The Weapon-Divines proved major Divinity could be split into weaker, albeit more numerous forms. The Imperial Great Projects proved Divinity could be overlapped as long as there was enough cohesive and material difference between what we would consider a natural “demesne”. Nevertheless, Mass Manufacture of Divinity has come across another roadblock, and this exists as one for which we struggle to even theorize an answer.

This is the question of foundational apotheosis, the birth of a Divine and what ‘characteristics’ shall be present upon creation. Experiments regarding the personification of an individual specific blade have failed. Demesne overlap becomes an issue here, as it is uncertain to test whether Goddess Aslana, of the Sword, is the fundamental roadblock on this road without killing her. Whereas this is theorized, likewise it can be that great weapons are always beholden to a wielder. Joyeuse, without Kassandora, is merely a huge piece of unknown metal. It could be that there is no fundamental demesne.

Dwarven automatons which have acquired something akin to a soul, the prime example being the great Guardian of Klavdiv in Ozonith,, somewhat lead us to an answer. Whilst autonomous to some extent, they obviously lack the internal drive to truly be called human, yet they can still be personified in the mind of humanity. A sword, fundamentally, is a piece of steel. There are myths of cursed blades that had their own minds which, once grabbed, would drive their handlers mad. These have always been explained as being corrupted by magic and melted down. If we look at them with modern theories of Divinity, we can assume that they managed to actually incarnate a soul within them.

So whereas it is possible, we are not here to recreate cursed arms. They were destroyed by the Reconstruction Authority, now, with the Weapon Divines, we ponder whether they can be recreated in the first place. And likewise, a tool is to be wielded. It is always fundamentally weaker than a human for a tool is always behold to the wielder. We would need to create tools greater than humanity, infuse them with spiritual awe, and then let them formally incarnate. A paradox of sorts, for how can a tool be greater than a man if it is driven by one?

Through the Great Projects, we know that Mass Manufacture of Divinity is entirely possible. However the Great Projects strain the treasury. Likewise, they need to have a purpose. We will stunt newly incarnated Divines if we just build a row of Cathedrals in a field, for example. The concept is a farce. It does not even need to be tested for us to know it will fail.

Individual tools, greater than a human, yet cheap enough to build in mass, are what is needed. Tools that hide their wielder and can easily be personified, with a personality of their own. Tools that are wielded until they learn how to wield themselves.

In this manner, the roadblock has not become one of theology of but material sciences. Whether progress will reveal the answer to us is unknown but the closest that comes to mind is a ship. Ship-spirits, effectively very minor Divines, are known of. Yet they are never strong, the why is rather simple. A wooden boat is a measly little creature when put up against a monster of the deep that can wrap itself around entire fleets. Fragility is built into their story from the get-go.

– Excerpt from Arascus’ Private Writings. Written just a decade before the Great War.

When Ash had declared Epa as a no-fly zone, the entire Imperial Airforce had been put on halt. Hangars had been filled with war-machines. Bombers and jets that could not fit were parked in long rows on fields. The maintenance crews, once doing emergency repairs on strained engines, now ran basic tests in turning them off and on and reapplying paint rust set in. The airmen themselves had even gone home for an extended vacation, or stayed on base and passed the time with each other if they happened to be stationed too far away from anywhere worth visiting. As boring and droll as it was, easily the worst was that without active missions being run, income had stopped. The basic salary was measly enough to put off those who just wanted to fly for money. Douglas did not care that much, the lack of bounty-payout was tempered by the fact he got free lodging and free food.

So Douglas and Erik sat and smoked. Their base in Lubska had received a new shipment lately, and the things were going fast. It was only because they were the rank of Captain and heroes of the Empire as the original two airmen of the airfleet that they managed to get any. Luckily, one of the pretty secretary girls had saved them some bottles of the local vodka too. Douglas knew that taking a minute out of his day to chat to them would pay its dues.

So the men sat. So the men smoked. So more airmen came. It had been some time since the conversation ran out. There was only so many words that could be exchanged without just repeating the same stories. “Hey.” Captain Witold Urban said. A veteran of the Epan War, he was top dog in this kennel before Douglas and Erik had arrived.

“Hey.” Douglas replied.

“Hey.” Erik said.

“Sitting?” Witold asked.

“Sitting.” Erik answered as Doug took a large drag of his cigarette. “Same old, same old.”

“Same old, same old.” Witold replied. “Drinks came in.”

“They did.” Douglas said.

“Did Ana save any?”

“Maybe.”

“How much?” Witold asked.

“Eighty.” Douglas replied. What a scam. They went for eighteen Imperial Marks in a shop. And the closest shop was about six hours drive away through country road.

“Sixty.”

“Seventy.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Mark’s offering seventy.”

“Fuck off he’s not.” Douglas laughed at Witold’s annoyance. “Sixty six.”

“I’ll do you sixty anyway.” Douglas said. It wasn’t even about the money frankly. Just the satisfaction of the barter.

“Alright.” Witold said. He pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered one to the Raptor pilots. Erik shook his head, he had the same brand of Raccoons. Douglas swapped it for a Phantom. “Teenagers smoke these, you know.”

“All natural tobacco from the UNN.” Douglas said, he put the raccoon cigarette in with his box of Phantoms. So the three men sat in silence as they looked for patterns in the tarmac. Twenty, thirty minutes of passing the time before Antoni got there. Poor guy, Antoni. A Rilian who had been assigned to a transport unit and happened to be here just as Epa entered no-flights allowed. He walked up in his dark uniform, a radio in his hand.

“Can I?” He asked the Raptor pilots. Erik just shrugged.

Douglas answered. “Go ahead.”

And so the man sat down and turned it on. Some song was playing, a slow ballad that talked of long-lost love. “Something more cheery Antoni.” Witold said and they switched stations: News.

‘-d your opinion on the war situation?’

Some ladies voice asked.

‘Whatever was causing Ashen Skies must have been stopped.’ A man replied. ‘That is what we know for sure. Grand Marshal Iliyal Tremali has credited it to the One-Seventeenth unit currently stationed in Arika.’

‘And can you be sure of that?’

‘What I can be sure of is that we are seeing an enemy that can field a huge army across continents, that can draw a curtain of ash over our lands, and that now has stopped moving.’

“Fucking Hell.” Erik said as he listened in. “You think that’s a go to?”

“We would know already.” Witold said then looked at the two Raptor pilots. “You two would at least.”

“Why would we know?” Erik asked.

“Don’t you have Tremali’s phone number?” Erik and Douglas both looked at each other. They both did.

“Different job.” Douglas said. “It’s Divine transport.” They’ve been over this already. “I’m not going to ring Fer for you.” That joke had long since its course. Witold chuckled, but it wasn’t funny. The men went back to listening to the news.

‘And the Archdemon announcement?’ The men all looked at each other.

“Excuse me?” Erik asked.

“Do you not watch the news?” Witold asked.

“No.” Douglas said. “Do you?”

Witold’s blank stare was all the answer Douglas needed. No. The man did not watch the news. They turned to Antoni who raised his hands defensively. “I just play music!” He stammered out.

“Ana watches the news.” Douglas said.

“And?”

“I don’t know. She asks me for what I think of specific things as if I had a direct line to Iliyal.”

“You do!” Witold raised his hands.

“Yeah, of course.” Erik said. The captains of the two pilots both turned to Witold and Antoni as they watched faces go pale and eyes go wide. “What?” Witold slowly, as if he was recovering from a flashback, put his hand on top of his head and grabbed his hair.

“On…” Antoni looked to Witold and then back to Erik and Douglas. “On…” He patted his head. Douglas quickly slammed his palm on top of his head. What sort of joke was…

His fingers touched something thin and smooth. Erik copied the movement and grabbed his own head. Both airmen slowly brought the objects to their faces. A feather largely white, but striped from the centre by dashes of black. Something like a zebra pattern that faded away before it touched the edges. Erik held his with a smile as Douglas spun it around once and again. Both men looked up. There was nothing overheard. Not even a cloud. Just a pristine blue sky instead.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Erik whispered, his voice in awe.

“I don’t know.” Douglas replied.

“You’ve not done any reading on them? Not even out of curiosity?”

“On what?”

“What sort of plane do you fly?”

“A Raptor.”

“Mmh.” Erik said. “And what is that feather from?” Douglas blinked at it as his mind put all the points together. What an idiot he was. He turned back to the hangars where the birds were kept.

He could barely get the words out as he saw men a pair of airbase crew in their bright jumpsuits run out. “Don’t tell me.”

The four captains looked around. “Drill?” Antoni asked. Erik hastily lit up another cigarette. Witold pointed a finger.

“Isn’t that your hangar?” Erik and Douglas both turned to look at where their birds were kept. It was smallest hangar on the base, built specifically to house the Raptors and nothing else. As if someone had taken a ugly tin of beans, half-buried it and then scaled it up. The thin aluminium door twisted, buckled and slid off its edges as alarms went off around the base. It smashed into the ground as Douglas watched. What the fuck did the men do now? Repairs on base? What the actual fuck? And then, he felt his breath catch as he saw a yellow tip enter the sunlight.

Slowly, inch-by-inch, Raptor-One drove out. A huge plane of steel with four engines carved into its chassis. A pair of vertical stabilizers on its rear looked like the feathered tip of a tail. It was painted all black, not silver like the modern Imperial Airforce. Supposedly better to blend into the night but as this point, too many images existed online to try and give the plane a new cover. It was too iconic. That sharp point in the front, painted yellow to look like a beak and the red eyes next to the cockpit were on too many bedroom posters. To give it a new coat would be to ruin it. Raptor Two broke down its doorway and slowly followed along. The airbase crew scattered away as men came running with lamps. Guards with rifles aimed blocked the runway. Trucks used to pull airplanes arranged themselves into column to stop any hijackers from taking off. Alarms flared, men shouted, Douglas got to his feet. Who the FUCK was trying to steal his bird?

The red eye of paint turned and looked around. It found it targets. Its beak turned upwards into a smile.

Douglas felt the cigarette slip out of his lips as he realised the eye was looking at him.

The plane started to turn until the spinning autocannon was pointed straight at him.

The cockpit opened by itself.

And Douglas heard the cry of a Raptor inviting him into the pilot’s empty seat.

Divines should not pray. Not necessarily because it wrong nor taboo, it was simply worthless. Olonia took a deep breath. After all, humans prayed to Divines, so who should Divines pray to? Themselves? The Goddess of Lubska got up from her knees and turned north. The desert turned grey, the sky the same. The collapse of the ash generator, as the One-Seventeenth had taken to calling it, had brought down the material in the atmosphere too although the air was not clean by any regard. She took a deep breath and tasted sulphur in the air once again. And again, as her unit marched, she repeated her prayer. Every man in her unit did. She assumed they were doing the same in Epa. She hoped they were. Simple it was: Send something. Send Anything.

Not to Divinity.

Not to Man.

To Empire.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep