C65 The Fenrir And Black Sun

Pebbles instinctively tested the Falcon's responsiveness, rolling the aircraft gently from side to side before adjusting course slightly.

Even before seeing it in action, he knew the Mk 1s were superior in agility. Lighter airframe, better roll rate. No doubt about it.

He clicked his radio on again.

"Hammer, do you think these spitfires would come out on top If we fought over?"

Hammer chuckled.

"Negative. But I can see they can twist and turn better than our birds over."

Pebbles hummed in agreement, then eyed his own bird's two 30 and two 20mm autocannons embedded in its nose, armored fuselage, and self sealing fuel tanks.

That's where the TX1 Falcon reigned supreme. It was built for resilience. If the Spitfire was a rapier, the Falcon was a broadsword.

Pebbles gently pushed the throttle forward, moving ahead just slightly to get a better look at the escorting planes.

One of the Black Sun pilots must have noticed because his Spitfire waggled its wings in silent acknowledgment.

Pebbles smirked.

"Not bad,"

He muttered to himself. He clicked the radio again.

"Black Sun Lead, how's the weather up ahead over?"

A short pause, then a crisp reply.

"Clear skies. Just don't stray off course over"

Pebbles exhaled slowly, settling into his seat. The escort would hold. For now, it was all a game of patience.

...

MC's Perspective Aboard Imperial One

I leaned back against my luxurious leather seat, staring at the reinforced walls of Imperial One as the four engines droned steadily.

From my window, I watched the Spitfires fall into escort formation.

"Hmmm mark ones, my bald nerds back home better come up with the next generation asap..."

I bet those black suns pilots are feeding falcon specks to their high command as we speak.

I muttered and added In my mind, exhaling a breath of cigar smoke. Lucillia, sitting across from me, barely glanced up from her reports.

"You don't sound impressed."

I scoffed, rolling the cigar between my fingers.

"They're good machines. Agile, light, easy to maneuver. But I'd bet my title that our TX1 Falcons would tear them apart in a real fight."

She clicked her tongue.

"Youre a brute down to youre core."

I exhaled another cloud of smoke.

"Hmph brutes win wars, Catherine. Graceful turns and fancy aerobatics don't mean sh*t when you're staring down the barrels of autocannons."

She shook her head completely Ignoring the fact that I called her another name but said nothing more.

Outside, the sky remained clear, and the Black Sun airfield loomed on the horizon. Soon, we'd land, and a new game of power and diplomacy would begin.

...

The Black Sun Airfield was immaculate, a reflection of the kingdom's rigid discipline and unwavering pride.

The tarmac stretched for hundreds of meters, lined with banners bearing the royal sigil an obsidian sun wreathed in golden flames.

Rows of royal guards stood at perfect attention, their polished black and gold uniforms gleaming under the midday sun.

Their gold laced rifles rested against their pristine white gloves, each soldier a testament to the famed precision of the Black Sun military.

At the end of the crimson carpet, flanked by her entourage of maids and attendants, stood the eighteen year old Crown Princess Aurelia von Schwarzstahl, heir to the Black Sun throne.

Her black hair cascaded down her back in elegant waves, adorned with delicate gold ornaments that reflected the sunlight with every movement.

Her golden eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the horizon with thinly veiled irritation. She clicked her tongue, folding her arms as she shifted her weight to one hip.

"I still don't understand why Father sent me to receive this… playboy."

One of her maids, a prim and proper young woman named Marianne, hesitated before speaking. "Your Highness, the Imperator is not merely some playboy anymore. He..."

"He is an arrogant upstart,"

Aurelia cut in, her voice dripping with disdain.

"A fool who stumbled his way into power. This was supposed to be an age of statesmanship, and yet here we are, about to welcome a man whose only known skills are warfare and debauchery of the highest level."

Marianne lowered her head slightly.

"Still, Your Highness, the greater spartanum ducatum has become a force to be reckoned with… and we must acknowledge it."

Before Aurelia could reply, a distant roar filled the air. A dozen silhouettes streaked across the sky, sleek and menacing.

The TX1 Falcons. Their formation was flawless, their presence an unmistakable display of military might.

As they thundered overhead, the golden embroidery of the royal banners trembled from the force of their passage. The princess's expression faltered for the briefest of moments.

Then, another sound joined the symphony of engines. Imperial One.

The massive four engined aircraft descended with a regal grace, its dark hull reflecting the sunlight in brilliant flashes.

Its presence was undeniable, a flying fortress, a declaration of supremacy in metal and fire. It landed smoothly, its massive wheels kissing the tarmac with calculated precision.

The airfield was silent, save for the low hum of cooling engines. The royal guards stood motionless, their discipline unbroken. The maids and attendants held their breaths.

Aurelia exhaled sharply through her nose, schooling her expression back into indifference.

"Well,"

She muttered, straightening her posture.

"Let's see what kind of man steps out of that flying throne of his."

The moment the Imperial One's reinforced doors hissed open, a wave of tension swept through the Black Sun welcoming party.

Aurelia had expected a midget playboy an arrogant brat who had stumbled into power through sheer luck. But the men who emerged first made her breath hitch in her throat.

They were giants. Towering figures, clad in dominant black exoskeleton armor, stepped onto the tarmac, their every movement precise, calculated.

They were fully armed, bristling with modified heavy assault rifles that If her eyes did not deceive her were fifty cals. In their arms, combat knives the size of short swords strapped to their armor plates.

Each warrior wore a half cloak draped over one shoulder, the fabric shifting slightly in the wind. But what caught her attention, what sent a visible ripple of unease through the royal guards standing beside her, were their helmets.

White skull faceplates, emotionless and predatory, stared back at the world. A crimson centurion plume adorned the top of each warrior's helm, the mark of elite killers.

Aurelia's golden eyes widened slightly. These were not mere bodyguards. These were warriors born and bred for war.

Even her father's finest Royal Guards, clad in their Iron and washed to perfection service uniforms with gold laced rifles, stiffened.

Their fingers twitched near their weapons, a deeply ingrained instinct in the presence of true killers. A single thought whispered in the back of her mind.

Where did the overgrown demons crawl out from?!

The warriors moved without hesitation, splitting into two perfect lines on either side of the carpet, standing at rigid attention. And then came another wave.

Another unit marched down the ramp, but these were different. No exoskeletons, no skull helms, but still, battle hardened men nonetheless. Paratroopers.

They wore battered, practical combat uniforms, still carrying the grime of past battles. Not parade soldiers, not polished diplomats, these were men who had seen war, who had survived it.

Leading them was centurion Nerva, the commander of the Imperium's elite First Cohort, first centuries first contubernum.

Beside him, a broad shouldered, scarred man with piercing eyes corporal Gaius Marius, the criminal sentenced to service until death, now second in command of the contubernum.

She spotted Antonio, another veteran, and the rest of the paratroopers who had been reforged through blood and battle. These men had taken Teutonica in three days.

The fully geared up and armed for war men lined up in formation behind the armored giants. A living testament to discipline and war.

And then, he stepped out. Aurelia felt her breath catch again, but this time, it wasn't out of fear. The Imperator descended the ramp with an effortless confidence that was impossible to ignore.

He wasn't what she had expected.

She had imagined some arrogant, unrefined thug, or perhaps a conniving noble playing at warlord. But the man before her…

A crisp, well fitted service uniform adorned his powerful frame, the fabric straining slightly over a muscular, battle hardened 2 meters tall build.

An imperial half cloak was draped over his left shoulder, fluttering slightly with each step.

Strapped to his right hip was a greatsword, its pommel resting against his thigh a weapon that no sane modern soldier carried, and yet, on him, it felt… natural.

And atop his white with a string of black tied Into a small high bun hair sat a laurel crown, the unmistakable mark of an emperor or In this case Imperator, black earrings and rings decorated his ears and fingers.

But what truly caught her attention wasn't just his attire, it was his presence.

Even without his skull faced warriors flanking him, even without his bloodstained paratroopers standing at his back, he commanded the space around him.

Power radiated off of him.

His piercing golden yellow pupils with crimson Irisies scanned the royal delegation with an unreadable expression, sizing up each person without a single word.