The Final Day
The Remaining Days of the Air Show
The air show at Marcotte Air Force Base continued to be an overwhelming success, drawing millions of spectators from all across Teyvat and beyond. The sheer scale of the event was unlike anything seen before—pilots, engineers, aviation enthusiasts, and historians alike gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime display of aerial excellence, cutting-edge technology, and the enduring legacy of flight.
Every day brought new spectacles: breathtaking aerial performances, thunderous flyovers, and emotional reunions between past and present.
Day 3 – Aerial Supremacy of the Past and Present
The third day opened with a performance that sent shivers down the spines of those watching.
For the first time in decades, Cascade Squadron and Emberhowl Squadron soared through the sky together, their legendary formations once again gracing the heavens. The unmistakable twin-tail silhouettes of their F-14A Tomcats, adorned in deep black with dark blue and gold accents, cut through the crisp morning air. The sound of their twin Pratt & Whitney TF30 engines roared like thunder, echoing across the base.
What followed was a masterclass in precision flying—coordinated rolls, high-G turns, and the infamous "Fan Break" maneuver—where the aircraft split apart in all directions before rejoining in a seamless, synchronized loop. The sight of these warbirds, once retired from active service, now dancing in the sky as if no time had passed, ignited a standing ovation from the crowd.
Then came the Teyvat Angels, the elite demonstration squadron flying the F/A-18 Super Hornets. Their performance was nothing short of perfection: diamond formations that held as tight as a clenched fist, opposing solo passes where two jets screamed past each other mere meters apart, and a breathtaking high-speed delta formation. Their final move—a formation loop ending in a perfectly timed synchronized break—left the audience in awe.
But it wasn't just fighter jets that took center stage.
The Teyvat Air Force demonstrated its strategic reach and logistical power, reminding all that air superiority is more than just dogfighting prowess:
E-3 Sentry AWACS, their radar domes like watchful sentinels high above.
KC-10 Extender and KC-46 Pegasus tankers, showcasing the lifeline of long-range operations.
B-2 Spirit stealth bombers, gliding ominously in formation, their dark silhouettes evoking a sense of sheer power.
C-17 Globemasters, C-130 Hercules, and the mighty C-5 Galaxy, demonstrating tactical and strategic airlift capabilities.
The sky was alive with motion, an ever-changing dance of past, present, and future. The third day had set the bar impossibly high—but the air show was far from over.
Day 4 to 6 – Merging the Past and Future
The airfield remained a symphony of sound and speed as more elite squadrons took to the skies.
Day four saw Drowned Squadron and Rancher Squadron take center stage in a combat demonstration.
Rancher Squadron's F-22 Raptors exhibited their unmatched agility, slicing through the sky with supermaneuverability that defied physics. Cobra maneuvers, post-stall turns, and instantaneous vectoring showcased why the Raptor was still the king of air dominance.
Drowned Squadron's F-35 Lightning IIs demonstrated their stealth and sensor fusion capabilities, vanishing into the sky before reappearing with simulated missile locks on their opponents, proving the terrifying lethality of 5th-generation warfare.
As the Raptors and Lightning IIs danced in simulated combat, vapor trails wove intricate patterns in the sky—an aerial battle without missiles, but with no less intensity.
But the air show wasn't just about military aviation—it was a celebration of all flight.
On the civilian side, the latest in aerospace innovation was on display:
Boeing's 777X Prototype 001 made its first-ever public demonstration, executing an impossibly steep takeoff before gracefully showcasing its unmatched fuel efficiency and range.
The Boeing 737 MAX 10 Test Bed 002 executed a flawless handling display, proving the resilience of modern commercial aviation.
And then came the golden era of aviation, as vintage aircraft took to the sky.
Douglas DC-3s, DC-4s, and DC-6s, their polished aluminum skins gleaming under the sun.
Boeing 707s and 727s, elegant remnants of a bygone era of jet travel.
Lockheed L-188 Electras, their turboprop engines roaring as they performed low, graceful banking passes over the field.
It was a mesmerizing fusion of past, present, and future, a reminder that the story of aviation is one of constant evolution—yet never forgetting its roots.
Day 7 – A Tribute to the Legends
The seventh day was one of reverence and remembrance—a tribute to the aircraft that shaped history and the pilots who once flew them.
From the early morning, the sound of radial engines filled the air, a mechanical heartbeat of history coming back to life.
Warbirds that once ruled the skies made their return:
C-46 Commandos and C-47 Skytrains, their legacy of wartime airlift honored.
C-54 Skymasters and C-118 Liftmasters, reminders of the unsung logistical heroes of past conflicts.
P-51 Mustangs and Supermarine Spitfires, their Rolls-Royce Merlin engines singing a melody of power and elegance.
F4U Corsairs, P-38 Lightnings, and Hawker Hurricanes, their iconic forms carving through the sky like echoes of past dogfights.
Then came the Missing Man Formation.
A flight of four P-51 Mustangs approached in a tight formation. As they reached show center, one suddenly pulled up, climbing higher and higher until it disappeared into the heavens—symbolizing those who never returned home.
The airfield fell silent. Veterans saluted. Families wiped away tears. Children stared in awe, realizing the gravity of the moment.
History had taken to the skies once more.
The Air Show's Legacy
As the sun set on the seventh day, it was clear—this was more than just an air show. It was a moment in history.
Millions had gathered. Legends had returned. Stories had been told, both in the air and on the ground. The roar of engines, the crackle of radios, the cheers of the crowd—these were the sounds of a generation honoring those who came before them.
But it wasn't over yet.
Tomorrow would be the final day.
The Eighth Day
The final day of the airshow.
For Furina, it was another busy day—perhaps the most important of them all.
She stood on the balcony of her hotel room, overlooking the town below. In the distance, the airbase stretched across the horizon, its vast runways barely visible under the golden morning sun. The sky was clear, the winds calm—a perfect day for flying.
In her hands, she cradled a cup of freshly brewed coffee, steam curling into the crisp morning air. Her damp hair, still drying from her shower, swayed gently in the soft breeze. She was dressed in a simple sleeping gown, the fabric flowing lightly against her skin.
Despite the weight of the day ahead, she allowed herself this quiet moment.
The sun was climbing, painting the sky with a golden hue, casting its warm light over Fontaine. The city was already stirring—distant car horns, the chatter of early risers, and the low hum of aircraft engines warming up at the airbase reached her ears.
She took a slow breath and exhaled.
"What a scene..."
A soft chuckle escaped her lips.
"Something I'd draw in my sketchbook."
Then, her expression softened. Her gaze drifted past the horizon, beyond the world in front of her—as if searching through time itself.
"I know you are all watching over us."
She raised her cup slightly in the air—a quiet toast to those who were no longer here.
"This one is for all of you."
"This one… is for peace."
She took a final sip, savoring the warmth before setting the cup aside.
Today was not just about flying.
Today was about remembering.
In the past few days, she had finished writing her song, rehearsed with the orchestra, and finalized everything with the event coordinators.
Tonight, at the closing ceremony, she would sing it. In front of everyone.
She had already chosen its name.
"The Journey Home."
It wasn't just a song. It was a message. Her message.
A song of remembrance.
A song of war.
A song of peace.
Furina took one last look at the morning sky before turning back inside.
There was still much to do.
A Day of Tribute
The morning would begin with a tribute flyover.
Every squadron in attendance—from Fontaine's Waltz Squadron to Snezhnaya's Hearth Squadron—would take to the skies in one final, grand formation. A symbol of unity forged in the aftermath of war.
But Waltz Squadron and Primordial Squadron had an even greater responsibility.
They would perform the Missing Man Formation.
A solemn tribute to those who never returned home.
As Furina buttoned her formal Air Force uniform, she suddenly froze mid-motion.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Shit. I forgot."
"Today is the day Arlecchino flies again… for the first time since the war."
For a moment, she almost couldn't believe it. Arlecchino, once her greatest rival in the skies, was about to take flight once more.
Quickly, Furina grabbed her coat, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped out of her room.
The day was just beginning.
A Conversation of the Skies
By the time she reached the parking lot, Arlecchino was already there—waiting.
The red-haired former ace stood beside Furina's sky-blue Monica 650, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The morning light caught the subtle scar that ran along her cheek, a reminder of the war they had both survived.
Furina stopped a few feet away, tilting her head slightly. With a smirk, she draped her coat over her shoulder and placed her left hand on her hip.
"So… how are you feeling, Arlecchino?"
Arlecchino exhaled. A long, slow sigh.
"I don't know, Furina… It's been too long since I've flown."
Furina sighed as well, walking up to stand beside her. Instead of answering, she leaned against the car, mirroring Arlecchino's posture.
A moment of silence passed between them.
Then, in a softer tone, Furina asked:
"Tell me, Arlecchino… what are you really feeling?"
Arlecchino hesitated. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the morning sky, as if searching for an answer among the clouds.
"Guilt," she admitted quietly.
Furina turned to look at her.
"Guilt?"
Arlecchino met her gaze.
"Like I said all those years ago… Imperatora forced me to fly in the war. I should have accepted my fate and been charged with treason."
Furina's expression softened. She stepped closer, her voice quiet yet firm.
"Don't say that, Arlecchino."
"You were forced to. It was either that… or be charged with something you never wanted to be charged with."
She leaned back against the car again, staring up at the sky.
"And who knows what they would have done to you? Maybe even forced you into labor in a camp somewhere… or worse."
A pause.
Then, Furina turned to her again, her eyes searching.
"Didn't you once say the skies were your home?"
Arlecchino was silent. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Furina smiled faintly.
"Then why not take to the skies again?"
"I know there's something inside you that still wants to fly."
She lifted her eyes toward the horizon.
"The sky wasn't always my home either, you know."
"I wanted to be an actor. That was my dream. I never thought I'd find my home up there."
She chuckled.
"Look at me now. A fighter pilot. Teyvat's Ace. The woman who ended a war."
"Do you know why I never accepted the promotions they kept offering me?"
Arlecchino glanced at her.
"Why?"
Furina's voice lowered.
"Because if I did… I'd stop flying."
"I'd be in a war room, training rookies, sending them out into the skies while I stayed behind on the ground. Giving them orders. Watching to see who comes back and who doesn't."
Her gaze darkened slightly.
"And the last thing I want…"
"Is to spend my life wondering if the pilot I trained will make it home alive."
Arlecchino watched her quietly.
Then, Furina turned back to her.
"You and I… we were the same when we were younger."
Arlecchino raised an eyebrow.
"How would you know that?"
Furina sighed.
"Because I saw your personnel file."
Arlecchino blinked.
"You what?"
"During the war. At Dymny Kordon Air Force Base."
Arlecchino stiffened.
"I know about the Khaenri'an War. The Stormhowl Squadron. The operations you flew against them."
"I know you were a mercenary pilot. Paid by the number of targets you took down."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, Arlecchino sighed.
Furina reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You can do this."
"The skies are waiting for you."
A deep breath.
Then, a nod.
"Come on," Furina said, pushing herself off the car. "Get in. We've got a long day ahead."
Arlecchino hesitated for only a second before stepping toward the passenger seat.
As Furina slid into the driver's seat, she tossed her coat into the back, buckled up, and started the engine.
With that, they drove toward Marcotte Air Force Base—toward destiny.
Minutes Later... Over at Marcotte Air Force Base
Preparations were in full swing for two major flights.
The first—The Flight of the Aces—would see Furina and Arlecchino take to the skies together for the first time in fifteen years. It was a moment of immense significance—not only for the two pilots but for history itself. Arlecchino, once the feared ace of Snezhnaya, was returning to the skies after having hung up her flight suit after the war.
Following their flight, a massive aerial salute would take place.
A tribute to all the souls lost during the war.
Every squadron that had flown in the Teyvat-Snezhnaya War, and in conflicts prior, would take to the skies in one final, unified formation. The display would culminate in one of the most solemn moments of the airshow—a Missing Man Salute.
Furina herself, leading Waltz Squadron, would pull her aircraft up into the sky, breaking away from the formation—a symbolic farewell to the fallen.
Then, the final air show performances and aerobatic displays would begin, before closing with Furina's song.
By afternoon, the airshow would come to a close—marking the end of the greatest airshow in history.
And the conclusion of the 15th Anniversary of the war's end.
Final Inspections
The two planes were ready, set aside for their final inspection before the flight.
Furina's Élégante Et Efficace and Arlecchino's Su-57 were undergoing meticulous checks. Every system was inspected, every surface wiped clean, and each engine carefully examined.
Near Furina's Rafale, Grace and her team stood proudly, watching as the final checks were made.
Grace crossed her arms, a smug grin tugging at her lips.
"Still can't believe our work held up after those maneuvers Furina pulled off."
Lumine chuckled, wiping her hands on a rag.
"No kidding. Pugachev's Cobras, high-G turns, split-S dives… And she didn't even flinch."
Aether gave an approving nod as he finished inspecting one of the flaps.
"We did good, folks. Damn good."
He turned toward Ayato, who was kneeling beneath the fuselage, inspecting the engines.
"How's it looking down there, Ayato? Any signs of overuse?"
Ayato stood, wiping his hands on a cloth, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"Nope. Everything's in top condition. Just the usual carbon deposits after heavy use."
"And the best part?" He raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't even smell burnt."
Albedo chuckled from where he stood off to the side.
"Reminds me of when Furina's Rafale was brought in for an inspection back when she was in the penal unit."
Lumine's head snapped toward him.
"Wait—Furina served in a penal unit?!"
Before Albedo could respond, he sensed a presence behind him.
With a knowing smirk, he spoke without turning around.
"I think it's best if our resident lead flight explains that one herself."
Right on cue, Furina stepped up beside him.
She scoffed, amused.
"So much for keeping my record clean, huh, Albedo?"
Albedo nudged her playfully.
"Come on, Furina. Some of the war's classified records have been declassified by now."
Furina exhaled, shaking her head.
"Alright, alright."
A brief pause followed, before her expression darkened.
"I was accused of murdering Teyvat's former president—Imena."
Lumine froze.
"Wait… Imena? You mean—the president who started the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron?"
Aether's eyes widened.
"You mean The Ghosts of Emberhowl?"
Furina nodded, her face growing solemn.
"That's right."
Her voice turned quieter, more serious.
"We were on an operation to rescue her when the war broke out. At first, we thought she was missing—lost at the orbital elevator. Later, we learned she was alive and in hiding."
Her fingers clenched into fists.
"We managed to get her out. We were so damn close. But then…"
Her jaw clenched, her expression hardening.
"We were ambushed. Drones. MQ-101s. They swarmed us."
Her voice dropped to a near whisper.
"A shrapnel missile hit her Osprey. Killed her guard instantly. She took the controls herself—tried to escape."
A heavy, drawn-out breath.
"She was so close to making it out."
"Then the drones came. More of them. Closing in."
"I fired two missiles to clear the path."
"And then—out of nowhere—a third missile came in."
"Direct hit. Right side of the Osprey."
"The wing tore off. The fuselage spun out of control."
"Then… it fell."
A long silence stretched between them.
"Nobody survived."
Furina lowered her gaze, the weight of the memory heavy on her shoulders.
"And because I was the closest… they made me the scapegoat."
"That's how I ended up in the 51st Spare Squadron."
"The Drowned."
She scoffed bitterly, shaking her head.
"But hey. That's all in the past now."
Lumine frowned, eyes searching for answers.
"Didn't they at least try to prove your innocence?"
Furina let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Oh, they tried. Testimonies. Evidence. None of it mattered."
Her tone became venomous.
"Two months into my sentence, we found out one of the lead investigators was corrupt."
"He was working for Snezhnaya. Framing me."
"Why?"
Her eyes burned with intensity.
"Because they knew—I was the one who could turn the tide of the war."
She spread her arms, almost theatrically.
"So they threw me into a penal unit. Figured I'd die there."
A smirk crept onto her face as she finished.
"Well, guess what? I'm still here."
Aether shook his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath.
"That son of a bitch..."
Furina chuckled softly.
"Yeah. But in the end? I cleared my name."
Grace, standing nearby, nodded toward the Rafale.
"So, you're flying today?"
Furina grinned.
"Damn right. Along side Arlecchino."
Lumine's eyes widened in realization.
"Wait—Arlecchino?! As in… Snezhnaya's Ace Arlecchino?!"
Furina's laughter echoed.
"Lumine, there's only one Arlecchino in Teyvat. Of course, it's her."
Aether folded his arms, still processing the information.
"Hasn't it been fifteen years since she last flew?"
Furina nodded.
"Yeah. And that's exactly why I convinced her to take to the skies again."
Just then, a coordinator approached.
"Captain Furina? Miss Arlecchino would like to see you ASAP."
Furina gave a quick nod.
"Got it."
She turned to her team, flashing them a grin.
"Alright, fellas. I'll see you around."
With that, she walked toward the locker room.
She had an ace to prepare.
Inside the changing room, the atmosphere was eerily quiet.
Furina stepped through the doorway, her boots echoing softly against the floor.
And there, leaning against a locker, arms crossed and head slightly down, was Arlecchino.
She wasn't just standing there.
She was frozen.
The once unstoppable ace of Snezhnaya—the pilot who had sent shivers down the spines of enemy squadrons, who had torn through the skies with ruthless efficiency—was hesitating.
Furina's expression softened. She knew that look.
She had seen it before.
On rookies, on battle-worn veterans, even on herself—right before she stepped into a cockpit for the first time in years.
"Arlecchino?"
She kept her voice steady, but there was warmth in it.
"You alright?"
Arlecchino exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
"I… I don't know if I can do this, Furina."
She clenched a fist, staring at the ground.
"It's been fifteen years since I flew the Su-57."
There it was.
The fear. The doubt.
Furina sighed, shaking her head with a small smile. She took a step forward, closing the space between them.
"Arlecchino."
Her voice was softer now, but firm.
"It'll come to you the moment you lay eyes on it."
"The moment you touch the controls."
"The moment you feel the sky under your wings again."
She placed a steady hand on Arlecchino's shoulder, squeezing slightly.
"I had the same fear once."
Arlecchino looked up, meeting Furina's gaze.
"You did?"
Furina chuckled.
"You'd be surprised."
Then, she smirked.
"But you know what someone once told me?"
A pause.
Then, she spoke.
"Don't think."
"Just do."
The words hung in the air.
Arlecchino stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly—finally—a small, genuine smile crossed her lips.
"…You're right."
Her voice was barely above a whisper at first. But then, stronger.
"You're right, Furina."
Furina nodded, satisfied.
"And remember—this sky? It's yours."
"Make it your canvas."
"Show them."
"Show everyone watching from below that you're still an ace."
She leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully.
"Just like me."
Arlecchino exhaled sharply—almost a laugh.
Then, she nodded.
"Right."
Furina chuckled, stepping back.
"Come on."
She turned toward the door, motioning with her head.
"Let's fly."
Across the Tarmac…
The two walked side by side, stepping onto the massive stretch of concrete and steel.
And almost immediately—people turned.
Murmurs. Whispers. Excitement.
"The Aces are flying together?"
"Holy shit—is this really happening?"
"The Ace of Snezhnaya… flying with the Ace of Teyvat?"
All eyes were on them.
Two living legends, walking with purpose.
As they neared their aircraft, a familiar figure came striding up toward them.
The flight coordinator.
The same pain in the ass who had confronted Furina on Day Two of the airshow.
He looked tense.
"Captain Furina. Miss Arlecchino."
He cleared his throat.
"Remember—the hard deck is 300 feet. Whatever you do, do NOT engage in a dogfight."
Furina scoffed.
"Blah, blah, blah. We get it."
She waved him off.
"But hey—no guarantees."
The coordinator's eye twitched.
"No guarantees?! Are you serious—"
Furina sighed dramatically, throwing her arms up.
"What do you expect?"
She turned to face him fully, her grin devilish.
"We're in fighter jets, genius."
"You really think we're just gonna fly straight and level?"
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.
"We're gonna give these people one last hell of a show."
She patted his shoulder as she stepped past him.
"Now get outta my way."
The coordinator sighed heavily, rubbing his temples.
"This job is gonna kill me…"
And with that, he walked off in the opposite direction.
The Final Moment Before Flight
Arlecchino glanced at Furina.
"Furina?"
Furina turned, winking.
"You got this, Arlecchino."
"This is our sky."
"Forget about Imperatora."
"Forget about the past."
"This… is now."
Arlecchino exhaled slowly, nodding.
Then—they parted ways.
Each heading toward their respective aircraft.
The Cockpit of the Su-57…
Arlecchino climbed up, stepping into the seat.
For a moment—she just sat there.
Her hands hovered over the controls.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"You got this, Arlecchino."
"You can do this."
"Find your reason to fly again."
A long breath.
Then—her hand moved.
With a sudden resolve, she reached for the canopy switch—
And slammed it shut.
The Cockpit of the Rafale…
Furina had been watching.
She saw the moment Arlecchino finally found her courage.
And she smiled.
"Atta girl."
She reached for her own canopy switch and sealed herself in.
Then—her hands moved on instinct.
Her Snecma M88-2 engines began spooling up, the turbines whining as they surged to life.
Taxi to the Runway…
Furina taxied out first, her Rafale gliding smoothly across the tarmac.
Arlecchino followed.
Then—they reached the runway.
Furina lined up first.
And without hesitation—she took off.
A flash of gold and blue, her Rafale climbing into the sky.
Arlecchino's Moment of Truth…
She sat there.
Engines roaring.
Fingers gripping the throttle.
She hesitated.
"It's been too long."
Then, she closed her eyes.
"Remember… don't think."
"Just do."
A deep breath.
She opened her eyes.
And then—
She slammed the throttle forward.
The AL-41 engines screamed, roaring to full afterburner.
The Su-57 launched forward, the runway rushing beneath her.
140 knots.
Then—she pulled back.
The nose lifted.
And for the first time in fifteen years…
She was airborne.
The moment her wheels left the ground, everything came rushing back.
The weightlessness. The power. The feeling of the sky wrapping around her like an old friend.
She was flying again.
The Su-57 climbed effortlessly, responding to her every touch as if it had been waiting for her return. The flight controls felt natural in her hands, the HUD glowing a familiar green against the canopy glass.
Arlecchino exhaled, a slow, steady breath.
Then—her lips curled into a smirk.
She rolled the aircraft, feeling the way it moved, testing the responsiveness. The Sukhoi didn't just fly—it flowed, cutting through the air with predatory grace.
And above her, Furina's voice crackled over the radio.
"Welcome back, Ace."
And for the first time in fifteen years, Arlecchino felt it.
Something inside her shifted.
Something awakened.
It was subtle at first—a lightness in her chest, a weight suddenly lifting from her body, as though she had been carrying an invisible burden all these years.
Her hands on the stick felt steady.
Her mind, clear.
And suddenly—she knew.
"Is this what Furina meant?"
She inhaled sharply, feeling the rush of the wind, the roar of the engines, the sheer freedom pressing against her skin.
"This... this is what I was missing."
A slow, confident smirk crossed her lips.
"Alright... if that's the case—then I finally know why I need to fly."
The Breakaway Maneuver
Furina's voice crackled over the radio.
"Arlecchino—at my signal, break right and climb vertically."
Arlecchino turned her head slightly, catching Furina's gaze through the canopy glass.
"Wilco."
She tightened her grip on the throttle, anticipation thrumming in her veins.
Then—the countdown.
"Three..."
"Two..."
"One..."
"BREAK!"
In perfect synchronization, both aircraft snapped into a sharp break.
Furina jerked her Rafale into a 90-degree left bank, peeling away into the sky like a blade slicing through silk.
Arlecchino did the same, banking hard to the right.
Then—they both went vertical.
Two streaks of silver and gold ripped into the heavens, twin vapor trails spiraling upward in a dazzling, chaotic waltz.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Cameras flashed, journalists scrambled, the airbase trembled with the sheer energy of the moment.
Even the most hardened officials couldn't help but watch in awe.
The control tower was in absolute chaos.
"This is NOT what we agreed upon!"
The flight coordinator, veins bulging from his forehead, practically screamed into the radio.
"Furina! Arlecchino! That's NOT what we agreed upon!"
Then—another voice cut through his headset.
Smooth. Confident. Unshaken.
"I think it's time to let these two play cat and mouse."
The coordinator froze. His eyes twitched.
"What?! WHO IS THIS?!"
No response. Just silence.
Then—over the radio.
"I think it's time for the two of you to show the world why you're Aces."
The Duel Begins
In her cockpit, Furina smirked.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Arlecchino?"
"I think I know exactly what our mystery friend is getting at."
"Who plays chase?"
Furina grinned, the thrill surging through her veins.
"I think I should. For old times' sake."
Arlecchino narrowed her eyes, her smirk matching Furina's.
"Alright, Fontaine Ace."
"Come at me."
Without hesitation, Arlecchino yanked her Su-57 into a steep dive—plummeting toward the airfield at an angle so sharp, the crowd gasped in horror.
Furina followed instantly, shoving her throttles to full afterburner, eyes locked on Arlecchino's jet as they ripped through the sky at breakneck speeds.
Altitude dropping—
10,000 feet.
8,000.
5,000.
3,500.
As they both pulled out of the dive, Arlecchino suddenly rolled hard left—looping back around, pulling an aggressive turn.
For a split second, Furina lost sight of her.
Then—
A flash of blue and silver streaked past her left wing.
Her eyes widened.
"Gotcha!"
Dancing in the Skies
The two jets twisted and spun, their wings slicing through the air with deadly precision.
No weapons.
No missiles.
No guns.
This was pure skill.
Pure instinct.
A game of hunter and prey.
Arlecchino weaved left.
Furina followed.
A high-G right turn.
Still on her tail.
Arlecchino gritted her teeth.
"I'm done playing games."
"Time to swap positions!"
With perfect timing, she cut her throttles to idle and yanked her stick back hard.
Her nose shot straight up—a perfect Pugachev's Cobra.
The crowd below gasped as her aircraft suddenly froze midair, nose pointed directly at the sky.
Furina's Rafale overshot.
And in an instant—Arlecchino snapped her nose back down.
Now, she was the hunter.
Furina vs. Arlecchino: The Chase
Furina grinned, slamming her throttles forward.
"Alright."
"Let's dance."
She pushed her Rafale into a steep bank, skimming just below the clouds, cutting hard turns, trying to shake Arlecchino off her tail.
But Arlecchino wasn't falling for it.
She stuck to Furina's six like glue, anticipating every move, every dodge, every feint.
From the ground, the spectators watched in absolute awe.
"They're really doing it."
"The two deadliest Aces in the world... are fighting each other."
"And we're watching it LIVE."
Furina rolled hard left, pulling into an inverted dive.
"Let's see if you can follow this, Arlecchino."
Arlecchino smirked.
"Try me."
She followed without hesitation.
Two jets—one Rafale, one Su-57—spiraling downward, twisting, rolling, fighting for dominance.
No missiles.
No guns.
Just pure skill.
And this time—it wasn't war.
It was freedom.
It was passion.
It was what they were born to do.
And in that moment—Arlecchino finally understood.
This was her home.
Not a country.
Not a government.
Not a rank.
This.
The sky.
The Observation
As Furina's Rafale twisted and turned through the sky, weaving like a blade through the air, the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group stood by the Elephant Walk, watching the aerial spectacle unfold.
Jean's eyes followed every movement, analyzing the impossible precision with which Furina dodged Arlecchino's Su-57.
"Look at how Furina maneuvers around Arlecchino. It's like... she's inhuman."
Clorinde chuckled, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the sky.
"I wouldn't say that. Furina has this... ability."
Jean raised an eyebrow.
"Ability?"
Clorinde nodded.
"She learns. She adapts. She observes how her enemies fly, how they handle their aircraft. And then—she mirrors them, refines it, and counters it."
Jean frowned slightly.
"And how do you know that?"
Clorinde scoffed.
"Because I've seen it firsthand."
She glanced at Jean.
"You remember Volchiy Valley, right?"
Jean's jaw clenched.
"How could I forget? You were providing top cover while we were on the ground. For a penal unit, you had some of the tightest formations I'd ever seen."
Clorinde smirked at the memory.
"Right. I was watching from above, covering Furina as she hunted down Arlecchino in the mountains. Weaving through those towering rock formations, slipping between the cliffs like they were nothing."
Her voice turned distant, like she was seeing it all again.
"But here's the thing… she wasn't just chasing. She was learning."
Jean tilted her head slightly.
"Learning?"
Clorinde nodded.
"Every sharp turn. Every high-G maneuver. Every time Arlecchino pulled a Pugachev's Cobra to throw her off, Furina studied it."
She exhaled sharply.
"And at Morepesok, she nearly shot Arlecchino out of the sky because of it."
Jean's lips parted slightly in realization.
Clorinde continued.
"Then came Crimson Moon Castle."
"And that's where Furina used everything she had learned—every single movement, every calculated adjustment—and shot Arlecchino down."
Collei, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke.
"That's terrifying…"
She shook her head, a slow smile forming.
"Furina doesn't just fight in the sky. She evolves."
Jean nodded slowly, her admiration for Furina only deepening.
"That's why she's feared among the Snezhnayan forces."
Collei exhaled.
"That's why they call her the Golden Crown."
The Decisive Move
Meanwhile, in the sky—
Furina's mind was razor-sharp, calculating, analyzing, predicting.
She had played Arlecchino's game long enough.
It was time to end this.
"Alright, Arlecchino. Two can play at that game."
She throttled down to idle and pulled hard on her sidestick.
The Rafale's nose snapped upward.
At first, it looked like a standard Pugachev's Cobra—a 90-degree pitch-up, bleeding speed rapidly.
Arlecchino overshot instantly.
But then—
The nose kept turning.
180 degrees.
270 degrees.
360 degrees.
A complete rotation.
The crowd below gasped.
The TSSG pilots standing by the runway froze.
Jean's breath caught in her throat.
"No way... A Pugachev's Cobra Turn?"
Furina's nose leveled perfectly behind Arlecchino.
Her HUD blared with a tone.
Lock.
Furina's voice came through the radio, cool and unwavering.
"And that's a kill."
Arlecchino let out a low chuckle.
"And that's that."
The Aftermath
As Furina and Arlecchino taxied their jets back to the staging area, ground crews swarmed around them, their excitement barely contained.
The moment Furina climbed out of her Rafale, she was met with stunned silence—then an eruption of cheers.
Wriothesley was the first to approach, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You really pulled that off, huh?"
Furina grinned, peeling off her flight gloves.
"You sound surprised."
Clorinde stood with arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression before finally giving a single nod.
Jean, on the other hand, still looked like she was processing what she had just witnessed.
"I've seen stunt pilots attempt that move in air shows… but in a dogfight?" She exhaled. "That's another level entirely."
Arlecchino walked over, removing her helmet, her red eyes gleaming with amusement.
"I'll admit it, Furina. That was a damn good move."
Furina smirked.
"Wouldn't have tried it if you weren't pushing me that hard."
Arlecchino let out a low chuckle and extended a hand.
"Next time, though, I'll be ready for it."
Furina took it firmly.
"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
A silent agreement.
A promise of future battles.
And in the skies above them, the sun began to set—casting a golden crown over the battlefield they both called home.
The Final Phase Begins
Before they could even fully process the moment, their radios crackled once more.
"Arlecchino, Furina—remain airborne. We are now moving into the second phase of the airshow: The Massive Flying Salute."
Both pilots responded in unison.
"Wilco."
A deep silence followed between them for a few seconds, the only sound the hum of their powerful engines against the open sky.
Then, Furina's voice cut through the radio, softer now.
"Arlecchino… how do you feel?"
There was a long pause.
Then, Arlecchino spoke, her voice quieter than it had been in years.
"I... I feel… alive."
Furina smirked, stealing a glance at the Su-57 flying in perfect formation beside her.
"I told you. The skies are calling."
A chuckle—low, genuine.
Furina could feel it.
That weight Arlecchino had carried for years, the unseen burden of war and regret…
It was finally lifting.
A New Beginning
Then, Furina's voice took on a teasing edge.
"Arlecchino, if you really want to keep your mind free, I have a suggestion for you."
Arlecchino raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? And what's that?"
Furina smirked.
"Buy your own plane."
A pause. Arlecchino blinked.
"You mean… a General Aviation plane?"
"That's right. Something you can just hop into whenever you want. Something that isn't tied to a military base, a contract, or a mission."
Furina's voice turned lighthearted, but there was sincerity beneath it.
"Think about it. No rules. No restrictions. Just you, your aircraft, and the open sky."
Arlecchino exhaled, glancing out over the horizon.
The golden sunrise stretched across the sky, illuminating the clouds in hues of amber and sapphire, the morning light casting a glow on the world below.
She had spent so long seeing the sky as a battlefield.
But today…
For the first time in fifteen years…
She saw it for what it truly was.
A vast, boundless freedom.
Arlecchino let out a slow breath.
"Maybe you're right, Furina."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head.
"I'll think about it."
Furina grinned.
"Good."
Their aircraft climbed, the twin contrails of a Rafale and a Su-57 carving lines through the heavens.
For today…
For the first time since the war ended…
They weren't just aces.
They weren't just warriors.
They were pilots.
And the sky was theirs.
Honoring the Skies That Took So Many, and the Ones Who Never Came Back
A Sky Filled With Legends
For twenty-five minutes, Furina and Arlecchino circled high above Marcotte Air Force Base, their aircraft cutting smooth arcs through the sky, watching history unfold beneath them.
Below, thousands of spectators filled the massive airfield, their eyes locked onto the heavens as the grand Aerial Salute continued.
This wasn't just an airshow.
It was a monument of flight.
A tribute to every pilot who once soared across these very skies.
To those who returned home victorious—
And to those who never did.
From the oldest veterans to the youngest cadets, time itself seemed to pause.
Furina and Arlecchino maintained altitude, watching as squadron after squadron took their turn in the ceremonial flyover.
The first half of the tribute had already completed their passes—
Aircraft from wars long past.
Squadrons whose names had been etched into the very fabric of history.
At the very end of that first half…
A lone F-14A Tomcat.
Callsign: Emberhowl Two.
Pilot: Mona "Starseer" Megistus.
The last surviving member of the once-mighty Emberhowl Air Command Squadron—The Ghosts of Emberhowl.
She flew alone.
A solitary specter.
A reminder of the war that came before the Teyvat-Snezhnaya conflict.
Of battles fought in the dead of night.
Of names now whispered only in memory.
Furina exhaled deeply, watching as Mona's Tomcat made its final pass.
A farewell to the past.
A last salute.
Her voice was a whisper over the radio.
"Mona 'Starseer' Megistus… One of Teyvat's greatest aces."
She shook her head, clearing her thoughts.
It wasn't time for her tribute yet.
Now, it was time for the squadrons of the Teyvat-Snezhnaya War to take the skies.
The Squadrons Take Flight
First to pass: Nocturne Squadron.
A sleek three-ship formation—
Two F/A-18 Super Hornets and a single F-35C Lightning II.
Lynette.
Freminet.
Lyney.
Once rookies.
Now, they led the next generation.
Second to pass: Rancher Squadron.
A seven-man diamond formation of F-22A Raptors.
Stealthy predators, their black edges slicing through the air, the sunlight catching on their canopies.
Third to pass: Cascade Squadron.
Four F-14B Tomcats—the last of their kind in active service.
Roaring past in perfect synchronization, their afterburners trailing blue fire as they executed a flawless synchronized roll.
The Final Flyby: The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group
Now, it was time.
The TSSG.
The squadron that ended the war.
The ones who led the charge at Morepesok.
The ones who fought in the skies above Sepharis Bird.
And at the front—
The Primordial Squadron.
Jean Gunnhildr. (F-14B, stolen during the war)
Ningguang. (F-15E Strike Eagle)
Ei. (F-15E Strike Eagle)
Mavuika. (F-15E Strike Eagle)
Their formation was a spearhead.
A symbol of power.
And then—
The Waltz Squadron.
The ones who flew with Furina through hell and back.
Furina De Fontaine. (Rafale M Evolution, 1013-FF – Élégante Et Efficace)
Clorinde. (Rafale M)
Wriothesley. (Rafale M)
Collei. (Rafale M)
Eula. (F-15E Strike Eagle)
They soared in perfect unity, their silhouettes reflecting over the waters beyond the airfield.
This was it.
The Missing Man Salute.
Collei's voice crackled over the radio.
"On my signal, Captain, you will break right and climb."
Furina nodded.
"Wilco."
They passed over the runway.
The crowd held its breath.
Then—
"Five."
"Four."
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"BREAK."
Furina slammed her throttles forward and snapped her Rafale right, rocketing skyward.
Her golden crown emblem shimmered in the sunlight as she vanished into the heavens.
The rest of the squadron held formation—one seat forever empty.
A silence.
A tribute.
A salute to those who never returned.
Then—
The roar of thousands.
Cheers. Applause. A salute not just from the air, but from the hearts of all below.
The Skies Remember
As Furina climbed higher, she exhaled.
"That was for you all… for every pilot who gave their life in these skies.
May the winds carry your names forever."
She leveled out, watching as the formations below began to disperse.
The airshow was over.
And soon—
It would be time for the final farewell.
Hours Later...
The massive hangar at Marcotte Air Force Base was packed to capacity. Rows of seats stretched across the floor, yet thousands more stood shoulder to shoulder, filling every available space. Pilots, engineers, dignitaries, and civilians alike—men and women from all walks of life—had come together for this moment.
The final night of the airshow.
The closing ceremony of an event that had drawn the eyes of the entire world to Fontaine.
But this was no longer just about aviation.
It was something greater.
A celebration of peace.
A moment of unity.
A place where former enemies now stood side by side, no longer as adversaries, but as comrades bound by the shared skies they once fought over.
At the podium, the head organizer of the event—a man who had witnessed the war firsthand—took a deep breath. He cast his gaze over the vast crowd, absorbing the weight of the occasion before speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen… thank you."
A wave of applause rippled through the hangar, the sound reverberating against the steel beams above.
The air was thick with emotion. The weight of the past week, of the past fifteen years, settled over the audience like a silent specter.
"I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to the governments of Snezhnaya, Fontaine, and Teyvat for their unwavering support in organizing this historic event."
He paused, allowing the murmurs of agreement to settle before continuing.
"This airshow was never just about aircraft. It was about something far greater.
"It was about peace.
"Fifteen years have passed since the end of the war.
"And though time marches forward, the past remains with us.
"We cannot change it.
"But what we can do—what we must do—is ensure that peace remains our future.
"For the ones who never made it home.
"And for those of us who are still here."
A solemn silence blanketed the space.
Even the distant rumble of jet engines outside—once a constant presence—seemed to fade, as if the very sky itself was listening.
Then—
"I would also like to thank every single one of you who attended.
"Our aircraft manufacturers—Boeing, Airbus, Lockheed Martin, Dassault Aviation—who continue to push the boundaries of aviation.
"Our military, who have safeguarded the skies for generations.
"Our civilian aviation groups, who remind us that the sky belongs to all.
"And the pilots of vintage warbirds, who carried history upon their wings and reminded us of those who came before."
He took a steadying breath.
"And lastly—"
His voice tightened slightly.
"To every Air Force squadron that flew.
"You gave us more than a show.
"You gave us a memory.
"A spectacle that will live on in history.
"Thank you."
Applause erupted once more, but this time, it was different.
It carried weight.
It carried meaning.
It carried the gratitude of those still living—offered not only to the pilots of today but to the souls of those who once soared through the skies and never returned.
The event was drawing to a close.
But before the final curtain fell—
A farewell.
A last tribute to those who had once filled these skies in war and now rested beyond them in eternity.
"And now, to formally close this event…" the speaker continued, his voice steady yet reverent.
"We present a video tribute.
"A remembrance of those who flew during the war…
"And a performance by the Fontaine Philharmonic Orchestra."
The hangar dimmed, the artificial lights fading into darkness.
The massive screens flickered to life.
The audience held their breath.
Then—
The screen faded into an image.
A familiar face.
One that had once graced the skies in battle.
One that had left behind a legacy written in the clouds.
A Tribute in Motion
The War, Replayed in Fragments
The screen flickered to life.
The footage was old, grainy in some places, crisp in others. Some clips came from cockpit cameras, others from helmet-mounted recorders of ground forces who had fought on the front lines. The images weren't just history—they were memories, burned into the minds of those who had lived through it.
Somewhere in the audience, a pilot shifted in his seat, gripping his jacket. He remembered this.
The orchestra began to play.
A slow, solemn melody.
A song once played for another war, in another time.
But now—
It was called something else.
"The Liberation of Teyvat."
Charybdis Air Force Base – The First Blow
A shaky, handheld camera recording—footage from a Snezhnayan recon drone.
A peaceful sunrise over Charybdis.
The silhouette of F/A-18 Hornets lined up along the runway, their pilots laughing and chatting, unaware of what was coming.
Then—
A roar of distant engines.
The camera panned up.
Black specks in the sky.
Snezhnayan bombers.
The next clip was chaos.
A ground crew member, crouched behind a sandbag, his breath ragged as he recorded the incoming attack. Explosions ripped through the tarmac, F/A-18s crumpling like paper. The camera jolted as the shockwaves hit.
Then—
A streak of blue and gold.
A Rafale M, engines glowing, wheels barely leaving the ground as it took off amidst the flames.
The pilot watching in the audience swallowed hard.
He had been there.
He had seen that jet rise through the fire.
And he remembered the voice over the radio—
"Waltz One, airborne!"
Tornado Alley – The Wind of Battle
A helmet camera from an infantryman caught the moment a squadron of Snezhnayan fighters screamed overhead, barely above the rooftops. The ground forces scrambled for cover as machine-gun tracers carved lines through the buildings.
A breathless voice on the recording:
"Where the hell is our air support?!"
Then—
A sonic boom.
A shadow slicing through the stormy sky.
"This is Waltz Squadron. We'll clear the skies for you."
The next clip was a HUD camera.
Missiles launching.
Snezhnayan aircraft exploding mid-turn.
A Sukhoi Su-30 attempting to flee—only to be intercepted by a Rafale M diving straight through the storm clouds.
A soldier in the audience clenched his fists.
He remembered looking up at that moment.
He remembered seeing that lone jet cutting through the sky like a sword.
"Waltz One, fox three."
A kill.
A victory.
A moment in history.
The Valley of Volchiy – The Duel
The orchestra swelled.
The screen faded into the narrow, jagged terrain of the Volchiy Valley. The wind howled through the mountains, and two aircraft tore through the cliffs, twisting and turning in a deadly ballet.
One black.
One silver-blue.
A Sukhoi Su-57.
A Rafale M.
Arlecchino versus Furina.
The audience leaned forward.
Even after fifteen years, this duel was legendary.
The footage alternated between the perspectives of various pilots and radar operators who had watched it unfold. The raw speed, the impossible maneuvers, the sheer skill of both pilots as they danced between death and survival.
A radar operator's voice, recorded from the war:
"They're fighting like they're the only two left in the world."
Then—
A missile lock tone.
Arlecchino's Sukhoi breaking away.
Furina climbing into the clouds.
The footage cut to black.
The music fell into silence.
The duel had ended, but not the war.
Bespokoynaya Harbor – The Floating Fortress
The screen exploded into fire.
Footage from multiple aircraft merged together in rapid succession.
The Razushitzel.
A massive warship, bristling with anti-air defenses.
Fighter jets from both sides screaming through the sky.
An F-15, engulfed in fire, plummeting into the ocean.
A camera caught the exact moment a missile struck the Razushitzel's core.
A voice from the past:
"Fox Three! Fox Three!"
Furina's Rafale, diving straight through the inferno.
The crowd shuddered.
Even those who had never fought felt the heat of that moment.
The Alicorn – A War Beneath the Waves
A periscope recording.
Dark ocean.
Then—
A shape emerging from the depths.
The Alicorn.
A submarine the size of an aircraft carrier.
The orchestra's percussion roared as missiles erupted from the water, streaking toward Teyvat's fleet.
The footage switched to cockpit cameras—desperate pilots weaving through a storm of enemy fire.
One final strike.
A Rafale diving through the smoke.
A missile locking on.
An explosion.
The Alicorn splitting in half, sinking beneath the waves.
The audience barely breathed.
They had read about it.
But seeing it again—
It felt like watching history happen in real-time.
The Final Battle – The Skyward Ascent
The Sepharis Bird Celestia.
A tower, piercing the heavens.
The audience tensed.
They knew what was coming.
A pilot's shaky recording—his hands gripping the controls as the SSTO craft detached from the tower.
"It's launching! We're out of time!"
The screen cut to a Rafale M, climbing.
Furina's Rafale.
The orchestra reached its peak—violins screaming, drums thundering.
Then—
A flash of blue.
A streak of light against the sky.
The moment Furina's jet surged upward, chasing the heavens.
The explosion.
The tower collapsing.
Smoke and fire.
And in the final frame—
A single aircraft, still rising.
A golden insignia catching the last light of the sun.
A Rafale M.
The plane with the golden crown.
The Silence of Remembrance
As the last echoes of the orchestra's final note faded into the vast hangar, a heavy silence settled over the thousands of people inside.
The screens went dark.
The only illumination came from the dim emergency lights, barely enough to outline the stunned faces of the crowd.
A single phrase appeared on the screen.
"For those who never came home."
Murmurs rippled through the massive crowd—
A quiet confusion.
A whispering anticipation.
Jean scanned the packed audience, brows furrowing as the moment stretched on.
"Hey… where's Furina?"
Collei, seated beside her, glanced around, a flicker of concern flashing across her face.
"I don't know… she was just here a second ago."
Then—
The orchestra began playing again.
A different tune.
A softer melody.
One that no one had heard before.
The stage lights dimmed—then slowly flickered back on.
And standing alone in the center of the stage—
A single figure.
Furina.
Jean's breath hitched.
"F-Furina?"
Collei's eyebrows shot up.
"What the hell is she doing up there?"
Then—
She began to sing.
A Voice in the Silence
It was gentle at first.
A voice that had commanded no battlefield, launched no missiles, and had never been heard in the heat of war.
But it was steady.
It was certain.
And it carried the weight of fifteen years of remembrance.
A promise.
A promise that the ones who never came home would not be forgotten.
A promise that their sacrifices would not be in vain.
A promise that this world—this sky—would never see another war like the one they fought.
The Journey Begins
Furina's voice echoed through the massive hangar.
The audience, stunned into silence, listened.
"The journey begins
Starts from within
Things that I need to know
The song of the bird
Echoed in words
Flying for the need to fly"
The soft swell of the orchestra lifted her words.
Then—
Something changed in the crowd.
The realization hit.
Teyvat's Ace of Aces was singing.
The woman who had ended the war.
The woman who had painted the sky with fire and steel.
Now stood before them, singing not of war—
But of peace.
Jean felt a sudden tightness in her chest.
She swallowed hard, her gaze locked onto the stage.
"I think I get it now."
Collei turned to her, voice quiet.
"Get what?"
Jean exhaled, almost in disbelief.
"She's singing a song of peace.
"And a song of reflection."
Furina's voice soared.
"Thoughts endless in flight
Day turns to night
Questions you ask your soul
Which way do I go?
How fast is too slow?
The journey has its time within us"
Then—
A single light flickered in the audience.
A phone flashlight.
Then another.
And another.
Within seconds, the entire hangar was illuminated by a sea of moving lights.
Thousands of hands lifting their phones high, swaying gently, moving with the song.
A quiet tribute.
A silent promise.
Mavuika, seated near the front, whispered in awe.
"I… I can't believe Furina can sing…"
Clorinde chuckled, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on her lips.
"She told us once, remember? Back at Iron Gale. Said she loved singing when she was a kid.
"Guess she never really stopped."
Furina's voice carried across the vast hangar, filling every space with warmth, with remembrance, with something beyond words.
"If a man can fly over an ocean
And no mountains can get in his way
Will he fly on forever
Searching for something to believe"
Arlecchino, standing near the back, let out a soft exhale.
She closed her eyes.
She had never imagined Furina like this.
For the first time—
She wasn't the Ace of Teyvat.
She wasn't the Golden Crown.
She was just Furina.
A woman who had seen war, lived war—
And was now singing so no one else would have to.
The melody built higher.
The strings swelled, the drums beat softly like a slow heartbeat.
And Furina's voice carried it all forward—
A guiding light.
"From above I can see from the heavens
Down below I see the storm raging on
And somewhere in the answer
There is a hope to carry on"
People in the audience wiped their eyes.
Even hardened military veterans found their hands clenched into fists, struggling to contain emotions they thought they had buried long ago.
Furina was singing for them.
For the ones who had survived.
For the ones who never got to see the war end.
For the ones who still carried its scars.
The final verse.
The last words of her song.
Her voice—strong, steady.
"When I finally return
Things that I learn
Carry me back to home
The thoughts that I feed
Planting a seed
With time will begin to grow
The more that I try
The more that I fly
The answer in itself will be there"
Then—
A soft silence.
Furina took a step back.
Bowed her head.
And then—
She slowly bowed.
For a heartbeat—
There was nothing.
Then—
Applause.
It began as a ripple—soft at first.
Then it grew.
Then it erupted.
A thunderous, deafening roar of cheers, whistles, claps—
A standing ovation.
People rose from their seats.
Some clapped.
Some cried.
Some held their fists over their hearts, saluting her.
Furina, standing on the stage, smiled.
Her first, true, genuine smile in a long time.
She lifted the microphone one last time.
"Thank you, everyone!
"And thank you for coming to the Teyvat Air Show!"
The End of an Era
The airshow was over.
The largest in history.
Almost 25 million people had attended.
A world record.
But it wasn't just about numbers.
This airshow—
This week of history, of reunions, of memories, of flight—
Had proven one thing.
That the war was over.
And that the skies belonged to peace.
No longer for conquest.
No longer for battle.
But for the journey home.