Commander Jakob. I apologize if Waltz took it out. She will be dealt with accordingly."
Furina scoffed.
"Come on!"
Dandelion laughed.
"Don't worry, Commander. How about we escort you back to Iron Gale Air Force Base? We can answer any questions you have."
Commander Jakob sighed heavily.
"Why not? Lead the way… besides, support was unreliable."
A beat.
Then—
Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley all spoke in perfect unison, exasperated.
"Ugh! Give me a break!"
Dandelion chuckled again—calm, steady.
Then—
Her voice took on something else.
Something serious.
Something heavy.
"Commander… the three of them have promise."
A pause.
Then—
Her next words hit with weight.
"As a matter of fact… we're planning on adding a second squadron to the TSSG."
A pause.
"And it figures they'd be the perfect start to it."
The radio went silent.
Then—
A new formation appeared on radar.
Seven F-15 Strike Eagles surged forward, breaking through the atmosphere with a rolling thunder of jet engines.
Their approach was precise. Flawless.
Leading them—
Jean Gunnhildr.
Callsign: Dandelion.
Furina watched as Primordial Squadron slid into formation.
There was no hesitation.
No wasted energy.
No sloppiness.
They were disciplined.
Deadly.
Precise.
And they wanted her squadron.
A New Battlefield Awaits
As they turned north, heading toward Iron Gale Air Force Base—off the coast of Mondstadt, near the border of Snezhnaya—something changed.
For the first time in a long while…
Furina felt like she belonged.
The sky, once an unforgiving battlefield, now felt like something else.
Not just a place to fight.
Not just a place to survive.
But a place to start over.
And this time—
She was not alone.
New Skies, New Beginnings
Iron Gale Air Force Base.
The air here was different.
Gone was the biting cold of Kovorograd, the suffocating weight of snow and war.
Instead, the wind carried the scent of the sea, the soft bite of salt and earth.
For the first time in months, Furina felt like she could breathe.
The runway stretched wide, the endless grasslands rolling beyond it like waves. The distant roar of the ocean hummed in the background, mixing with the low rumble of taxiing aircraft.
The 51st Air Force Squadron taxied onto the apron, their fighters lining up behind the Primordial Squadron's F-15 Strike Eagles—the elites of the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group.
Furina exhaled as she pulled off her helmet, silver-blue hair cascading free over her flight suit.
She ran a hand through it, shaking out the tension.
"Tch. I thought I was gonna pass out chasing that craft down," she muttered, cracking her neck. "But I handled myself pretty well."
Climbing down from her Rafale M, she landed lightly on the tarmac, boots hitting solid ground.
She strode over to the travel pod, unlocking the hatch and pulling out her duffle bag. The weight of it felt… different. Lighter.
Like a burden had finally been lifted.
She turned—and found Clorinde and Wriothesley waiting for her, grinning like idiots.
Clorinde slowly clapped, shaking her head. "I'm at a loss for words, Lieutenant Furina."
Furina snorted. "It's still just Furina, Clorinde."
Wriothesley bumped her shoulder, smirking. "Not for long. With your investigation reopened, the odds of you getting reinstated are looking damn good."
Furina laughed, rolling her eyes. "Sure, sure. Come on. Let's get to the briefing room."
Minutes later, they entered the briefing room—larger, more sophisticated than anything they'd seen in Kovorograd.
And it wasn't just them.
The entire Primordial Squadron was there too.
Their presence alone made the air heavier. More official.
At the front of the room, standing near the holographic map, was Jean Gunnhildr.
Callsign: Dandelion.
Leader of the Primordial Squadron.
She smiled. "Welcome to Iron Gale Air Force Base, Drowned Squadron."
Then, her expression hardened.
"Normally, we'd give you a warm welcome. But our situation is... complicated."
A pause.
Then—
"What Waltz just shot down was an experimental drone. The ADFX-10."
The room stilled.
Furina's brows furrowed. A drone?
Jean continued, her voice calm but firm.
"We were tailing it to analyze its combat potential. But with it destroyed, we lost critical data."
Then—her gaze fell directly on Furina.
"To be honest, Waltz... we didn't think it was possible to take it out."
The weight of those words settled in.
Furina leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "Well, you underestimated me."
Jean chuckled. "Seems so."
Then, she snapped her fingers.
"Oh, and by the way—your old commander? He's gone."
Furina blinked. "Wait, what?"
Jean smirked. "That means from now on, you're my responsibility."
A murmur spread through the room.
The implications hit instantly.
No more Drowned Squadron.
No more being labeled expendable.
Jean's eyes flicked across the group, then settled on Furina once more.
"We're also in the process of forming a second squadron."
A beat.
Then—
"And you, Waltz, might just be the lead flight of that squadron."
Silence.
Furina kept her expression neutral.
But in her chest, her heartbeat pounded.
Clorinde and Wriothesley exchanged glances.
Jean gave a final nod.
"For now, you're all on standby. That's all. Dismissed."
A Moment of Peace
The briefing room emptied.
Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley walked together toward the pilot barracks.
For the first time in months, they weren't heading back to some makeshift tent, a shitty dorm, or a temporary station.
This was permanent.
No more moving from battlefield to battlefield.
No more Drowned Squadron.
They had a real home now.
That night, Furina lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
No distant air raid sirens.
No flight briefings at 3 AM.
No suffocating feeling of being a convict on borrowed time.
She exhaled.
This was it.
She had proven her innocence.
She had proven she was not just some expendable fighter, but an ace.
And most importantly—
She had proven she wasn't the one who shot and killed Former President Imena.
Mission success.
Now—
All that was left to do…
Was wait.