Chapter 1

Waking up sucks. It always has, and it always will. There is no universe where suddenly regaining consciousness is pleasant. It's always too bright, too loud, or too goddamn confusing.

Unfortunately for me, today is an extra special level of what-the-actual-fuckery because the moment my mind stirs, I realize something is terribly wrong.

First off—my body feels off. Not like "I slept weird, and now my neck is doing the Exorcist twist" kind of off. No, this is something far worse.

I feel huge. Heavy. And not in the "ate too much pizza" way. No, this is existentially heavy, like I've suddenly become a part of the Earth's tectonic system.

Then there's the vibration. A constant, deep thrumming running through me—like an idling engine. Or a spaceship's warp core.

Oh. And I can see things.

Not see in the normal, "Oh wow, look at that nice blue sky" way, but in a highly unsettling, I-might-be-a-cybernetic-abomination kind of way.

Data.

Numbers.

Measurements.

A never-ending stream of information scrolling through my brain like I'm hooked up to the goddamn Matrix.

Ocean Depth: 110 meters

Wind Speed: 16 knots

Water Temperature: 21°C

Sonar Contact: 12 unknown vessels detected

Threat Level: Low

What. The. Hell.

My brain tries to rationalize. Maybe I'm dreaming? Maybe I got too drunk and accidentally joined the navy? Maybe I'm in some kind of high-tech VR simulation?

Yeah, that last one seems plausible. I must've been abducted by Elon Musk and shoved into some next-gen military AI experiment.

Elon, you bastard, I did not sign up for this.

I attempt to take a deep breath—to calm myself down.

Nothing happens.

No inhale. No exhale.

Oh. Right.

I don't have lungs.

A sense of creeping horror slithers down my spine—or at least, where my spine should be—because suddenly, a very real, very horrifying thought crosses my mind.

What if I don't have a body?

Okay. Okay. No need to panic. Let's just, uh, assess the situation.

I try to move.

My body—or whatever it is—shifts.

And that's when things get even weirder.

I don't feel arms. I don't feel legs. But I do feel something massive responding to my thoughts.

Something enormous.

Something far beyond human.

My entire form glides through the water. Effortless. Smooth. Silent.

The ocean parts around me like I'm a goddamn sea monster.

My brain reels. What the hell am I?

Desperate for answers, I focus on the data still flowing into my mind. And just like that—like a damn Google search on steroids—my brain coughs up some terrifying information.

MENTAL MODEL: MUSASHI (FLEET OF FOG) ACTIVATED

CLASSIFICATION: SUPER BATTLESHIP

ARMAMENTS: WAVE-MOTION CANNONS, HEAVY LASER TURRETS, MULTI-LAYERED SHIELDING

STEALTH MODE: ENGAGED

STATUS: FULL OPERATIONAL CAPACITY

…Wait.

Musashi?

As in Battleship Musashi?

As in World War II's most ridiculously overcompensating hunk of floating steel?

No. No, no, no. This has to be a mistake.

I frantically scan through my own status screen—which, by the way, is just floating in my brain like I'm inside a sci-fi RPG menu—and the more I read, the more my soul leaves my body.

Because this isn't just any Musashi.

This is Fleet of Fog Musashi.

Which means I'm not some regular battleship. I'm a goddamn alien-tier war machine.

Oh.

Oh.

Okay. Okay. Let's, uh, calmly analyze the situation.

Pros:

I'm nigh indestructible.I have sci-fi weapons that make nukes look like party poppers.I can apparently turn invisible.I probably don't have to pay taxes.

Cons:

I am no longer human.I AM A FUCKING WARSHIP.I don't know where I am.I have no idea how I got here.

So yeah. Bit of a mixed bag.

I glance around—or, well, mentally scan my surroundings. And that's when I see her.

Or rather… me.

I'm standing inside a bridge.

A reflection in the glass.

It's a woman. A very tall, very muscular, very anime-looking woman with long silver hair and red eyes that practically scream "I will step on you and you will thank me."

And the outfit—oh god, the outfit.

It's barely a uniform. More like a stripper version of a naval admiral's coat, held together by sheer willpower and some very generous anime physics.

I blink.

She blinks.

I move, and the reflection moves with me.

Oh.

Oh no.

I am her.

I HAVE A HOT ANIME BODY.

Somewhere in the depths of my probably nonexistent soul, I feel a tiny, primal urge to scream.

But then a different, much dumber thought enters my head.

I look hot as fuck.

@@@@@@@

Okay, look.

If you suddenly woke up as a god-tier battleship, armed with alien tech, laser cannons, and a body that looks like a one-woman military-grade thirst trap, what would your first course of action be?

Would you:

Try to figure out what the hell happened?Panic like a normal person?Attempt to contact civilization?

If you answered anything other than "Get naked and sunbathe," then congratulations, you have far more self-control than I do.

Because right now? That's exactly what I'm doing.

With an entirely unapologetic smirk, I grab the edges of my already scandalously small outfit and—without a single ounce of shame—toss it aside like yesterday's laundry.

The warm ocean breeze caresses my bare skin, and let me tell you, it feels divine.

My body—this ridiculously well-crafted anime war goddess of a form—is absolutely flawless.

Like, I'm talking beyond supermodel levels of perfection.

No scars. No blemishes. Not even a single hair out of place.

It's almost unnerving how smooth I am. My skin? Silky. My proportions? Anatomically impossible. My assets? Weapons of mass distraction.

It's like whoever designed me went, "What if we made war... sexy?" And bam, here I am.

And since I'm apparently a living war machine now, I might as well embrace the role in the most glorious, self-indulgent, and completely unnecessary way possible.

Which is why I gracefully step onto the warm deck of my own battleship hull—because oh yeah, surprise, I'm also a giant freaking warship—and stretch out under the blazing sun.

I'm completely exposed. Completely shameless.

And honestly? I don't care.

I am Musashi.

The strongest battleship in history.

And right now? I deserve a goddamn break.

With a content sigh, I close my eyes, letting the heat of the sun wash over me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's probably a voice screaming "THIS IS A BAD IDEA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

But that voice? Irrelevant.

Right now, I am a floating fortress of destruction… on vacation.

What's the worst that could happen?

@@@@@@@

I am just starting to drift into a peaceful, sun-drenched state of absolute relaxation when—

BZZT!

A sharp, jarring noise rips through my head.

My interface—which I had been blissfully ignoring—suddenly flares to life like a damn Christmas tree.

Ugh. What now?

I groan, very unwillingly cracking an eye open.

A transmission is coming through.

Japanese military radio chatter.

…Oh.

I frown.

At first, I just let it play in the background—too comfortable to actually care.

I mean. Of course, the military is freaking out about something.

But then—

"Yamato under attack! We're taking fire! Need support immediately!"

Wait.

What.

My eyes snap open.

I sit up so fast that I nearly fall off my own deck—which would be a very embarrassing way to die for an invincible war machine.

Did I just hear that right?

Yamato?

I blink rapidly, suddenly very awake, as I frantically check the date on my interface.

DATE: APRIL 7, 1945

My blood—if I even have blood anymore—runs ice cold.

I check my location.

LOCATION: OFF THE COAST OF OKINAWA

No. No, no, no.

A sickening realization washes over me.

I know this day.

I know this battle.

This is Operation Ten-Go.

This is the day Yamato sinks.

I feel like I just got punched in the gut—if I even have a gut.

The images from my past life flash through my mind.

History books. Documentaries. Black-and-white photos of a doomed super battleship, surrounded by endless waves of American carrier planes, desperately fighting against a hopeless fate.

This is my old world.

My first life.

And Yamato—the original Yamato—is about to die.

I immediately pull up a visual feed from one of my drones—because oh yeah, turns out I have spy drones now.

The screen materializes before me, showing real-time footage of the battlefield.

And what I see makes my stomach drop.

Yamato.

She's there.

Massive. Majestic. Proud.

And completely surrounded by American aircraft.

Explosions ripple across her hull. Towering columns of smoke and fire rise into the sky. Her anti-air guns blaze desperately, but there are just too many enemy planes.

She's fighting, but she's dying.

And if history is correct, she won't last much longer.

My hands—or whatever I have that functions as hands—clench.

This isn't fair.

This isn't right.

She doesn't deserve this.

I am Musashi, a near-invincible super battleship...

I can intervene.

I can save her.

A wild, reckless idea surges through my mind.

What if…

What if I change history?

What if I refuse to let Yamato die?

What if I fight?

I glance down at myself—at my nude, sunbathing form, still glowing from the warmth of the sun.

I sigh.

Well, so much for my vacation.

With a reluctant groan, I push myself up, stretching my arms above my head one last time.

Then, with the dramatic flair of a main character in an anime, I grab my discarded coat and whip it over my shoulders.

I don't bother buttoning it up properly—because let's be real, it was never meant to be fully worn in the first place.

Instead, I strike a pose, because if I'm about to go break the timeline, I might as well look hot while doing it.

Taking a deep breath—even though I don't actually need to breathe—I send a single command through my interface.

ACTIVATING FULL COMBAT MODE.

And just like that—

The most powerful battleship in history sets sail.

And this time, Yamato will not fall.