Chapter 2

You know, waking up as an all-powerful war machine is one thing. Realizing that I'm also piloting myself while simultaneously being myself? That's a whole new level of what the hell is my life that I did not sign up for.

Yet here I am—Musashi, the Fleet of Fog's ridiculously overpowered battleship, sailing across the Pacific like an eldritch horror disguised as an oversized fashion model in a scandalous military uniform. And let me tell you, nothing says badass like skimming across the ocean at speeds that should be illegal, physics be damned.

Waves part violently before me, the sheer force of my momentum kicking up walls of seawater as I close in on the battlefield. My interface floods me with real-time updates—because, apparently, my brain now works like a supercomputer and I instinctively understand every bit of tactical data flashing across my vision.

Yamato's hull? Absolutely getting wrecked.Escort ships? More like sinking escort ships.Enemy aircraft? A whole damn swarm.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself mentally—because what else am I going to do? Just let history repeat itself? Hell no. Not on my watch. This time, the Sea Demon fights back.

Of course, being the absolute unit that I am, I don't exactly go unnoticed. American pilots—sharp as ever—immediately spot my very Japanese design and start having a collective crisis.

Radio chatter crackles through my interface:

"Jesus, what the hell is that?!"

"Is that another Yamato-class? No way, intel never said Japan had another one operational!"

"It's moving way too fast—impossible! Is it a new type of warship?"

I smirk, flexing my fingers—because, apparently, I can do that while also being a ship. Weird, right? Don't think about it too hard, Musashi.

A squadron of Hellcats and Avengers break off from their attack runs on Yamato, pivoting toward me with the grace of seasoned pilots who have no idea they just picked a fight with a Fleet of Fog warship. Poor bastards.

Oh, you sweet summer children. You have no idea what's coming.

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The first wave doesn't hesitate. Machine guns rattle, rockets streak through the sky, and—

"Deploy Anti-Air Grid."

—BOOM.

The moment the words leave my mouth, all hell breaks loose—for them, not me.

Every single one of my hidden AA systems comes to life, and let me tell you, it's not just some run-of-the-mill flak barrage. Hundreds of micro-missiles erupt from compartments like a swarm of pissed-off hornets, locking onto targets with surgical precision. And then? Lasers.

Yes, lasers. Because apparently, I'm not just a battleship—I'm a damn alien war machine from the future. Bright crimson beams scythe through the sky, vaporizing planes before they even realize they're being targeted.

The American radio chatter instantly shifts from confusion to full-blown panic:

"What the hell?!"

"That ship's tearing through us! Nothing's hitting her!"

"Mayday, Mayday, we're dropping like flies!"

I feel a little bad—just a little. But mostly, I feel awesome.

Within seconds, the first wave is completely wiped out. Not a single plane gets close enough to even think about touching me.

I let out a long, satisfied sigh, placing a hand on my hip as I watch the wreckage rain down into the sea.

"Ahhh… I could get used to this."

Of course, the Americans aren't just going to take that lying down. No, they're already scrambling to figure out what the hell just happened.

More radio chatter floods my interface:

"Command, we've got an unidentified warship engaging our air units—she's shredding everything we send at her!"

"We need reinforcements! Whatever that thing is, it's not normal!"

Well, duh.

My sensors pick up a second wave incoming—this time, they're sending in a coordinated attack. Dive bombers, torpedo bombers, and more Hellcats, all coming in from multiple angles.

Smart. Not smart enough, but at least they're trying.

I roll my shoulders, stretching a little before giving my next command: "Activate Phasic Barrier."

A shimmering blue energy field flares to life around me, distorting the air as it forms an impenetrable shield. The first torpedo streaks in—and bounces off like a damn pebble against glass.

I don't even flinch as explosions ripple harmlessly across my barrier. The dive bombers? Their payloads detonate, but I don't feel a thing.

"Oh, that's cute," I murmur, watching the smoke clear. "You guys really thought that would work?"

I flick my wrist—because apparently, that's how I command ship functions now—and unleash a counterattack that makes the last one look like child's play.

Missiles streak out in perfect unison, forming an intricate web of destruction as they hunt down their targets with lethal accuracy. The sky turns into a fireworks show of burning aircraft and emergency parachutes.

"Alright," I mutter, cracking my knuckles. "Time to let Yamato know she's not alone in this fight."

I engage my engines at full power, slicing through the ocean with a speed no battleship should ever be capable of, heading straight toward Yamato's embattled position.

This time, history isn't going to repeat itself.

This time, we're taking the fight back to the enemy.

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Admiral Marc Mitscher stood on the bridge of the USS Bunker Hill, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of ocean before him. The battle was unfolding as expected—or at least, it had been. Yamato, the last behemoth of Japan's doomed fleet, was under relentless assault. The swarm of Avengers and Hellcats had been sent to do what the entire Pacific Fleet had been built for: sink the pride of the Imperial Navy.

Everything had been going according to plan.

Until it wasn't.

"Sir, urgent report from the pilots," a radio operator called out, his voice tight with barely contained confusion. "They've spotted another battleship."

Mitscher frowned. Another one? Impossible. Intelligence had been clear—Japan had no remaining Yamato-class battleships. He took the receiver. "Repeat that, pilot. You've spotted what?"

Static crackled for a moment, then a harried voice burst through. "Sir, we've got an unidentified Japanese warship, probably a Yamato class, moving at speeds that—Jesus, sir, it's faster than a cruiser!"

Mitscher's grip on the receiver tightened. "Faster than a cruiser? Are you sure you're not misreading?"

"No way, sir! It's—I don't even know how to explain it. It's barreling toward us like nothing I've ever seen! We're trying to make a strafing run, but…"

The line was suddenly filled with shouts and gunfire. Then another voice cut in—this one far more panicked. "Sir! Our shots aren't doing a damn thing! Bullets, bombs, torpedoes—it's like they're just bouncing off!"

Mitscher's stomach twisted. That wasn't possible. Even Yamato, with all her armor, could be taken down with enough firepower. No ship was indestructible.

"Sir, what do we do?! This thing—it's shooting back with colorful lights!"

Mitscher froze. "Colorful lights?"

"Yes, sir! Bright red beams—just took out half my squadron in a blink!"

The radio exploded with frantic cries of pilots screaming over one another.

"Mayday, mayday! I've lost my wingman!"

"It's cutting through us like a goddamn blowtorch!"

"I'm hit! Oh God, I'm on fire!"

Then—silence.

Mitscher felt the weight in his chest grow heavier. He turned to his staff. "Pull up all reconnaissance reports—immediately. I want every detail on that ship."

One of his officers, Commander William Marshall, shook his head. "Sir, there's nothing. No reports of any operational Yamato-class outside of Yamato herself."

Mitscher's lips pressed into a hard line. He turned back to the radio. "Pilot, confirm visual on the enemy ship. Is it another Yamato?"

A different voice came through—one that sounded as though the man had seen a ghost. "Sir… it looks like Musashi."

For a moment, the entire bridge was silent. Then murmurs broke out among the officers. Musashi? The sister ship of Yamato? But Musashi had been sunk in the Philippines, obliterated by wave after wave of American bombers. There was no way—

Mitscher's mind raced. He had been there when Musashi met her fate. The reports had been clear: torpedoes, bombs, an entire day of sustained attacks had finally put her under. There had been no survivors.

And yet, his men were seeing her now.

"Sir," the radio operator whispered, voice shaking. "Orders?"

Mitscher clenched his jaw. This wasn't superstition, and he wasn't a man prone to irrationality. Ghost ships didn't exist—but something was out there. Something far worse than another battleship.

He made his decision. "Send everything we have at it."

Marshall hesitated. "Sir?"

"You heard me, Commander. Everything. If it truly is Musashi, we can't risk whatever madness brought her back. We sink her again."

A rapid succession of orders was issued. Within minutes, the remaining squadrons were rerouted. Over a hundred aircraft turned their sights on the impossible warship that shouldn't exist.

From the bridge, Mitscher listened to the pilots as they engaged.

"There she is! Holy hell, she's huge!"

"Locking onto target—dropping bombs"

"She's—wait, what the hell? She's dodging?!"

"A battleship shouldn't be able to move like that!"

Mitscher gritted his teeth. Battleships did not dodge. Not at these speeds. Not ever.

The radio burst with more chaos. "Our bombs just—bounced off!"

"I've never seen armor like this! Even Yamato wasn't this tough!"

"What kind of ship is this?!"

And then, the final, chilling words from a panicked pilot: "Sir, we're not fighting a battleship. We're fighting a monster."

Mitscher exhaled slowly.

So, this was it.

His men were dying against something that should have been impossible.

He turned to his officers, expression grim. "Get me a direct line to the fleet. Tell them the situation has changed."

Marshall swallowed hard. "What should I tell them, sir?"

Mitscher let out a breath. "Tell them…" He hesitated for just a second before finishing, "The Japanese have something beyond anything we've ever seen."