Island Defense

One Week Later…

The war had stalled.

Not because of negotiations.

Not because of diplomacy.

But because too many people had died, and the ones left standing didn't know what the hell to do next.

With Officer Rotchev and Captain Belinda dead, whatever fragile hope had existed for peace talks had died with them. The last operation of the Sealed Order was finished, yet there was no sense of victory—only silence.

No communications.

No orders.

No reinforcements.

The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group (TSSG), once the spearhead of the war effort, was now in limbo—grounded, isolated, waiting for something that would never come.

The air in the briefing room was thick with exhaustion.

The stench of stale coffee, grease, and sweat clung to the walls like a permanent reminder of how long they'd been stuck here. A large map of Snezhnaya covered the far wall, crisscrossed with marker lines, pushpins, and hastily scrawled annotations, all of which now felt irrelevant.

No one spoke. No one moved.

They were running out of time.

Jean sat at the head of the table, her fatigue evident. She had spent the last hour listening to everyone's thoughts, complaints, half-baked ideas, but at this point, it was just noise.

Everyone had spoken.

Everyone except Furina.

Jean exhaled through her nose, adjusting in her seat.

"Alright, Furina. Your turn."

She didn't hesitate.

Furina stood, stepped forward, and stabbed her gloved finger against the map.

"Zephyr's Island."

Jean's gaze sharpened.

Across the table, a few pilots shifted in their seats.

"Go on," Jean said, folding her arms. "What about it?"

Furina tapped the map again, her expression cold and calculated.

"Zephyr's Island used to belong to Mondstadt before the war. Snezhnaya seized it on day one. They turned it into a logistics hub for their forces operating around the Teyvat Orbital Elevator."

The weight of her words began to sink in.

That got everyone's attention.

She continued, her voice steady, matter-of-fact.

"My previous squadron, Drowned Squadron, was sent to take it back. We managed to secure the northern half of the island. There's an airbase there that we still control, but…" she let out a slow breath, "they're cut off. Low on supplies. Running on fumes. And Snezhnaya is going to make sure they don't hold out much longer."

Jean nodded slightly, listening intently.

But Furina wasn't done.

She dragged her finger across the map, pointing to a marked Snezhnayan facility.

"But here's the real reason Zephyr's Island matters. It's not just some resupply depot."

She turned to face them all.

"It's where the Sepharis Bird Celestia launches its SSTO (Single Stage to Orbit) shuttles to resupply the Sepharis Bird itself."

The room went dead silent.

No one needed it explained further.

A direct path to the Elevator.

A strategic foothold into enemy-occupied territory.

A chance to turn this war around.

Every pilot in the room understood the weight of this.

Furina's tone was unwavering. "It won't be easy. And obviously, Snezhnaya isn't going to just let us walk in and take it. But our best bet isn't some suicidal assault—it's getting in, reinforcing the allies still holding out, and getting them the hell out before they're overrun."

Jean leaned back, fingers steepled, deep in thought.

"That doesn't sound like a bad idea…" she admitted after a long pause.

Then, from across the table, Mavuika raised a hand.

"Do we even have enough supplies for this?"

The question lingered in the air before Eula answered.

"I checked," she said, arms crossed. "We have enough fuel for two more sorties. As for food and water…" she sighed, her voice carrying a grim finality. "A week and a half. Maybe."

Collei groaned, slumping back in her chair.

"I just wanna go home…"

A few pilots muttered in agreement.

Raiden Ei, silent until now, gave a small nod.

"Me too."

Amber, however, shook her head.

"But if Furina's ready to kick ass, then so am I!"

Clorinde smirked. "Same here."

Wriothesley leaned back, arms behind his head.

"Fuck it. I'm in."

Jean exhaled, finally turning to Furina.

"Well, Furina?" she asked. "It's your call."

Furina's sharp blue gaze scanned the room—her squadron's faces full of exhaustion, frustration, and determination.

She nodded once.

"Then let's get in gear and haul ass to Zephyr's Island."

The Briefing Ends. The Mission Begins.

The room erupted into motion—chairs scraping against the floor, helmets grabbed, flight suits adjusted. The tension had shifted.

For the first time in weeks, they had a mission.

But just as they reached the exit—

"Wait."

Furina's voice cut through the movement like a blade.

Everyone turned.

Her expression had hardened.

"We're not engaging the Sepharis Bird circling the Elevator. We avoid unnecessary combat."

She let that sink in.

"The last thing we need is a dogfight mid-flight. We only have fuel for two sorties—if we waste it on the way there, we're fucked before we even get started."

Silence.

No objections.

They all knew she was right.

Furina took a breath, steeling herself for what was coming next.

"This is a long flight—one hour." She met each of their eyes. "Stay sharp."

A final nod.

One by one, pilots turned and left.

Jean and Furina were the last to step out, helmets in hand.

The night air was cool, the apron lights flickering in the distance.

Above them, the moonlit sky stretched endlessly, clear and bright.

This was it.

The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group was going back to war.

The Airfield – Deployment Night

Furina and Jean were the last to leave the war room, their helmets tucked under their arms as they stepped onto the cool expanse of the airfield.

Above them, the night sky stretched vast and endless, a silent witness to the battles that had come before—and the war that had yet to unfold. The moonlight caught the canopies of their waiting fighters, casting silver reflections across the tarmac, shimmering like ghosts of past sorties.

The next phase of the war was about to begin.

The apron was alive with controlled chaos.

Ground crews moved with purpose, the rhythmic clank of tools echoing amidst the whine of auxiliary power units (APUs). Hydraulic lifts hissed as they adjusted weapons pylons, and the occasional bark of orders cut through the ever-present hum of idling engines. The air carried the thick scent of jet fuel, grease, and the sharp bite of burned exhaust from recent system checks.

Jean glanced at Furina before placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

Her voice was steady, pitched just low enough to be heard over the mechanical symphony around them.

"You know, Furina…" she started. "You'd make a great commander."

Furina let out a chuckle, shaking her head.

"Me? Nah," she scoffed, though there was a flicker of something thoughtful in her expression. "I mean… I guess I was somewhat of a leader before. Not really. Maybe I just… know how to talk to people?"

Jean chuckled too, shaking her head.

"Something like that, yeah."

They continued walking, their boots tapping softly against the pavement, before finally stopping at the flight line.

The taxiway lights flickered, casting faint amber glows across their helmet visors.

Then, without another word, they parted ways.

Cockpit: Dassault Rafale M – Callsign 'Tidal Two'

Furina approached her Dassault Rafale M, the sleek delta-winged fighter poised like a predator in waiting. Its canopy stood open, cockpit lights dimmed, the airframe casting deep shadows beneath the floodlights.

Her gloved hands gripped the built-in ladder as she hoisted herself up. The cold metal pressed against her palms—a stark contrast to the heat that would soon radiate from the twin engines once they were at full burn.

Sliding into the ejection seat, her movements were practiced, automatic—muscle memory built over countless sorties.

Harness first.

She pulled the straps over her shoulders, buckling them tightly across her chest. The click of the locking mechanism was a familiar sound—reassuring in its finality. She gave the adjuster tabs a firm tug, ensuring the fit was snug against her flight suit.

Next, the helmet.

She slipped it over her head, the synthetic padding molding around her. The faint scent of sweat, aviation-grade plastic, and electrical components filled her nose.

Then, the oxygen mask.

A sharp hiss escaped as the connectors locked into place, sealing her inside her own world.

It was just her. The Rafale. The mission.

She leaned forward, fingers tapping against the left Multi-Function Display (MFD) as she navigated through the startup sequence.

Two waypoints.

Waypoint One: Dymny Kordon Air Force Base – Home.

Waypoint Two: Zephyr's Island – The Target.

Satisfied, she reached up and pressed the canopy switch.

With a low whine, the hydraulics engaged. The reinforced glass came down, sealing her within the cockpit.

A deep breath. Steady. Focused.

Her hand moved to the main electrical switch, flipping it from STBY to RIGHT.

The Rafale came to life.

A rising whine built from the right-side Snecma M88-2 engine. The N2 gauge climbed rapidly—10%, 15%, 20%, 25%—before she pushed the right engine management lever from STOP to IDLE.

Fuel flow initiated.

A brief pause.

Then—ignition.

A deep, guttural growl vibrated through the airframe as the turbine stabilized at idle thrust. Exhaust gases shimmered behind the jet, heat distortion warping the air. The EGT spiked, then settled.

One down. One to go.

Furina repeated the process, flipping the switch from RIGHT to LEFT.

The second M88-2 roared to life, spooling up with the same raw mechanical fury as the first.

Both engines stabilized.

Ready.

She exhaled, switched to squadron comms, and her voice crackled over the radio.

"Waltz Squadron, callsign check."

One by one, the responses came through.

"Rapperia, Waltz Two."

"Wolfbite, Waltz Three."

"Spindrift, Waltz Four."

"Cuilenen, Waltz Five."

All accounted for.

Furina nodded to herself, then switched frequencies.

"Waltz Squadron, Sortie now."

Runway – Takeoff Sequence

Disengaging the parking brake, Furina nudged the throttle forward, guiding the Rafale onto the taxiway.

Through the shimmering heat haze, she caught glimpses of the others doing the same—engines spooling, canopy glass catching the floodlights, ground crews making their final gestures before stepping away.

One by one, Waltz Squadron emerged from the hangars, their sleek silhouettes reflecting under the glowing taxiway lights.

Then came Primordial Squadron.

Jean led them in her F-14B Tomcat, its wings swept forward for taxi, twin tails cutting a stark silhouette against the sky. Even at low throttle, its engines produced an unmistakable growl—a war machine from another era, still lethal.

They lined up at the runway threshold.

Furina was first.

She tightened her grip on the throttle.

This was it.

Takeoff – Mission Start

She shoved the throttle forward—

The M88-2 engines ignited in full afterburner, twin flames blasting behind her like miniature suns.

The Rafale lurched forward, acceleration slamming her back into the seat.

The runway lights blurred past—

120 knots.

140 knots.

160 knots.

168 knots.

She eased back on the sidestick.

The nose lifted.

The Rafale glided off the runway, smoothly transitioning from ground to air.

As she climbed, she reached for the landing gear lever and pulled it up.

Thump. Locked in place.

One by one, the rest of the squadron followed, lifting off at five-second intervals, their afterburners leaving trails of fire against the moonlit sky.

Within minutes, they were all airborne.

Furina switched back to squadron comms.

"Alright, boys and girls... it's a one-hour flight. Get comfortable."

A few chuckles came over the radio.

But beneath the casual banter, everyone knew the truth.

This was just the beginning.

The mission to Zephyr's Island had begun.

And what awaited them...

Was a battlefield yet unknown.

One Hour Later – Zephyr's Island Airspace

The twin squadrons descended from the north, their dual V formations slicing through the overcast sky like the blades of a guillotine. Thick clouds rolled past their canopies, dark and heavy with the coming storm, the tension in the air palpable even through layers of carbon fiber and titanium.

Below them, Zephyr's Island stretched out—a battlefield drowned in smoke and flame. The beaches were blackened, littered with the charred remains of armored vehicles and shattered fortifications. Wreckage smoldered, sending plumes of thick, acrid smoke spiraling into the sky, while in the distance, the muzzle flashes of gunfire flickered like erratic lightning against the jungle's darkened ruins. The urban outskirts, once a stronghold, were now little more than skeletal remains of buildings, gutted by relentless shelling.

Furina swept her gaze across the carnage below. The battlefield was alive with movement—scattered convoys scrambling for cover, tracer rounds crisscrossing through the air, and the twisted husks of downed aircraft lying motionless amidst the chaos. The scent of war—burning fuel, cordite, and blood—seemed to permeate even through the cockpit's filtered oxygen.

Then, the radio crackled to life, cutting through the drone of the engines like a blade.

"This is Bravo Eight-Six! We're being pursued by multiple APCs!"

"They'll go down if we don't pull the landing craft!"

"Then what!? Abandon them and leave them to die!?"

The raw desperation in their voices was suffocating.

Furina's fingers tightened around the stick, her pulse spiking. Every instinct screamed at her to intervene, but something felt... off.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the static.

"Something's not right..."

Eula.

Furina's gaze flicked to her HUD, scanning for hostiles.

"Agreed," she murmured, jaw tightening. "Something feels… wrong."

Another transmission broke through, chilling them to the bone.

"Bravo Eight-Six… I'm sorry, but you're on your own."

A pause.

Then—

"Please! Don't leave us!"

The sheer, pleading terror in the voice struck like a dagger to the chest.

A heavy silence settled over the squadron.

Then, Mavuika's voice, laced with confusion.

"Wait… that's a Natlan landing craft. What the hell is going on!?"

Wriothesley's usually unshakable composure cracked.

"What did you just say!?"

Before anyone could process the implications, a new transmission broke through, urgent and sharp.

"Multiple aerial bogeys! Inbound!"

"Prepare the anti-air weapons!"

Furina's blood ran cold.

She switched frequencies instantly.

"This is the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group! The aircraft in your airspace are TSSG—hold your fire!"

A tense pause.

Then, disbelief over the radio:

"Wait… I recognize that voice! Captain De Fontaine!?"

Another voice cut in, realization dawning.

"It's the pilot with the golden crown!"

Furina's HUD flickered—her targeting system adjusting.

One by one, the IFF markers shifted. Red. Yellow. Then—green.

Allied forces.

The relief in the crewman's voice was evident, but desperation remained.

"Allied aircraft! Our forces are taking fire—we need close air support NOW!"

Furina's lips curled into a smirk, sharp and determined.

"Waltz One, engaging."

Engagement – Zephyr's Island Shoreline

Furina broke from formation, her Rafale banking hard toward the shoreline, the G-forces pressing her deep into the seat.

Her targeting pod was already working, infrared sensors sweeping across the battlefield. The chaos below resolved into distinct contacts—six vehicles locked in combat.

Three were tagged as friendlies.

The other three?

Her IFF flickered.

Red markers. Enemy units.

Snezhnayan radicals.

A sharp, high-pitched tone filled the cockpit.

Lock.

Her thumb hovered over the trigger.

"Fox Three!"

Two LACM missiles streaked away from her underwing pylons, contrails spiraling as they plummeted toward their targets.

A heartbeat.

Then—

Impact.

Fire and shrapnel ripped through the battlefield. The enemy APCs were engulfed in a maelstrom of flame, their armored hulls torn apart in an instant.

AWACS Visionaire's voice came through, cool but firm.

"Three enemy vehicles destroyed."

More data streamed in.

"We're transmitting the ID codes of the two squadrons now."

Then—

"Update us on the ground situation."

The response was immediate, strained with urgency.

"It's bad. Snezhnayan rebels broke through the northern front. We're evacuating straight to the Teyvat Orbital Elevator."

Furina's breath caught.

"Wait—you're heading for the Elevator!? But that means…"

The crewman didn't hesitate.

"Yes, Captain De Fontaine. But we received intel that it was abandoned after the capital fell and the satellites went dark. We can spoof the Sepharis Bird's IFF with enemy data links."

A weighted silence fell over the radio.

Then, the plea.

"We're on the run. We've commandeered boats, but we need air support. Please. We can't hold out much longer."

AWACS Visionaire responded instantly.

"Wilco."

Then, a firm order.

"Do not engage until targets are ID'd."

The Island Ignites – Full Combat Deployment

Furina's radar flared—

A flood of new contacts.

Unknowns. Dozens.

Scattered all over Zephyr's Island.

Jean's voice rang out, commanding and sharp.

"Waltz and Primordial Squadron, spread out! Take down Snezhnayan radicals. If the conservatives fire on us—take them down."

Furina's heart pounded as the squadrons split apart, each fighter veering toward different sectors of the battlefield.

Her fingers flicked over the weapon selector switch—shifting from air-to-ground to air-to-air. The HUD adjusted, marking aerial threats.

Below, the ground burned.

Gunfire ripped through the jungle.

Tracer rounds streaked across the beaches.

Figures scrambled for cover as artillery shells shattered the terrain.

This wasn't an evacuation.

This was a battlefield.

And it was about to ignite.

Western Battlefield – Mass Driver Base

Furina veered north, her Rafale slicing through the storm-laden sky. Raindrops streaked across her canopy, wind buffeting her jet as she skimmed just above the cloud cover. Her HUD flickered, highlighting a familiar silhouette below—a mass driver base, its electromagnetic catapult stretching along the coastline like a relic of past ambitions.

This was the very launch site where the Sepharis Birds, Karatel and Celestia, had taken their maiden flights four years ago. Back then, it was a symbol of military innovation, a gateway to absolute aerial supremacy.

Now?

It was nothing more than a battle-scarred husk. Its towering structures were pitted with craters from relentless shelling, the once-pristine concrete now marred with charred streaks and rubble. The scars of war ran deep here.

Her Rafale's targeting system pulsed. Enemy contacts.

A cold chime rang in her headset—her HUD painting three hostile markers advancing through the wreckage.

Then—confirmation.

Snezhnayan Rebel forces.

A convoy. APCs, tanks, and an anti-air vehicle, crawling through the ruins like scavengers picking apart a corpse.

Furina's finger hovered over the trigger. The targeting reticle shifted—her LACM locked on.

A high-pitched tone filled the cockpit.

Lock.

Her thumb pressed down.

"Fox Three!"

A long-range cruise missile detached from her wing pylon, its white-hot exhaust plume cutting through the thick gray sky like a blade.

She yanked the stick back. The Rafale shot upward into a sharp climb, afterburners howling, just as the missile found its mark.

Impact.

The ground split apart in a hellish explosion. Fire bloomed across the battlefield, metal and debris launching skyward, the shockwave rippling outward. The first APC was reduced to a cratered ruin, its occupants vaporized in an instant.

Her radio crackled, voices clashing with the chaos below.

"The Snezhnayans are fighting amongst themselves!"

Wriothesley's voice cut in, sharp, edged with grim understanding.

"At least we know what's going on now…"

Then—

A new transmission.

And it sent an icy chill through them all.

"Holy shit… look at these bodies…"

A moment of horrified silence.

Then another voice, filled with barely contained disgust.

"War crimes. Innocent civilians. Executed. They never stood a chance."

Furina's grip on the stick tightened. Her breath remained steady, but her stomach twisted.

Another voice, this one hardened with fury.

"Take pictures. We'll submit this to HQ. These bastards will answer to the International Court."

Furina wanted to look away. To block it out.

But she couldn't.

She forced herself to focus, banking around for another attack run.

Her targeting system pulsed again—three more hostiles.

Snezhnayan Rebellion AA Vehicles.

Another chime.

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

The missile shrieked through the air, a blinding streak of fire.

Then—detonation.

Another plume of flames swallowed the enemy vehicles, the blast wave sending wreckage tumbling like discarded toys.

Across the battlefield, Clorinde skimmed low over a shattered neighborhood, her sensors locking onto a RKTL truck nestled between the ruins.

Her IFF flickered—Snezhnayan Conservative units.

But their turrets were already trained on her.

Hostile.

A dull chime in her headset.

Lock.

Her thumb pressed down.

"Fox Three!"

A LACM shot forward.

Impact.

The truck disappeared in a fiery explosion—then the secondary detonations ripped through the ruins. The blast wave ignited a chain reaction, sending fire surging through three more RKTL trucks hidden among the wreckage.

The radio erupted into chaos.

"If you see the Rafale with the gold crown—count to three, and the enemy is gone!"

"Keep your foot planted on the gas! Don't let up until we reach the harbor!"

A voice, raw with rage.

"Damn these Snezhnayan bastards! These are blatant war crimes!"

Then—another, shaking with barely controlled fury.

"They executed civilians. All tied up. Starved. Mostly families. Even the children."

A pause.

Then, in a voice colder than steel:

"Take the photos. Submit them to HQ. This evidence will bury them."

Another beat of silence.

Then, a final voice, seething with vengeance.

"The Snezhnayans will pay for this… they don't deserve mercy. Never."

Furina's hands clenched around the controls.

Her voice was steady—but beneath it lay something darker.

"War crimes… that's something I'll never forget… and never want to see."

And as the battle raged on, one thing became clear.

This island wasn't just a battlefield.

It was a graveyard.

Eastern Battlefield – Maelstrom of Chaos

While Waltz Squadron secured the western front, the east had devolved into chaos.

The ground was a shifting mass of fire and destruction, tracer rounds slicing through the dense fog of war. Smoke plumes stretched skyward, the air thick with the scent of burning fuel and blood.

Jean's F-14B Tomcat roared through the maelstrom, descending sharply as her targeting system flickered. Below, a cluster of RKTL trucks huddled in the ruins.

Her IFF wavered—friend or foe?

A second later—confirmation.

Hostile.

A sharp chime.

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

Two LAGM missiles dropped from her Tomcat's belly, engines roaring to life before streaking toward their targets.

Impact.

A hellish fireball consumed the trucks, debris raining down like shrapnel.

Jean yanked back on the stick, afterburners flaring as she banked around.

Another lock.

"Fox Three!"

The second pair of missiles found their mark.

Amber's voice crackled through the radio, laced with exhilaration.

"Two more to go, Jean!"

Jean leveled out, scanning the ruins below.

The last two RKTL trucks were trying to flee—but they weren't fast enough.

A sharp beep.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

The final missiles streaked down. Impact.

Amber punched the air.

"Hell yeah! All RKTL trucks splashed!"

Jean exhaled, but she wasn't easing up yet. The eastern front was still a bloodbath.

Then—

Raiden swooped low, targeting a fast-moving unknown below.

She lined up her strike.

Then it opened fire.

Her Sidewinder was away before she could think.

The missile struck home.

A direct hit.

For a moment—a rush of satisfaction.

Then—

AWACS Visionaire's voice.

And it hit like a hammer.

"Raiden! That's an ally!"

Her blood ran cold.

Her gloved hand slammed onto the console, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts.

"GOD DAMN IT!"

Her stomach twisted violently.

She knew it was bound to happen in a battlefield this chaotic.

But knowing didn't make it any easier.

War wasn't forgiving.

And mistakes like this… they lingered.

Furina's Eastern Push – The Unexpected Salute

Furina's Rafale tore through the sky, its afterburner glowing against the smoky horizon. Her helmet-mounted display tracked multiple contacts ahead—hostiles, moving fast.

She lined up her strike.

Tone.

Lock.

Her finger tensed over the trigger—

Then—

Her IFF flickered.

The markers updated.

Snezhnayan Conservative AA vehicles.

But—

They weren't firing.

Instead—

Their crews stood beside them.

Uniformed soldiers.

Standing at attention.

Saluting.

Furina's breath caught. For a split second, her instincts screamed trap. But no missiles launched, no guns tracked her.

This wasn't a trick.

She yanked the stick back, pulling out of her dive, her Rafale climbing hard for altitude.

Switching to comms, she exhaled sharply.

"I got multiple Snezhnayan Conservatives on the ground. They're not engaging. They're—" she hesitated, almost disbelieving her own words. "They stood there. Saluting me."

Silence.

Then—

AWACS Visionaire's voice crackled through her headset.

"That's good news. At least we've got some Snezhnayans on our side."

And with that—

The battle for Zephyr's Island was ending.

Final Kill Count:

Furina – 38 confirmed kills

Collei – 24

Mavuika & Eula – 18 each

Jean & Amber – 17 each

Raiden, Ningguang & Clorinde – 15 each

Wriothesley – 14

The once-mighty Snezhnayan offensive had crumbled. The sky was thick with smoke, the ground littered with burning wreckage, twisted fuselages, and the shattered remains of an army that had underestimated them.

And yet—

The war was far from over.

Furina's Rafale banked sharply, her HUD locking onto one last RKTL truck, its exhaust venting thick, black smoke as it veered off, trying to escape.

Tone.

Lock.

She was just about to fire when—

Her radio crackled.

A new voice cut in—male, confident, calm under pressure but strangely casual given the situation.

"Hey. You. Dumbass with the Golden Crown. You there?"

Furina blinked. What?

Her grip on the stick tightened.

"Who the hell—?"

The voice continued, unfazed.

"I need you to help us. We've got trapped civilians—refugees pinned down by tanks and APCs. Need I say more?"

Furina's heart skipped a beat.

Before she could respond, AWACS Visionaire cut in, his tone sharp, all business.

"This is a secure military frequency. Identify yourself."

A low chuckle came through, cool and unconcerned.

"You may know me as… The Aircraft Alchemist."

Furina's eyes widened.

No fucking way.

Then—

A slow, knowing smirk crept onto her lips.

"Stand down, Visionaire. He's an ally. Let me talk to him."

She keyed her mic, her voice tinged with amusement.

"Albedo. Never in a million years did I think I'd hear your voice again."

A familiar chuckle followed.

"Great to hear from you too, Furina. Looks like you've got your own squadron now, huh?"

Furina exhaled a short laugh. "Damn right I do."

Then—

Another voice joined in. A woman's—bold, full of energy.

"Hey, Furina! This is Lune—Drowned Squadron's Number Eight! Knew you were still up there kicking ass!"

Furina shook her head, unable to hide her grin.

"Lune! Great to hear from you too."

Lune laughed. "Remember! Stick with Waltz, and you'll make it!"

Furina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You guys still haven't let that go?"

Albedo's voice returned, more serious.

"Alright, listen. I've got intel. Hope you all are interested."

Ningguang cut in, smooth and commanding.

"Of course we are. We're all ears, Mr. Alchemist."

Albedo sighed, amused. "I figured you'd say that. But first—help these refugees."

Ningguang didn't even hesitate. "Send us the coordinates."

Albedo chuckled. "Thought you'd say that too."

The Red Smoke – An Unlikely Ally

AWACS Visionaire's voice suddenly cut in, laced with confusion.

"Wait… You don't have a Laser Target Indicator?"

Albedo's response was as casual as ever.

"No."

Before anyone could react, another voice entered the conversation—

A woman's voice.

Cold. Regal. Commanding.

"Use a smoke canister."

The comms went dead silent.

Jean's eyes widened in shock.

"Wait… Is that… The Tsaritsa!?"

Albedo's voice returned, completely nonchalant.

"Yes."

The radio fell into stunned silence.

Then—

A plume of thick red smoke burst into the sky.

Furina's eyes caught it first, her HUD marking the location instantly.

"I see red smoke! Is that you, Albedo!?"

"Yes! And hurry! Those tanks are closing in!"

Furina slammed her throttles forward, her Rafale howling as the afterburners roared to life. The heads-up display rapidly highlighted enemy armor advancing toward the marked location.

AWACS Visionaire's voice came through, his usual laid-back tone replaced with sharp precision.

"All aircraft, threat matrix datalink is updated. Hostile units locked. Engage at will!"

The red markers solidified—

Targets confirmed.

Furina's eyes narrowed.

"Waltz One, engaging!"

The Rescue – Fire from the Sky

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

A LACM missile streaked away, its exhaust flare burning bright against the storm-heavy skies.

Direct hit.

A tank erupted into a fireball, its turret sent skyward.

Collei followed in tight formation.

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

Her missile screamed toward the enemy armor—

A second tank reduced to twisted steel and flames.

Then came Jean and Amber, their F-14B Tomcat roaring in from the flank.

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

Two LAGM missiles streaked downrange, their guidance systems locking onto enemy APCs—

Both exploded, their wrecks skidding across the dirt.

Finally, Clorinde's Rafale swept in, banking hard before letting loose her payload.

Tone.

Lock.

"Fox Three!"

Two more LACM missiles launched in rapid succession—

The final pair of tanks burst into flames, ammunition inside cooking off in violent detonations.

Silence.

The battlefield stilled, the only sounds left were the dying echoes of destruction and the distant rumble of retreating forces.

Then—

Albedo's voice crackled back onto the radio, still as relaxed as ever.

"Nice timing. Would've been a real pain dealing with those on foot."

Furina exhaled, smirking.

"I see exile hasn't dulled your sarcasm."

A soft chuckle followed.

Then, the Tsaritsa spoke once more—her voice unwavering, regal, yet calm.

"Well done, pilots of the Teyvat Air Force. Your precision is commendable."

Her tone carried no fear. No hesitation.

Furina couldn't help but be intrigued.

"You better have an explanation for all this, Tsaritsa. We're listening."

Albedo sighed in amusement.

"Figured you'd say that."

The Aftermath – A Debt Repaid

The battlefield fell silent, save for the distant rumble of retreating enemy forces and the crackling of burning wreckage.

Then, Albedo's voice returned, cutting through the static—this time mixed with relieved cheers from the rescued civilians.

"Nice job! We're in the clear!"

"No casualties!"

Laughter broke through the radio, voices heavy with exhaustion but filled with unfiltered relief.

But the moment was short-lived.

Albedo's tone shifted, his voice now serious.

"Alright. Time to spill the intel."

The radio went dead for a heartbeat—every pilot listening, barely daring to breathe.

Then—Albedo's voice returned, calm but firm.

"A defected Snezhnayan soldier told me this—"

"A Single-Stage-To-Orbit (SSTO) craft is launching from the Mass Driver Base up west."

AWACS Visionaire exhaled sharply, his fatigue evident.

"Well… that's something. Valuable information."

Before anyone could respond—

The island's sirens blared.

A sharp, wailing howl.

A warning.

Wriothesley's voice was dark.

"That doesn't sound good."

Then—for the first time since the battle began—an enemy transmission crackled over an open frequency.

"Five… Four… Three… Two… One…"

Then—

A thunderous roar erupted in the distance.

Furina's breath hitched. Her head snapped toward the Mass Driver Base on the horizon.

Her IFF system updated—

Two SSTO supply ships had launched.

Their trajectory?

Northeast.

Straight for the Sepharis Bird Celestia.

Furina's hands clenched around the controls, her blood running ice-cold.

"Shit! They launched SSTO Vehicles!"

Albedo's voice cut in, sharp.

"They're supply ships for the Sepharis Bird! You have to take them out!"

No hesitation.

Furina slammed her throttles forward—her Dassault Rafale M surging ahead, engines burning at full afterburner.

Her squadron struggled to keep up, her acceleration leaving them in the dust.

Then—she saw it.

Ahead on the horizon—

A massive stormfront.

Dark clouds loomed, swirling with crackling energy, a monstrous wall of chaos.

Furina gritted her teeth.

"Fuuuuck! This can't get any worse!"

And then—

It did.

The two SSTO ships split formation.

One veered for open skies—clear, unobstructed.

The other?

Straight into the storm.

Furina made her choice in an instant.

She banked left—chasing the storm-bound SSTO.

AWACS Visionaire's voice was urgent.

"Furina, you have three minutes before it reaches the Sepharis Bird's air defense network! Hurry!"

Furina's jaw tightened. She gripped the throttle and pushed forward.

She yelled over the static—

"I'M TRYING!"

Her Rafale screamed forward, breaking the sound barrier as she closed in.

Then—

They plunged into the storm.

The Stormfront – A Race Against Time

Her cockpit shook violently.

Turbulence slammed her Rafale like a ragdoll.

Sheets of deafening rain hammered against the canopy, visibility dropping to near zero.

Lightning snaked across the clouds, illuminating the world in eerie, fractured flashes.

Her HUD flickered. The targeting system struggled.

Her only hope?

LRAAM missiles.

Long-range. Fire-and-forget.

She switched her weapons—her eyes locked onto the SSTO's engine heat signature.

Then—

Tone.

Lock.

Her thumb slammed the trigger.

"Fox Three!"

Two LRAAMs ignited, cutting through the storm's darkness.

Furina yanked the stick, breaking hard right, bracing for turbulence.

Then—

A massive explosion erupted behind her—illuminating the storm in a deep blue hue.

The shockwave hammered her Rafale, the aircraft jolting violently as the pressure wave ripped through the sky.

She held firm. Kept control.

Then—

She broke through the storm's edge, gasping for breath as she emerged into clear air.

AWACS Visionaire's voice rang through the radio.

"Splash One, Furina! Two minutes remain!"

Furina snapped.

"STOP WITH THE COUNTDOWN! I GOT THIS!"

The Final Target – The Last SSTO

Furina pushed her Rafale harder, her afterburners burning white-hot as she raced for the final SSTO.

Her squadron's voices crackled through the radio—pure adrenaline and awe.

Raiden was first.

"Holy shit! Did you see that explosion?!"

Clorinde's voice was thoughtful.

"Yeah… Same hue as when we destroyed those tankers in a blizzard back in my old squadron."

Wriothesley snapped his fingers.

"That's it! Rocket fuel!"

Furina tuned them out—eyes locked on her final target.

Then—

She broke through another cloudbank.

Her HUD flickered—

A lock.

A tone.

Her thumb pressed down.

"Fox Three!"

Two LRAAM missiles streaked toward the SSTO.

She yanked the stick, breaking away—

Then—

A final explosion tore through the sky.

A deep blue fireball erupted—debris twisting into the clouds.

AWACS Visionaire's voice crackled with excitement.

"That's the last! I wish this thing had windows so I could see that explosion!"

"Nice work, team!"

Furina exhaled, adrenaline still burning in her veins.

"Nice… And sorry for yelling at you, Visionaire."

Visionaire chuckled.

"Don't worry, Furina. I'm used to it! We're cool."

A Bitter Goodbye – The Aftermath

As the squadron regrouped, Albedo's voice returned—calmer now.

"We'll find a boat and get out of here while we still can."

"We're bringing the refugees and defected Snezhnayan soldiers too."

A pause.

"Take care, everyone. We'll find a way to contact you."

As Waltz and Primordial Squadron formed up and banked north, Zephyr's Island slowly disappeared behind them.

But Furina's mind wasn't at ease.

She sighed, voice low.

"With that done… What now?"

Jean's voice was quiet. Tired.

"I don't know, Furina. But we're running low on fuel and food at the base."

A long silence followed.

As the two squadrons flew into the night, leaving the battlefield behind—

Only one thought remained.

What the hell comes next?

T

The Weight of War – A Silent Airbase

One Hour Later…

Dymny Kordon Air Force Base stood in silence.

Once, it had been a place of motion, life, and purpose. The constant hum of turbines winding down, the sharp scent of jet fuel lingering in the air, the low chatter of pilots swapping war stories over trays of hot food. Mechanics shouting orders across the hangars, radios crackling with incoming updates.

Now?

A graveyard of exhaustion.

The mess hall was a wreck—half-eaten rations abandoned on metal trays, overturned chairs left where they fell, the stale smell of cold food hanging in the stagnant air. The overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting weak, shifting shadows across the gaunt faces of the pilots slumped at the tables.

No one spoke.

No one ate.

A low murmur of distant aircraft movements outside was the only sound that broke the oppressive stillness, but even that felt disconnected—distant echoes of a war that never stopped, even when they did.

Furina sat at the center of it all, elbows resting on the table, chin on her hands. Her eyes, normally alight with sharp wit or fiery defiance, were dull and unfocused.

She exhaled a slow, weary breath.

"How much longer…?"

Across from her, Jean rubbed her temples as if trying to stave off a migraine, her shoulders weighed down by fatigue.

Her voice, when it came, was hollow.

"I don't know… But it doesn't change the fact we're running out of supplies."

She hesitated, then pressed forward, her next words hitting like a hammer.

"Worse still… Zephyr's Island is in complete anarchy now. It's lost."

That got a reaction. Not in shock—there was no room left for that—but in quiet, resigned acceptance.

They had fought like hell to hold the line, to buy time, to give the civilians a chance.

And now?

Gone.

Jean's voice hardened, turning cold, pragmatic.

"And this base? This base isn't safe either."

A heavy silence followed, thick like a suffocating fog. It was an unspoken truth they had all known deep down, but hearing it aloud made it real.

Dead Ends and Desperation

Wriothesley finally broke the tension, raising a finger lazily, his voice rough from exhaustion.

"How about the nearby town? Maybe they have supplies, right?"

His words hung in the air for only a second before Raiden shook her head, her face grim.

"We already stripped it clean when the other forces arrived for the Battle of Morepesok."

Another dead end.

Furina's fingers dug into her temples, the dull ache in her head growing worse. Her mind raced through the possibilities, but there weren't many left. Their options were running out—just like their fuel, their food, and their time.

Jean exhaled sharply, scanning the room, taking in the faces of her squadron.

Tired.

Hungry.

Worn down by battle, by loss, by the endless weight of war pressing on their shoulders.

She let the silence linger, stretching the tension just enough before finally speaking.

Her words were slow, deliberate, raw.

"Take a good look at each and every one of you now."

A few pilots lifted their heads, bloodshot eyes meeting hers.

Jean continued, voice steady but firm.

"They're the only friends you've got left."

The words cut deep.

She wasn't just talking about camaraderie.

She was talking about survival.

"At least until we find a way to reestablish communication."

No one answered.

Because what was there to say?

Their fuel tanks were low.

Their food supplies were dwindling.

Their radio lines were dead.

And beyond these walls?

The war raged on, uncaring and relentless.

No reinforcements. No orders. No guarantees.

Just the same question that had haunted them for weeks now.

How much longer would this last?

And, more terrifyingly—

Would they even make it to the end?