Submarines are the least resource-hungry of all shipgirls—barely a tenth of a carrier's upkeep—and repairs are quick. That's why Hikaru fields them the most.
Dozens of B-25s and stacks of rainbow-trail, top-tier submarine torpedoes were all spoils fished up by wolfpacks after sortie upon sortie.
Take U-47: her sortie count is close to 30,000.
Lexington lifted her gaze to the north. This time, Bismarck's aim wasn't just to rescue Alaska and the others; in her plan, wolfpack leader U-47 had an irreplaceable role to play.
While Lexington was quietly expectant, Yamato—watching from the side—was practically drooling.
Actually drooling.
At the field table, Yat Sen kept laying out dishes, deeply vexed, and pretended not to notice Yamato's expression.
Before heading out, everyone in the base had eaten through the full spread of special dishes:
More firepower, more accuracy, more armor, more evasion—their combat power jumped an entire tier.
As for Yamato—sorry. She was a "guest," not slated to fight, so she didn't need the special courses.
Strictly speaking, giving her one bite wouldn't have mattered, but Yat Sen had her own little stance.
Last night the Commander had scolded Yamato. As his shipgirl, she would stand where he stood.
Even if Hikaru himself didn't actually care about a single serving of food.
But he hadn't said the word himself, so Yamato wasn't getting any. Call it loyalty rather than "yes-dear."
War is hateful, yes—but to protect our home, to protect our Commander—my resolve, Yat Sen's resolve, won't lose to anyone.
—
Out amid the waves blasted high by the bombing, the Abyssal Yamato felt death closing in.
Two missiles, terminal speed over 3,500 m/s, knifed down near-vertical—aimed square at the Abyssal Yamato's head.
She stared at the falling lances, body too slow to answer, heart filling with blank, suffocating terror.
An instant before impact, a house-thick beam of gold-red light sheared across the sea and vaporized both missiles.
The Abyssal Yamato's legs buckled; she dropped to her knees on the water.
Half the pressure was the shockwave; half was sheer fright.
Abyssal Musashi surfaced, both palms braced on the twin horned magma-dragon maws of her rig, parting the sea as she came.
Behind her formed Abyssal Friedrich der Große, Abyssal Hindenburg, the Abyssal "Lady M," and—rolling in like a tidal bore—the main body of the Abyssal host.
Musashi stood proud upon the sea and shouted,
"Kill on my watch? Did I say you could?"
It had been her shot—fired in that hair-breadth instant—that vaporized the two missiles and saved Yamato.
However lukewarm Yamato felt toward this "younger sister," gratitude still surged up. She pushed to her feet and called, "Musashi, don't leave—those gnats—"
Sss-laaash!
A red-black streak scythed across Yamato's temple.
She had seen this shell before—not only in life, but again and again in nightmares.
Yamato turned with effort. Thirty nautical miles off, Bismarck seemed to be smirking as she wafted away the smoke from her gun.
A flagship-killer's shot—fired, it lands.
She raised a hand. Where her temple should be was a void—air and nothing else.
Her arm fell. She crumpled onto the sea.
So death… is the absence of sensation.
Yamato's ruin slipped beneath the surface.
Abyssal Musashi loosed a ragged, furious scream.
Under the waves, Yamato felt her body dissolving into flow.
The fate of all shipgirls.
Everything… returning to the water.
No. Something's wrong.
Why are my horns still here?
Why aren't my horns dissolving?
Right—this horn was never mine.
Memory drifted back: some "experiment."
It was tied to the engineered, ultra-powerful N-class flagships—this horn had been grafted onto her by the red-haired lady herself.
It was this strange horn that made her a coward—made her dive and flee in disgrace. All because the horn mattered more than her life; it had been siphoning the strength she'd gathered for years.
Without it… perhaps she would have been stronger than Musashi at level 107—perhaps stronger still.
[End of Chapter]
[100 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]
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