There exist other worlds with other sentient beings. It is a blessing in one hand, and a warning on the other. From what has been understood, these worlds stand united and locked into some sort of broiling, battle-less conflict between each other. They are aware of each other’s existence, that is for certain, and they both seem to have agreed that our world is off-limits to their mutual campaign.

On one hand, there is some hope in that. On the other, it is a loss. The threat of either, or of both, would finally be the galvanizing heat that would ensure Ardan unity. Now, we know of their existence, they have expressed harmlessness towards us, far too many of us believe into this idea that their rulership will be ever tolerant of our existence. For that is what it is, they seek no alliance, no cooperation, they merely tolerate being on Arda just as much as we tolerate being confined to their own worlds.

There are others though, such as myself, or Fortia of Peace, or Kassandora of War, who do not believe in this peace they have chosen for us. Whereas no formal has been made yet, the factions of the Reconstruction Authority are slowly beginning to crumble into those who agree with the status quo, those who seek integration, those who stay willingly ignorant at the pair of mountains that have suddenly made our lawn their home, and those of us who see a need for preparation against them.

For they will come, eventually, and I do not know what they shall think of us, but I know how we settle differences between ourselves. We have forever been tempered somewhat, by the fact that we all share the same world. Reducing it to ash would give the winner no prize to seize, any Divines who believed in that idea have been killed off during the Age of Heroes simply for being too much of a danger to Arda itself. Yet that idea was not unique to them, it was just unbound. Those who survived the conflict were those who managed to temper their ambitions with cynicism, with pragmatism, with apathy.

But as thick as the shackles of cynicism, the chains of pragmatism or the bars of apathy are, they are prisons we put ourselves into. If humanity had truly been afraid of extinction and existential threats, they would have killed off every Divine that had the potential to destroy this world based off their mood. The fact that Elassa incarnated at the end of Worldbreaking alone shows that although the human mind said it was tired of conflict, the human soul saw the destruction and said it was bearable.

In some ways, the biggest hindrance to our expansion is certainty that these other planets will treat warfare in the same we treat it. There is no reason to plot imminent assaults on Tartarus or Paraideisius, because we know how the conflict would be treated here:

Arda will belong to us, or there won’t be an Arda to belong to someone.

– Excerpt from the Private Writings of God Arascus, Of Pride. Dated to just after the discovery of Paraideisius and Tartarus in the Reconstruction Era.

Arascus sat on the table in the command tent. Everything was ready at this point. There was nothing else to say, Paida by his side. As did Kassandora, as did some of the local commanders the Goddess of War had brought. On the other side of the tent, a series of screens had been installed on steel scaffolding. They were connected to cameras placed by scouts which filmed Arseille. Everyone had watched Legion enter the city, succubi were circling above it, only a dozen so far but they weren’t to be shot or alerted. The evacuation had been given under the admission that the Empire did not know how to handle Legion. The wording had been that it would be defeated eventually, but that was pure propaganda talk.

The O-Bombs had been kept secret throughout their whole procedure. Uranium had to be disposed off, the tests on the Allian islands were obviously trying to perform something with it, but that was all. The only people in this tent who knew that Arseille would cease to exist within the next twelve hours were Arascus, Kassandora and Paida. The God of Pride turned to the Goddess of Rancais. Ultimately, it was her duty, but ultimately, he would not put her through this. The older types were made of better stock than these younger children. Kassandora would watch it because she enjoyed such destruction, Helenna would watch it to see the sheer obsession humanity was capable of, but Paida? Paida was from the age of Pantheon Peace. “You don’t have to watch it.”

The Goddess of Rancais sat up straighter. Her purple eyes met Arascus’. For a moment, Arascus saw the same resigned fanaticism in them that the commanders of his Imperial Legions had in the Great War. The same madness that began to those afflicted with heroism. A blaze identical to those who saw dragons sore through the sky and declared that those were beasts to be ridden. “I am the Goddess of this land. Do not deny me this responsibility.”

“Never.” Arascus confirmed. He picked up the phone in the middle of the table and rang Central Command. “Green Light on Operation Skyhammer, bring it down.”

For those are our lands.

Captain Deferre pressed a button in the SkyKing and the door shut behind him. He was locked in now, it was just him and Captain Anault, the team in charge of the bomb bay that were finishing the strapping in of the Big Boy and the utter silence. Deferre watched a team of mages spread out over the airfield. SkyKing was the first, SkyQueen would fly behind, the rest of the court would take off. The mages would clear the air, small drones equipped with blinking red lights had already been laid out in long lines along the runway of the Atom Airbase in Norje. The sky here was supposedly clear, but no one was taking any risks.

Eventually, the order came through over the open comms, Mother Hen, as the everyone had taken to calling the woman with the soothing voice in charge of communications. “Mage teams, craft the breach.” That was what they called the walls of clean air that the magicians would create to get rid of the any ash in the atmosphere. The Sky Court would then ascend, fly high, above the cloud layer, where ash did not float, and then they would go the entire way to Rancais and back.

Through the thick glass of the cockpit, between all the blinking lights of the control panels, the endless levers and buttons and gauges and counters, Captain Deferre watched the teams of mages begin to light up. It was a banquet of colours, some white, some blue, red and purple and orange, the whole lot that came from diamond and ruby and topaz and sapphire and amethyst stitched into their battleclothes or affixed to the tips of the staves. Winds did not howl, they rushed past the SkyKing in one moment, then died down. The small drones moved in the air for a moment. Deferre’s headphones buzzed. It wasn’t Mother Hen. “Captain, Big Boy is strapped in for the ride.”

“Roger that.” Deferre replied looked through the cameras into the bomb-bay. There was only one huge, slightly larger than man-sized, sphere with fins attached to one side. A cute girl had been painted on the side last night, winking, sticking her tongue out and giving the middle finger to whoever looked at her. The crew in their were all attached to the rails in the ceiling via cords. A few sat down on the seats provided to them, one of them unscrewed a bottle of water and shared it out.

Mother Hen spoke over the radio again. “Mage Teams report, Breach is stable, drone squads, scout the path.” Deferre looked as men on the grass but on various visors and used small joysticks. The drones, small things with delicate plastic rotors, although that the was the point to test the skies, began to lift off. The ones closest to the runway went only to the height of a barn, the ones furthest away pushed up to be taller than skyscrapers. They marked out the invisible road that the magicians in the air created. That was it. Step One and Step Two was taken. Step Three was Deferre’s to take. He flicked the ignition. The six massive jets of the SkyKing bomber roared as they turned on. Deferre and Anault quickly re-did all the pre-flights checks. There was nothing they lacked. Not even the bottle of whiskey that Anault had stashed into his bag for a celebration shot.

Deferre gave the report. “SkyKing reporting, all checks green.”

“Copy that SkyKing, we’re awaiting permission from Central Command.” The wait took a few minutes. And then. The silence was like an incoming monsoon after a drought. It practically crackled, with energy, Deferre wanted the water to fall, even if it started to flood. Mother Hen finally saved him. “SkyKing, you are cleared for take-off. Clear skies and safe travels to you.”

For those are our skies.

Twelve black planes travelled high above the skies of Epa. Twelve black arrows, six engines each, a huge vertical fin on the back, flying so high that they were little more than specks in the dark. They flew over Norje, over snowcapped mountains dressed in white sheets, somewhat dulled by the dust in Arda’s atmosphere but still shining brightly in the sun. A group of children in gloves and hats and coats and scarves spotted them and paused to watch, talking about aliens and Divines and birds.

And so twelve black planes flew over the ocean that separated Norje from Doschia. The fishing boats and the vessels bringing supplies from Allia to Doschia or vice-versa did not even see them. Captain Deferre adjusted the opacity of the window, it grew darker to cast out the blinding sun. He had forgotten how strongly it could shine this high up. He checked the lights and the gauges and pointed to the fuel gauge on the other side of the cockpit. Anault replied. “Drop tanks third through, we’re on schedule.” Of course they were. There was planning and then there was Imperial planning.

And so twelve black planes flew over Doschia. Over towns and cities and villages. Over ports. Over ships from the Alanktydan fleet that had returned to port and were undergoing repairs. Over highways filled with cars and buses and railways bustling with train after train. Over great skyscrapers and small townhouses and even over the odd abandoned ruin that stood weathered and beaten. Sometimes, someone would spot them when the clouds parted to give way, the birds would look up, curious as to who was invading their kingdom, the animals in the forest would simply keep on trotting past, scavenging for food or for each other.

And so, twelve black planes crossed into Rancais. They flew into the country’s north, where industry chugged onwards, producing ammunition and were temporary camps for the masses of volunteers and drafted conscripts were being organised. Where tanks stood in line, where artillery barrels faced into the air. They passed over rocket launch sites, which were receiving their loads and preparing for the counter-attack that was promised. They flew over the mountains, where dwarven holds now had modern rails and roads running to them. Soldiers whistled, everyone of them knew the silhouettes of the SkyCourt bombers. They had been used in Demonfall, they were displayed in Imperial Propaganda just as much as the Raptors. The long, sleek shafts, the wings, the obvious and unique six-engine set up was a dead-giveaway.

And so, the twelve black planes flew towards Arseille. Over skies now obviously dirty with clouds more grey than white. Over a tent where Arascus, Kassandora, Paida and the local commanders sat. Over lines of soldiers prepared just in case Legion made a pre-emptive move. Over convoys of refugees in traffic jams far away from the city, over trains with conductors that had come in for emergency shifts, over buses in which replacement drivers slept as the first passenger. Over groups making their way through the countryside. And towards a city that had served as the main base of the Western Eparikan Fleet, as a logistical hub for the army, as a home for its residents, as a tourist destination for others, as everything in between. Deferre gave the order. “SkyCourt, this is SkyKing, get into formation and prepare for delivery.”

For that is our sun.

Fer blew a long wolf-whistle as she watched the SkyCourt slowly assemble. Human eyes would see them as mere shapes but here, with the sun setting and out of her peripheral vision, she could make them out perfectly. Even down to the blinking red lights on the tips of their wings and the figures drawn on the sides of the bombers, pretty ladies in scant clothes all. SkyKing took the centre, around him, roughly two miles to each side and then one behind, was the first ring. Two miles further out was the next ring. The ears on top of her head shifted, she bent back awkwardly and found the sound of the engines, it was the marvellous roar of a rolling avalanche in full swing. Rather disappointingly, even her ears were not good enough to listen in on the conversation of the crew.

She watched them fly overhead, then towards Arseille. She stood on a hill far from the city and found a vial of Kavaa’s blood she had saved for a personal occasion. Head tipped pack, the essence of the Goddess of Life entered her and set ablaze in her stomach. If Olephia was anything to go by, this was a fine enough distance. The cameras that had been set up by scouts were even closer than her. The soldiers themselves had descended down to the depths of the valleys, Clerics from the Order of the Bronze Shield had found their first job.

It wouldn’t be a battle though. Fer didn’t focus on the empty city. The succubi had settled in for the night. Legion was still there. She could see parts of its, a demon standing in the middle of a road utterly still, as if it was a statue. No doubt it was watching her too, she made no attempt to hide. Arascus nor Kassandora had not said anything, but if the demon was to remain in the city, then it had to think there was something coming. If Fer let herself get spotted, that was obviously a tell of a counter-blow. It was simple pack tactics, that’s how animals hunted too. Lone wolves would let themselves be seen so that deer ran into the waiting pack.

Her eyes shifted from the pair of fortresses on either side of Arseille’s docks, from its churches and statues and marvellous train station, from its skyscrapers, to the SkyCourt above. She watched the bombers open their bay doors. Inside, men on straps made final calls, a few waved their hands. They stood, they waited. In perfect unison, twelve atomic bombs fell from twelve aircraft.

For those are our stars.

For a moment, Arseille fell silent. The force occupying it looked up at the faint whistling of attack. Fires materialized in the hands of demonesses, ready to counter artillery shell as always. Fer took a step back in the distance and then knelt down on the ground, just behind the crest of the hill she had found. Cameras automatically zoomed in. The SkyCourt began to break formation and make slow turns to either side. The sea breeze still came, the waves still crashed, flags, those that had not been torn down, gave helpless little final waves.

Twelve clicks came, almost in unison, one after another. Arseille truly fell silent then, as eyes grew wide. Legion gazed up, realising this was not just more explosives. Its various members began to spit immediately, to make way for excess fact and ensure its survival. Succubi’s eyes grew wide when they saw the bright flashes of blinding light. This was not just bombs, nor artillery. Fer held her breath. Arascus let his go, everything had gone to plan. And Paida just stared at the screens.

Twelve suns ruptured into existence, in the centre of Arseille, in its district, and then surrounding it. The city was not hit, nor did it rumble and collapse, it simply ceased to exist. Towers fell, cracking from all sides at the forces coming out. Roads cracked and tarmac melted, Legion spat nothing, the sheer heat evaporating its fresh spawn before regrowth even started. The firestorm came soon after, although all it burned was the flattened remains of a city.

Fer took a step back, digging her heels into the ground and stabbing one of her hands into the dirt for even more support as she watched twelve mushrooms clouds slowly form over the ground that once housed Arseille. The sea pulled back and bubbled, then came rushing back in. She had wanted to personally see Legion finally die and inspect the corpses. There would be no corpses after that display. The sky turned black under that new cloud. It coalesced from the twelve individual spires into a single mass that blocked out the stars and the sky and the collar of the sunset entirely, this ash was not Tartarian though. It was Imperial. And it smelled like everything that her father said it would smell like: Victory. Sweet, irradiated, victory.

Paida sat in the tent and finally released her breath. It was done. She had needed to see it. And it was over. It was like cutting off a limb. Putting down an ill dog. Taking a lame horse out of its misery. The funeral would come later, the bandages would be applied. But this was done. It had not been anywhere as bad as she imagined it to be.

Kassandora watched with awe. Rare was it that Warfare so obviously took a step forwards. Rarer still that she was there to see it in real time. But this? This was the weaponry she had always envisioned. Olephia’s monopoly on uncreation had finally been shattered.

And we shall make of them as we see fit.

– ‘Our World’ Written and Published in the EIE Daily, author anonymous.

– – – End of Arc 18: The Final Retreat – – –

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep