A Civil War.

A World in Limbo

Dymny Kordon Air Force Base – One Week After the Battle for Morepesok

The war should have been over.

But it wasn't.

The battle for Morepesok had been a decisive victory. They had stormed the skies, crushed Snezhnaya's air superiority, obliterated their naval fleet, and crippled their ground forces. Every mission had been flown with the belief that each dogfight, each missile strike, each sacrifice would bring the war to an end.

And yet, here they were.

Stranded. Suspended in uncertainty.

The destruction of Teyvat and Snezhnaya's communication satellites had thrown the entire region into disarray. Orders no longer came. Reinforcements no longer arrived. The once-all-seeing eyes of satellites that tracked battlefields across the globe had gone dark.

No direction. No clarity.

Dymny Kordon Air Force Base—once pulsing with the life of war preparations—now stood frozen in time.

The runways lay barren.

The hangars were tombs.

The fighters of Waltz and Primordial squadrons sat cold and lifeless, their cockpits sealed, their engines silent.

A graveyard of steel and wings.

The war had been won. But the world had been lost.

Mess Hall – The Weight of Silence

Inside the dim mess hall, two squadrons sat hunched over a single long table.

No laughter. No casual banter. Just silence.

Cups of coffee sat untouched, their contents long gone cold. The television screen that once streamed war briefings flickered with static. With the satellites down, there were no news reports, no updates, no connection to the outside world.

Only one thing remained.

A battered shortwave radio.

Its signal was weak, barely clawing through the static. Then, through the distortion, a voice.

"Snezhnaya has fallen into anarchy… and into the depths of civil war."

A heavy silence fell over the pilots.

"Across the Snezhnayan Federation, two factions have emerged."

The voice was hollow. Detached. Like the speaker was struggling to process the words they were reading.

"The first, the Snezhnayan Conservatives, seek peace. They wish to negotiate a truce with Teyvat, dismantle the nation's UCAV programs, and overthrow the Socialist government in favor of a unitary presidential republic."

A pause. Static crackled through the transmission.

Then came the part they had feared.

"The second faction is far more dangerous."

Furina's fingers tightened against the table.

"A radical war faction that refuses to surrender. They believe in total war. Their aim is not only to continue hostilities with Teyvat, but to wage war against their own people. To seize control of Snezhnaya by force."

The voice hesitated.

As if afraid to say the next part.

"And they have access to the last of Snezhnaya's strategic weaponry."

No one spoke.

The pilots of Waltz and Primordial squadrons sat frozen, their thoughts spiraling into a storm of worst-case scenarios.

"When will this war truly end?"

"That is a question no one can answer…"

Then—silence.

The transmission cut out, leaving behind only the dull hum of white noise.

The Weight of the Unknown

Jean exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples.

"So that's it, huh? We're stuck in limbo now…"

Amber sat forward, arms crossed, shaking her head.

"All we can do is wait."

That was the worst part.

They had fought. They had risked their lives over Morepesok. They had been ready to end this war.

And now?

Now, they were stuck in a battlefield without borders. A war without structure. An enemy without form.

Furina drummed her fingers against the table, her expression darkening.

"With the satellites down, our IFF system is crippled."

Jean nodded, her face grim.

"That means any unidentified aircraft will be marked as an 'Unknown' on radar."

A pause. A realization.

"No way to tell who's friend or foe without getting dangerously close."

The weight of that truth settled over them like a storm cloud.

In the chaos of war, hesitation meant death. But a single miscalculation—a single mistaken identity—could lead to an unforgivable disaster.

A friendly kill. A diplomatic catastrophe.

A mistake that could reignite the war before it had even ended.

Furina sighed, pushing herself up from her chair. Her voice was low, sharp with frustration.

"I'm going for a walk. Need to clear my head."

No one stopped her.

They were all trapped in their own thoughts now.

Alone with the Wind

The cold air of the base hit Furina the moment she stepped outside.

The sky stretched above her, vast and empty.

The runways sprawled before her, eerily still.

No refueling trucks.

No maintenance crews.

No takeoffs. No landings.

Just silence.

She walked, her boots echoing against the concrete. The wind howled through the abandoned hangars, weaving through the steel bones of the base like a whisper of ghosts.

Inside, the fighter jets stood motionless, their canopies sealed shut.

Lethal. Beautiful. Powerless.

For the first time in months, she wasn't hearing the roar of afterburners.

For the first time in months, she wasn't weaving through missile trails or breaking through cloud cover in pursuit of an enemy.

No missile locks.

No evasive maneuvers.

No high-G dogfights over hostile airspace.

Just… waiting.

Her hand curled into a fist.

It didn't feel right.

She had spent so much of this war moving forward—pushing ahead, breaking through, surviving.

And now?

Now, she was standing still.

She looked up at the sky, searching for something.

A sign.

A purpose.

A direction.

But all she saw was empty blue.

The Secrets of the Knave

Furina's boots echoed against the cold, tiled floors as she strode through the dimly lit corridors of the airbase. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights cast warped, shifting shadows along the walls—ghostly specters of the past week's silence.

Morepesok had fallen.

A week had passed.

A week with no new orders.

No roaring jet engines.

No mission briefings.

No updates from HQ.

They were stranded in the void between battles, waiting for something—anything—to break the oppressive quiet.

As she turned a corner, her sharp blue eyes locked onto a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway.

"HIGH-LEVEL PERSONNEL ONLY"

The faded lettering barely clung to the metal. A file storage room.

She hesitated, glancing left, then right.

No guards.

No cameras.

No witnesses.

Perfect.

Furina took a breath, then pushed the door open.

The Files Room – A Ghost of the Past

The scent of aging paper and machine oil greeted her. The air was thick—stale, like a mausoleum of forgotten history. Towering metal shelves lined the walls, stuffed with countless binders, each one a silent testament to the war's hidden truths.

Her gloved fingers traced along the spines.

Classified Operations.

War Logs.

Combat Reports.

Nothing stood out. Until—

A black-and-red binder.

No label. No markings.

Furina narrowed her eyes. A binder deliberately left unmarked? Suspicious.

If someone had gone through the effort to erase its identity, then it was definitely worth looking at.

She grabbed it.

Not bothering to close the cabinet, she turned on her heel and slipped out of the room, the weight of the mysterious binder heavy in her hands.

Her Quarters – The Truth Unveiled

The door slammed shut behind her, rattling the hinges. Furina barely noticed, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

She tossed the binder onto her desk, where it landed with a dull, ominous thud.

Exhaling, she reached for the half-empty pack of cigarettes beside the radio, plucking one out with practiced ease. A flick of her silver lighter, and the tiny flame danced before she inhaled deeply.

Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

"Told myself I wouldn't make this a habit."

The words left her lips in a breath, but her mind was elsewhere.

She crushed out the cigarette halfway and turned to the forbidden binder.

With a steadying breath, she flipped it open.

The first page was a personnel file.

A Snezhnayan Air Force Pilot.

Name: Peruere Snezhevna.

Furina's eyes locked onto the small, faded photograph.

A woman with striking white-and-black hair. Her gaze—sharp, cold, devoid of warmth.

Below the photo, her TAC names were listed.

Alias: Arlecchino.

No additional details. No personal history. Just a designation, clinical and detached.

Then—her second TAC name.

Furina's breath caught in her throat.

Her cigarette slipped from her lips, landing on the desk with a faint hiss as the embers died against the wood.

The second name was—

Knave.

A chill ran down her spine.

Her hands trembled as she turned the page.

And there it was.

"Sortied in Two Wars.

Over 252 Confirmed Aerial Kills.

The Most Successful Ace in Any Nation."

Furina whispered under her breath.

"So this… this is the Knave."

She gritted her teeth, flipping faster now.

Then—a document.

Imperatora Industries.

Her stomach dropped.

The Drowned Squadron – A Memory Resurfaces

"The Snezhnayan Air Force hired a weapons tech company called Imperatora Industries," Wriothesley had once told her.

"And guess what?"

Furina had said nothing, listening intently.

"They were tasked with collecting flight data from real pilots… to feed into their drones."

Her jaw had tightened.

"You're telling me those things we fought were using real pilot data?"

Wriothesley had shaken his head.

"Not yet. But they're working on it. And they've already got a pilot in mind."

A sinking feeling had settled in her chest.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force calls her The Knave."

A fighter pilot.

A living legend.

Over 250 confirmed kills.

The deadliest ace in the entire Snezhnayan Air Force.

The Moment of Realization

Furina's mind snapped back to the present.

She skimmed the document, her eyes darting across the text.

Then—her blood ran cold.

Imperatora Industries wanted to use The Knave's flight data… to make their drones fly exactly like her.

Her grip tightened so hard the paper crumpled in her hands.

Then, without warning—

BAM!

Her fist slammed against the desk, sending the binder tumbling to the floor.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS SORCERY!?"

Her breath came ragged.

Furina buried her fingers in her hair, gripping tightly as frustration and unease churned within her.

Then—

The door burst open.

Jean stormed inside, followed closely by the rest of Waltz and Primordial Squadrons.

"Furina!? What happened!?" Jean demanded, her sharp gaze sweeping the room.

Furina exhaled heavily, then bent down and snatched up the fallen binder. Without a word, she tossed it to Jean.

"Take a look at this."

Jean caught it.

She flipped through the pages, her expression darkening with every line she read.

"…What the hell is this?"

Furina's voice was cold, clipped.

"The Knave's profile. Peruere Snezhevna. Also known as Arlecchino."

Jean's eyes widened.

"S-So… this is the Knave?"

Furina nodded grimly.

"Yeah."

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Then—

Jean's voice hardened.

"Listen to this."

She began to read aloud.

Jean's words hung heavy in the air.

"Arlecchino's fiercest battle—the one that pushed her kill count past 100—was against her own mentor."

A beat of silence.

"Crucebena."

The room seemed to shrink.

Jean continued, her voice quieter, measured.

"During the Khaenri'an War. Twenty-five years ago."

No one spoke.

The air felt thick, as if the very weight of history had settled over them.

Jean took a breath.

"Crucebena was recruited into the Stormhowl Squadron as a mercenary. A veteran ace. One of the best. But before the war ended… she went AWOL. Defected to the Rebellion."

A slow exhale.

"At the time, Arlecchino was flying an F-15C. Crucebena? She had an ADFX-01 Morgan."

That changed everything.

A Morgan wasn't just a fighter. It was a monster.

Advanced beyond its time. Packed with cutting-edge weaponry.

On paper, an F-15C stood no chance.

And yet—

Jean's voice dropped to a whisper.

"They fought for almost an hour. And in the end… Arlecchino shot her down."

Silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Then—

"Fucking hell."

Furina exhaled sharply, running a hand through her already-disheveled hair.

"As if things couldn't get any worse."

Jean nodded.

"She really is the deadliest ace in all of Teyvat."

Furina clenched her jaw.

"No kidding."

The weight of that truth settled over them like a storm cloud.

Then Jean spoke again, her arms crossed, her gaze unwavering.

"So far, Furina… you've already collected over 250 confirmed kills."

Furina's head snapped up.

Jean met her sharp blue eyes.

"It's still uncertain if you've passed the 300 mark already."

A pause.

"...Wait. I have that much!?"

Jean nodded.

The tension in the room deepened.

"Arlecchino built her 250+ kills over fifteen years. Across multiple wars. This war included."

She let that sink in before continuing.

"You, however? You did this in one."

One war.

One brutal, relentless war.

Furina had terrorized the Snezhnayan skies, her Rafale M cutting through the battlefield like a ghost.

Her name was whispered.

Not just among allies.

But among the enemy.

She had personally shattered the morale of an entire air force.

Furina let out a slow, steady breath, dragging a hand through her hair.

Then, almost to herself—

"Doesn't matter. I just want this to end already."

Jean exhaled, nodding.

"We all do."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Outside, the distant hum of fighter jets echoed over the airbase.

It was a sound that once meant nothing.

Now?

Now it was a constant reminder that the war was far from over.

Furina folded her arms, brows knitting together.

"But it's a civil war now. It's not just us versus Snezhnaya anymore."

Jean sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Yeah. And we have an operation soon. HQ is still moving forward with the strategy."

The tension thickened.

The war hadn't ended.

It had only twisted into something far worse.

A war of ideologies.

A war where friend and foe blurred together.

Snezhnaya was fighting itself.

Rebels against Conservatives.

And with Teyvat's satellites gone, there was no way to distinguish friend from enemy.

No way to know who was still loyal.

No way to tell who had already turned against them.

The wind whispered through a crack in the hangar doors.

A slow, creeping realization settled over them.

Friend?

Or foe?

They wouldn't know—

Until the first shot was fired.