(Epilogue)

Thirty Years Later

Fifteen Years After the Airshow

The skies over Teyvat remained undisturbed.

For three decades, not a single war had scarred the heavens. The world had watched, waited, expecting the cycle of history to repeat. But the flames of battle never returned. The Teyvat-Snezhnaya War had been the last great conflict.

That war had nearly torn the world apart. And yet, it had also forged something enduring—something greater than just victory.

Peace. Hard-earned, fragile, but real.

Time had moved on, sweeping the past into history. But history does not forget.

The Truth Unveiled

Fifteen years after the airshow, the moment arrived.

The classified documents—sealed for decades, hidden behind redacted lines and security clearances—were finally released.

And the world learned the truth.

The reports emerged, unfiltered, undeniable. Photographs of battlefields where fire had rained from the sky. Wreckage of aircraft, their fuselages shattered, their pilots' names etched into casualty lists. Audio logs of final transmissions—some cut short, others filled with last words spoken into the void.

Then came the revelations.

The truth behind the Razushitel submarine.

The full details of Imena's death.

The evidence of Furina's wrongful framing.

The world saw. The world knew. And at last, history was set right.

A New Generation of Aces

With the truth laid bare, the next generation rose.

The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group saw an influx of new recruits, eager, hungry to follow in the footsteps of legends. They studied the records, read the stories, and saw the names that had defined an era.

But as the young stepped forward, the old began to step back.

Jean Gunnhildr, the unshakable leader of the TSSG, retired after nearly four decades of service. With her went Amber, Ningguang, Mavuika, and Ei—giants who had shaped the sky for a generation.

But they did not leave a void.

In their place, a new leader took the reins.

Eula Lawrence—once Waltz Four, once a wingman—now stood as the supreme commander of the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group.

New names emerged in the skies, carving their own stories in contrails and missile trails. Some flew in foreign wars, providing aid where the world still burned. Teyvat remained peaceful, but beyond its borders, the fight for peace was never truly over.

Yet among all the new aces, one name still remained.

The Last Legend

Waltz Squadron lived on.

Clorinde and Wriothesley had long since retired, leaving behind the battlefield to build a life together. Their war was over. They had earned their peace.

Collei remained—Waltz Two, still soaring, still fighting.

But leading them, still at the helm of Waltz Squadron—

Furina de Fontaine.

Waltz One.

The Ace of Aces.

The most lethal pilot in Teyvat's history.

Over four hundred confirmed aerial victories.

Her legacy had already been secured, but she still flew. She still led. The skies were as much a part of her as the blood in her veins.

Her Rafale—her Rafale, 1013-FF—rested in the Fontaine Air and Space Museum at Charybdis, preserved as a relic of history. But she had never stopped flying. Another Rafale bore its exact livery, every detail recreated. As long as she lived, the Golden Crown would never fade.

And yet… she knew the truth.

Her time was running out.

She was in her early fifties now. The years had been kind, but time was relentless. Collei still had years left in her, but Furina—Furina knew she was reaching the end.

She had spent her life in the sky.

She had fought, bled, and survived in the endless blue.

She had carved her name into history with missile trails and gunfire.

And now… it was time.

Time to pass the torch.

Time to find the one who would carry Waltz Squadron into the future.

The one who would carry its legacy forward.

At Charybdis Air Force Base, the skies stretched endlessly, a deep blue canvas unbroken by clouds. The kind of sky pilots dreamed of. The kind of sky Furina had spent a lifetime in.

Inside her office, she sat at her desk, reviewing the latest training footage from her squadron's younger pilots. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the computer and the occasional click as she skimmed through maneuvers, scrutinizing every movement, every decision.

She sighed. No good.

Click.

New footage. Yelan's Rafale M Evolution in a dogfight with Collei, both flying identical machines. Furina leaned in, eyes tracking Yelan's movements. A hard break turn—good. A counter-roll—acceptable. But then—

No.

Her expression hardened. Yelan cut in too early, nearly grazing Collei's tail section. A reckless mistake. Had it been real combat, they'd have both been dead.

Furina exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. Click. Next video.

Navia Caspar—youngest recruit in Waltz Squadron—against Beidou in a simulated engagement. Furina leaned forward. Beidou was a solid flier, bold but measured. But Navia...

Something about her flying caught Furina's attention.

The way she maneuvered her Rafale M—fluid, aggressive, yet deliberate—reminded her of something. No, of someone.

Herself. Thirty years ago.

Then, the moment that sealed it.

Beidou outmaneuvered her, slipping into a firing position. For most pilots, this would be the end. But Navia did something few ever dared.

She snapped her nose up in a sharp, deliberate motion.

A 90-degree Pugachev Cobra.

Furina inhaled sharply.

One of her moves. A signature maneuver perfected in the war.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she instinctively pulled up Navia's military record.

One war sortie.

Eight years ago.

Belobog.

A conflict in the far north of Snezhnaya, where the Conservative government had crushed the last embers of rebellion in a brutal air campaign.

Navia Caspar. 84 confirmed aerial victories.

The rest of Waltz Squadron? Not even close.

Furina scrolled further—mission reports, debriefing notes. Then, a memory surfaced.

Eight Years Ago—Belobog Air Force Base

The briefing room smelled of cold metal and strong coffee.

Furina stood at the front, pointing to the tactical map displayed on the screen. The mission was a strike on a rebel airfield to the west. Straightforward, but exposed.

"The moment you're spotted by radar, you're done for," she warned, her voice calm but firm.

A hand went up.

"Captain Furina?"

She turned. Navia Caspar.

"Yes, Lieutenant Caspar?"

"What about the valley up north? If we fly through it, we might be able to approach undetected."

Furina raised an eyebrow. Sharp.

She glanced back at the map. "Good observation, Navia."

She turned to the squadron. "She's right. The valley is an option. But it's risky. Downdrafts, turbulence—you'll be wrestling your controls the whole way through."

Navia didn't hesitate. "Then we fly fast. The faster we go, the less turbulence affects us."

Furina smirked, pointing at her. "I like your style, Navia."

She nodded. "Alright. If you take the valley, maintain at least 340 knots. Drop below that, and you'll be fighting the wind, not the enemy."

Present Day—Charybdis Air Force Base

Furina exhaled, leaning back in her chair.

Navia had always been sharp.

"She has the mind of a leader," she murmured. Then, she thought of Beidou. "And Beidou… she has the instincts. Maybe too mission-focused, but still…"

She let out a slow breath.

Her time was up.

"Retirement officially begins tomorrow."

She stood, walking to the window.

Across from her office stood the glass-walled hangar.

Inside it, motionless yet as fierce as the day it last roared across the sky, sat her original Rafale M.

1013-FF.

The Golden Crown.

Furina allowed herself a small smile.

For fifteen years, it had been preserved—regular engine run-ups, careful restorations, flown only in select airshows. Not a relic. Not yet.

"Who knows when I'll get to fly it again?"

She placed a hand against the window, fingers resting lightly on the glass.

"One last time."

A knock at the door.

Furina didn't turn immediately. She let the moment linger, her eyes tracing the silhouette of her aircraft.

Then, finally—

"Come in."

The door swung open.

Yelan and Navia stood side by side.

Furina turned to face them, crossing her arms. "Ah, Yelan, Navia. What seems to be the occasion?"

Yelan gave a slight nod. "Just wanted to let you know—your Rafale is ready to go."

Furina exhaled through her nose, a soft chuckle escaping. "Ah. Alright. Thank you."

Navia hesitated before stepping forward. "Is it really true, Captain? You're retiring?"

Furina met her gaze. "I'm afraid so."

She glanced at her desk, at the old mission reports, at the weight of decades.

"I'm not getting any younger, after all."

Silence. Then—

"Besides…" She let her gaze linger on Navia and Yelan. "It's time for the next generation of pilots to take over."

Yelan shifted slightly, exhaling. "It's… it's an honor to have you as our captain."

Furina smirked, shaking her head. "Come now, Yelan. Savor the moment. I'm not retiring today. Save those kinds of formalities for later."

She reached for her helmet, fingers tracing the insignia at the front.

A Rafale, nose skyward, contrails flowing into a crown.

The Golden Crown.

Her mark.

"Today… I'm just one person."

She ran a thumb over the insignia before looking up at Yelan and Navia.

"The pilot with the golden crown."

She grinned. "Come on. I've got to make every second count."

With that, she turned, leading the way out of the office.

Yelan and Navia followed, their footsteps steady behind her.

For the first time in years, Furina felt it.

Not the weight of history.

Not the burden of a legacy.

Just the sky. Waiting for her. One last time.

As they stepped onto the apron, the gentle hum of an auxiliary power unit filled the air, blending with the distant calls of seabirds along the Fontaine coastline. The vast main hangar doors of the Fontaine Air and Space Museum stood wide open, framing the golden hues of the late afternoon sun.

And there it was.

Élégante et Efficace.

Her Dassault Rafale M Evolution Prototype 001.

Bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun, its deep blues, sky blues, and pristine whites shimmered like rippling water. The golden emblem on the tail—a crown above flowing waves—remained untouched by time. It was as if the years had passed without consequence, yet to Furina, they had never felt heavier.

She slowed her pace, her boots barely making a sound against the tarmac.

Yelan and Navia stopped a few steps behind, watching in silence as she trailed a gloved hand along the sleek fuselage, fingers gliding over the cold metal as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.

Yelan glanced at Navia, her voice barely above a whisper. "Looks like Captain's taking it all in."

Navia nodded, arms crossed. "Wouldn't expect anything less. That jet isn't just any aircraft to her."

"The sky is her home," Yelan murmured.

Navia smirked. "Yeah. And I'm pretty sure she still owns that Piper Comanche 250 of hers."

Yelan sighed, shaking her head. "Then why does this feel different?"

Navia's smirk faded, her gaze softening as she watched Furina stand before the Rafale, her fingertips lingering just beneath the canopy. "Because... this might be the last time she ever flies a fighter jet."

Yelan's breath hitched slightly. She understood now.

Navia exhaled slowly. "We all get older, Yelan. Furina's not the same young, fearless captain she was thirty years ago. Time catches up, even to the best of us."

Yelan crossed her arms, looking back at the hangar with a distant expression. "So… who do you think will take over as squadron leader?"

Navia hesitated. "It's anyone's guess. But..." She turned back toward Furina, watching her intently. The former captain had just completed her slow walk around the jet. As she turned, a familiar, knowing smile crossed her lips.

Navia exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with a bittersweet chuckle. "Damn… I'm gonna miss that smile."

Yelan's gaze softened. "Yeah… me too."

Right on cue, another voice cut through the wind.

"All of us in Waltz Squadron will miss that smile."

Yelan and Navia turned to see Collei approaching, her green and silver hair tousled slightly by the evening breeze.

Yelan gave a small nod. "Good afternoon, Captain Collei."

Collei chuckled, shaking her head. "No need to be so formal, Yelan."

Her gaze drifted toward Furina, now climbing the in-built ladder of her Rafale.

"You know…" Collei murmured. "I ought to tell you all something."

Yelan and Navia turned their full attention to her.

Collei inhaled, glancing toward the sky for a moment before speaking.

"Captain Gunnhildr told us this a long time ago..."

They listened.

"The plane has a part of Furina."

"And Furina has a part of the plane with her."

"Almost like an extension of her body. Her hands… her feet."

She sighed, voice laced with admiration and sorrow.

"Waltz Squadron won't be the same without her."

At that moment, they heard the distinct whine of hydraulics.

The canopy sealed shut.

Then, the familiar, powerful hum of the twin Snecma M88 engines came alive, reverberating across the airfield.

Inside the cockpit, Furina took a slow, steady breath, fingers tightening around the throttle. She scanned the instruments, then her surroundings.

Yelan. Navia. Collei.

Her friends. Her comrades.

They stood near the hangar, watching her with expressions she had seen countless times before.

She raised a gloved hand, her thumb extending upward in a firm salute.

They returned the gesture, a silent farewell between warriors of the sky.

The engines stabilized. Furina released the brakes. Élégante et Efficace began rolling forward, taxiing toward Runway 30.

The golden light of the setting sun painted the airfield in its final glow.

And then, the memories surged.

Thirty years ago, she had taken off from this very runway for her first combat sortie.

The blaring sirens. The scramble order. The frantic rush to the jets.

The deafening roar of engines. The trembling grip on the stick. The heavy weight of duty pressing on her shoulders.

The cold, unrelenting embrace of war.

She could almost hear the radio chatter. The urgent calls. The missile alerts.

And then—

Silence.

The present pulled her back.

She was no longer that young captain flying into battle.

But she was still Furina.

And this was still her sky.

Her grip tightened. A sharp inhale. Then—

She slammed the throttle forward to full power.

The Rafale surged ahead.

100 knots.

120.

140.

160.

She pulled back gently on the sidestick, feeling the lift as if the aircraft itself welcomed her home.

The landing gear retracted, locking into place.

And then—

A thunderous roar from behind.

Another jet screamed down the runway.

Yelan's eyes widened. "Wait—where the hell is Collei!?"

Navia turned just in time to see a second Rafale thundering down the tarmac.

"No way… Collei's going up too!?"

And then—

A deafening, synchronized roar.

A formation of eleven aircraft swept low over the airfield, silhouettes cast against the burning sky.

Yelan was the first to recognize them. "F-15s… an F-14!?"

Navia's breath caught. "Two Super Hornets. An F-35."

Then, the pounding of footsteps.

Beidou. Dehya. Keqing. Shenhe.

They ran toward them, eyes filled with confusion and awe.

Beidou shouted over the noise. "What the hell is going on?! I just heard jets screaming past!"

Navia shook her head, heart pounding. "This isn't a standard exercise. Not at this time. Not with those aircraft."

Yelan's gaze never left the sky. "This isn't a coincidence."

Navia's expression shifted.

A realization struck her like lightning.

Her eyes widened.

She snapped her fingers.

"That's it!"

Yelan turned. "What's it!?"

Navia's lips curled into a soft smile.

She exhaled, looking up at the streaking fighters cutting through the heavens.

"It's them…"

She swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest.

"It's the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group."

Yelan let out a slow breath of understanding.

"Ah…" Her voice barely carried above the wind.

"They're here to give her a send-off she'll never forget."

And in the sky, Furina climbed.

Her Rafale pierced the heavens, afterburners burning like the sun.

For the last time.

As a pilot with the golden crown.

Up at 3,000 feet, as Furina circled above Charybdis, the hum of her Rafale's twin engines resonated through the cockpit, a familiar song she had heard for decades. The golden hues of the sunset stretched across the sky, bathing her canopy in a warm, fiery glow. Below, the waves shimmered like liquid gold, stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

She had flown over this ocean countless times. But this time was different. This was the last.

Then—her IFF display flickered. Multiple contacts. Fast movers.

Her brows furrowed. Friendlies? Who would be out here at this hour?

A crackle in her headset.

"Captain Furina de Fontaine. Do you read?"

Her heartbeat quickened. That voice—no way.

She clicked her radio. "Go ahead?"

"This is the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group… Mind if we join your formation?"

Furina exhaled sharply. A slow smile tugged at her lips. I knew they wouldn't let me have this flight alone.

"I knew it would be you… Dandelion."

A chorus of voices filled the comms, each one unmistakable. Jean, Amber, Mavuika, Ningguang, Ei, Clorinde, Wriothesley, Eula, Collei, Lyney, Lynette, Freminet—her old squadmates, reunited for one final sortie.

Her eyes burned with the sting of nostalgia.

Then—another alert. A single contact. Unknown.

Her IFF flickered. Hostile? No—friend.

Before she could react, a voice she hadn't heard in years crackled through.

"Hey, buddy. Still alive?"

Furina let out a breathless chuckle, shaking her head. "Arlecchino… I knew it'd be you."

A sleek Su-57 cut through the sky, slipping into formation beside her. Black and red—Hearth Squadron's old colors. But on the tail, a single emblem: a red flame, flickering defiantly in the wind.

"Couldn't miss my buddy's last flight, right?" Arlecchino's tone was casual, but there was something beneath it—something rare. Respect.

Furina felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom in her chest. "Right."

Together, the aircraft tightened into a flawless formation, their silhouettes cutting across the sky as they descended toward the glistening waters of Charybdis.

The moment felt eternal.

Furina stole a glance to her right. The sun, low on the horizon, painted the sky in hues of fire and violet. It was beautiful.

"The sun has begun to set," she murmured.

Collei's voice followed, wistful. "Looks to be a beautiful sunset."

Amber, ever hopeful, added, "But the sun will continue to rise. Forever."

Furina's throat tightened.

Jean, in her F-14B, turned her head slightly, her voice gentle. "Furina."

Furina met her gaze. "Jean?"

Jean raised a hand in salute.

"It's been an honor to fly alongside you again."

Furina hesitated. She wasn't one for sentimentality, but… she felt it too.

She gave a slow, solemn nod. "No need to thank me, Jean."

Jean shook her head. "I ought to, though." Her voice softened. "It reminded me of what it's like to have a wingman again… after all these years."

Furina's grip on the stick tightened, but her voice remained steady.

"You know… everyone…"

The radio went silent. They were listening.

"Even after the sun sets…

And the darkest of nights takes hold…

Morning always comes.

Because those we lost—

Gave their lives to bring the morning light.

Living our days to the fullest…

That is the highest tribute we can offer to their memory."

A reverent silence followed. Then Jean's voice—quiet, steady.

"Amen to that, Furina."

And then the others—

"I can live by that."

"And I can agree with that."

"That's true…"

Furina exhaled a small chuckle, the weight of her own words settling in her chest.

"Come on, fellas… Let's head back to Charybdis."

She eased her stick to the left, leading the formation home. The others followed in unison, moving as one.

Minutes passed.

One by one, each plane landed.

But Furina…

She took her time.

Savoring every last moment.

Finally, it was her turn.

Lining up for short final, she eased her Rafale onto the glide path. The runway lights stretched ahead, glowing like stars guiding her home.

A soft, perfect touchdown.

Her Rafale settled onto the tarmac as if it, too, knew this was its final flight.

As she taxied toward the Air and Space Museum, her radio crackled.

"Welcome back, Furina. Hope you enjoyed that."

She smiled, voice barely above a whisper.

"I did… And I'll remember it for the rest of my life."

Then—

Fwoosh!

Two firetrucks activated their water cannons, sending shimmering arcs of water into the air.

Furina blinked.

A water cannon salute.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh as she rolled through, water cascading over her canopy like a baptism.

When she reached the designated parking apron, she powered down the engines. Silence filled the cockpit.

Her hands trembled as she set the parking brake, flipped the canopy release, and unbuckled her harness.

She climbed down the ladder.

The moment her boots hit the tarmac—

Pop! Pop!

Laughter erupted as Jean and Clorinde drenched her in champagne.

Furina coughed, shaking droplets from her hair, but she was grinning.

Then she saw them—

Everyone.

Her friends.

Her family.

Her squadmates—old and new.

Even Arlecchino.

Her breath hitched.

She straightened.

"Everyone. Attention to orders!"

Silence fell.

"For the past thirty years, I have called the skies my home.

I fought a war.

And I helped bring it to an end."

A solemn pause.

"But today… it's not just about the end of the Golden Crown."

Her gaze fell on the new pilots—Beidou, Dehya, Keqing, Shenhe, Yelan…

And Navia.

Furina's lips curled into a smile.

"Today… is about passing the torch."

Navia blinked in confusion.

Furina stepped forward.

"My successor… is… First Lieutenant Navia Caspar."

Navia's breath caught. "M-Me!?"

Furina nodded. "Step forward, Navia."

Navia hesitated, then obeyed. A high-ranking officer joined them.

"Starting tomorrow… you will be Captain Navia Caspar."

Navia swallowed. "Wh-what?"

Furina chuckled softly.

"You remind me of someone."

Navia frowned. "Who?"

Furina's eyes gleamed.

"Me. Thirty years ago."

Navia's hands trembled. "I… I don't know if I'm ready."

Furina placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"You are."

She gestured toward her jet—Rafale M Evolution, 1310-FF.

"Starting tomorrow… this aircraft will be yours."

Navia inhaled sharply.

"You are now, officially, Waltz One.

The successor of the Golden Crown name.

I trust you, Navia.

To carry my legacy."

Navia met her gaze, then snapped a crisp salute.

"I won't let you down, Captain."

Furina chuckled.

"I know you won't, Sunshine."

As cheers erupted, Furina turned toward her Rafale.

Her home for thirty years.

She traced her fingers along its nose, then stepped back.

She had spent her life in the sky.

Now, it was time for someone else to take flight.

And as she watched her friends, her squadron—her family—celebrate…

She smiled.

The Final Farewell

Midnight draped the airfield in a silent shroud. The night was still, save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered across the tarmac. The once-bustling celebration had faded, and one by one, the guests and fellow pilots had departed, heading home to rest.

But Furina…

Furina had returned to the apron.

There it stood—her Rafale. A machine of war, a symbol of defiance, a testament to thirty years spent carving her legend into the skies. The aircraft's sleek frame was bathed in the soft glow of the overhead floodlights, casting elongated shadows across the ground. It looked almost ethereal, the way the golden hue of its insignia shimmered under the artificial light.

She took a slow step forward, her boots tapping lightly against the concrete. Her heart pounded—not with adrenaline as it once did in the heat of battle, but with something far heavier. Something final.

Reaching out, her fingertips brushed against the fuselage, just beneath the cockpit where the registration number was boldly inscribed:

1013-FF.

For years, those numbers had meant everything. They had been a part of her, just as much as the sky itself.

Her fingers lingered for a moment before her palm pressed flat against the cool metal. She closed her eyes, bowing her head slightly, and in a voice just above a whisper, she spoke:

"Thank you."

The words trembled as they left her lips.

"My Air Force days might be done…" she continued, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the base. "But my legacy…"

She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her.

"It will continue on forever."

Her eyes traced the curves of the aircraft, from its nose to its wingtips, recalling every moment they had shared—the furious dogfights, the desperate battles, the quiet moments of solitude above the clouds.

"For as long as you exist…" she murmured.

"The next generation will see you…"

Her breath hitched.

"As the symbol of hope…"

She swallowed hard, but she didn't fight it anymore.

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

"I'm gonna miss this."

Another tear followed. Then another.

She didn't wipe them away. She let them fall.

For decades, she had kept her emotions locked away, her pain buried beneath the roar of afterburners and the weight of responsibility. She had always been the ace, the leader, the legend.

But now… now she was just Furina.

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel.

She nodded once toward her Rafale. A silent farewell. A promise that she would never forget.

Then—she turned.

And walked forward.

She didn't look back.

Not because she didn't want to.

But because she knew—

She didn't need to.

Because with the dark…

Comes light.

Because for as long as pilots soared through the skies, for as long as the wind carried the echoes of roaring engines, for as long as Teyvat remembered—

Her name would remain.

Her story would live on.

Her legacy would never fade.

She would not just be remembered as a warrior.

Not just as an ace.

Not just as a legend.

But as a hero.

A hero of Teyvat.

For generations to come.