Dwargonia Main Fleet, Super-Dreadnought Wavecrusher
SPLAASH SPLAASH SPLAASH SPLAASH
Dozens of towering water pillars erupted far ahead of the Dwargonian main fleet, rising and collapsing in slow succession. From the bridge of the super-dreadnought Wavecrusher, Admiral Durnick watched them through the forward viewing panes, his hands clasped behind his back.
He did not flinch.
The first volley was never meant to hit.
Probing fire. Ranging shots. A test of distance, timing, and response.
"Sir…" the ship's captain spoke carefully, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Even with clear line of sight, a battleship's hit ratio is only five to twenty percent at this range. Surely they know that."
Durnick exhaled through his nose.
"At this rate, Captain," he replied evenly, "I'm beginning to suspect there's nothing we know that they don't."
Before the implication could settle—
"SIR! OUR SCOUTS REPORT ANOTHER VOLLEY INBOUND!"
The air seemed to tense.
A heartbeat passed.
Then—
SPLAASH SPLAASH SPLAASH
KABOOM KABOOM
This time, the pillars were closer. Too close.
Two violent detonations tore through the leading edge of the formation, steel screaming as shells found their mark.
"Cruiser Barium and Cruiser Cobalt have been hit!" an officer shouted. "Awaiting damage reports!"
The bridge erupted into controlled motion. Officers barked updates. Signal flags snapped to life.
"Admiral," the captain asked sharply, "permission to return fire?"
Durnick gave a single nod.
"All ships," the captain roared, voice amplified across the fleet, "RETURN FIRE!"
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
The sea thundered as dozens of Dwargonian warships unleashed their cannons in unison. The recoil shuddered through decks and hulls alike, shells vanishing into the fog wall ahead.
Moments passed.
No explosions. No silhouettes. No confirmation.
The bridge waited.
Seconds stretched uncomfortably as all eyes turned toward the scout liaison.
"SIR!" the communications officer finally yelled. "Scouts report all shots missed. And— Ravendawn is firing again!"
Durnick's jaw tightened.
Another heartbeat.
Then—
SPLASH SPLASH SPLASH
KABOOM KABOOM
"Destroyer Thorum has been hit!"
The words barely left the officer's mouth before the bridge screens updated.
The destroyer's hull had been breached low along the side. Water poured in relentlessly. The ship listed, slow at first, then visibly worse with each passing second.
Every dwarf on the bridge knew what that angle meant.
There was no saving her.
"Tch!" the captain snarled. "FIRE AGAIN!"
Once more, the Dwargonian fleet answered with thunder, shells screaming blindly into the smoke curtain ahead.
Silence.
"SIR! ALL SHOTS MISSED!"
"THEN TELL THE SCOUTS TO GUIDE OUR FIRE BETTER!" the captain snapped back.
"They tried, sir!" the officer replied, voice strained. "But… there are too many of us. Too many firing sources. Too many shell trails overlapping. They can't tell which shots came from which ships!"
The revelation landed heavily.
The captain's expression darkened. Several officers exchanged uneasy glances.
Admiral Durnick remained still.
"Tell the left and right flanks to advance," he ordered at last. "Begin a pincer maneuver."
"Aye, sir!"
"And bring me the tactical map," Durnick continued. "We'll divide the fleet into multiple strike groups. If they fire in intervals, our scouts can isolate and guide individual volleys."
"Aye, sir."
It was a sound plan. Textbook. Executed by the book.
And yet—
---
9,000 Meters Above the Sea, E-2C Hawkeye, Callsign "Dark Moon"
Guiding Dwargonian fire through chaos was difficult.
Guiding Ravendawn fire through chaos was not.
From high above the cloud layer, the observers aboard Dark Moon watched the battlefield unfold in near-perfect clarity. Smaller numbers meant fewer variables. Fewer variables meant cleaner solutions.
And while Ravendawn ships lacked advanced computational systems of their own, the Muricans did not.
The demons computers hummed quietly, processing vectors, velocities, wind shear, and shell dispersion with merciless efficiency.
"Mother Goose," one observer said calmly, "adjust bearing up one degree."
"Pixie," another added, "repeat last coordinates."
Each Ravendawn ship had its own dedicated observer. Each correction was minor. Each result was devastating.
And they were not only guiding what sailed above the waves.
---
1,000 Meters Below the Surface
The deep was quiet.
Two Murican Ohio-class submarines drifted in the darkness, hulls steady, engines whisper-silent.
"Captain," an officer reported, "tubes one and two flooded and ready."
The captain, a male selkie, leaned back in his chair, grin spreading across his face.
"Dark Moon," he said into the comm, "torpedoes locked and ready to fire."
"Copy, Angler One," came the reply. "Ravendawn is preparing their next volley. Stand by."
"Stand by," the captain echoed.
He glanced at his XO, barely containing his excitement.
"Hot damn," he chuckled. "This is way more fun than I thought."
"Ehm, Captain," the XO said flatly, "noise discipline."
"Oh relax," the captain waved him off. "The dwarfs don't have submarines. They can't even detect underwater movement. We could blast country music down here if we wanted."
"It would still be my duty to reporting you if you do that," the XO replied.
"Tch. You're no fun."
The comm crackled.
"Angler One, this is Dark Moon. Ravendawn is ready. Same routine. Ten seconds."
"Copy."
The captain straightened.
"Fire in… five… four… three… two… one… launch."
"Launch torpedoes one and two!"
The weapons slid free, vanishing into the dark.
Above them, Ravendawn cannons fired.
Every torpedo strike was timed to coincide with a surface impact, every explosion masked, every sinking attributed to Ravendawn gunnery.
This was "Operation Puppeteer".
A deception strategy devised by Stan to halt the Dwargonian invasion without triggering Goddess Viruses among the dwarfs—by ensuring they believed they were fighting humans alone.
That was the official explanation.
The truth was simpler.
If Stan wasn't allowed to personally terrify the enemy on the battlefield, then no demon was allowed to enjoy it either.
---
Dwargonia Main Fleet, Super-Dreadnought Wavecrusher
KABOOM KABOOM KABOOM
Chaos had finally taken hold.
Black smoke rose from multiple ships, flames licking skyward as hulls buckled and listed. Some vessels burned. Others sank outright.
Hundreds of dwarfs struggled in the water, clinging to debris, waiting desperately for rescue that might never come.
"SIR!" an officer shouted. "Scouts report that even with coordinated strike-group barrages, we still can't land consistent hits! Ravendawn ships are constantly maneuvering while maintaining fire!"
"Then HOW are they hitting us on every salvo?!" the captain snapped. "We aren't even clustered! We're spread out! This shouldn't be possible!"
It shouldn't have been.
Durnick's countermeasures would have worked—if Ravendawn had behaved like a conventional navy.
But nothing about this battle was conventional.
"What about the flanks?" Durnick asked.
"No significant progress, sir," the officer replied. "Ravendawn prioritizes any ship that advances. We've already lost nearly fifteen percent of our forces. I… I don't understand how their accuracy is this high."
Durnick closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"Deploy the remaining airships," he ordered. "Have them disrupt enemy fire. Fighters will escort them against wyverns."
"Aye, sir!"
"And signal the Black Coast Fleet," he continued. "We're losing at long range engagement. It's time to overwhelm them with numbers."
"Aye, sir!"
What the dwarfs did not realize—
Ravendawn was not firing better.
They were firing informed.
Terrifyingly so.
---
Ravendawn Main Fleet, HMS Luxtor
Controlled chaos reigned.
Eight Ravendawn ships weaved unpredictably, zig-zagging across the waves while carefully maintaining safe distances from one another.
SPLAASH SPLAASH SPLAASH
Dwargonian shells fell wide once more.
Ravendawn returned fire regardless. For every Ravendawn salvo, hits were welcome. Misses were acceptable.
All that mattered was the illusion.
Inside the flagship Luxtor, the helmsman was enjoying himself far too much.
"Weeeee!" he laughed, spinning the wheel left, then right.
"Ahem," Captain Rhines said sharply. "You do remember this is a one-time allowance?"
"Yes, sir!" the helmsman stammered. "Apologies, sir!"
"Carry on," Rhines sighed. "Permission to speak freely, Admiral?"
"Granted," Admiral Lorenzo replied.
"In my twenty years of service," Rhines muttered, "I've never felt this embarrassed."
Lorenzo snorted. "Embarrassment is preferable to being dead."
They watched their fleet dance like fools.
"Luckily their planes don't carry bombs," Rhines said.
"Agreed," Lorenzo replied. "Otherwise it will be a very different dance that we're doing now."
"Sir!" a comm officer called. "Murican reports: Dwargonian airships are advancing. Requesting readiness for Phase Two."
"How many?" Lorenzo asked.
"All of them. And their surface fleet is following."
Rhines exhaled in relief. "Thank gods. This ridiculous maneuver will soon end."
"Enemies ETA before reaching the fog?" Lorenzo asked.
"Airships in five minutes. Ships in twenty-five."
"And our minelayers status?"
"Fifteen minutes to completion."
Lorenzo nodded.
"Prepare Phase Two of Operation Puppeteer."
---
Above the Fog Line
The sky above the battlefield was beginning to change.
Above the rolling fog, the Dwargonian airships advanced in a broad, imposing line. Their massive envelopes drifted forward steadily, propellers churning as escort fighters fanned out around them in protective formations. Sunlight glinted off metal plating and rune-etched hulls, casting long shadows across the clouds below.
From their vantage point, the fog beneath them looked harmless—almost peaceful. But they are still wary of the hiding wyverns.
They had no idea they were looking at the wrong direction.
---
Murica First Fleet, HMS Bahamut
Admiral Rusalka stood with her hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed on the tactical display projected across the bridge wall. Red icons representing Dwargonian airships crept steadily closer to the fog line.
"That's the last launch," Captain Cetus reported as an F/A-18F Super Hornet roared away from the deck.
Rusalka nodded once.
"Good," she said, a sharp grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "Send the paratroopers."
"Aye, ma'am."
The order rippled outward through encrypted channels, racing ahead of the advancing enemy.
---
7,000 Meters Above the Sea
Four C-130 Hercules cruised above the cloud layer, heavy and steady, their engines droning in disciplined harmony. Inside each aircraft, red lights bathed the cargo bays in a dim glow.
Rows of paratroopers stood ready.
But these were not demon soldiers.
Folded tightly against their backs were wide, powerful wings—hawk-like in shape, feathers reinforced with modern harnesses and mounting points. These were the Ravendawn Avian Warriors, berserkers of the sky, trained since childhood to fight without fear of heights or death.
Only this time, they were not armed with bows and blades.
Each warrior carried weapons from another world.
Thompson submachine guns.
M1 Garands.
Browning Automatic Rifles.
Murican-made steel, bought in bulk discounts and modified for aerial combat.
The rear bays began to open.
Cold wind rushed in, howling through the fuselage as clouds drifted past beneath them.
The jump lights switched from red to green.
"GO! GO! GO!"
One by one, the avians leapt.
For a few heart-stopping seconds, they fell freely, bodies pulled downward by gravity alone. Then parachutes snapped open in quick succession, arresting their descent just long enough.
It had been tested extensively.
If they tried to slow their fall using their wings alone at this speed, their wing bones would shatter.
Once the parachutes bled off enough velocity, the avians released them and spread their wings wide, transitioning smoothly into controlled flight.
Below them, the clouds parted.
The battlefield revealed itself.
Countless Dwargonian ships churned the sea on one side. A handful of Ravendawn vessels danced on the other. Between them, a vast wall of fog stretched like a living barrier.
And above that fog—
Their targets.
The Dwargonian airships.
---
Dwargonian Airship Squadron
"Look!" one Dwargonian fighter pilot shouted, pointing upward. "Above us!"
His co-pilot followed his gaze.
"What in the—"
The sky was filled with descending figures.
At first, they looked like falling debris. Then wings caught the light. Shapes resolved into silhouettes, then into forms.
An army was descending from the heavens.
"They look like—"
"Angels?"
The sight was surreal.
Scores of winged figures emerged from the clouds, weapons glinting, feathers cutting through the air as they screamed downward with wild abandon.
"GYAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The laughter echoed across the sky.
These were not angels.
They were crazed warriors.
And they were falling straight toward the heart of the Dwargonian airship fleet.
---
Dwargonia Main Fleet, Super-Dreadnought Wavecrusher
"CONTACT ABOVE!" an officer screamed.
They could only watch as cannon fire erupted from their airships while their fighters scrambled to respond. Energy beams and cannons filled the sky, but the avians were already among them.
"They're swarming our airships!"
"Where did they come from?!"
"They're BREACHING IT!"
Admiral Durnick stared in stunned silence as Ravendawn Avians were swarming his airships like ants.
"This…" he whispered, realization dawning far too late, "was never just a naval battle."