-All-out War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Fort Harling


Mitchell, leading Team Alpha—now minus Sabrina, Shepherd, and the two Marines who stayed behind—rushed up the metal stairs of the control building, their boots clanging with each hurried step.

"Move it, move it!" Mitchell barked, his voice urgent but steady. "The guys down there are counting on us!"

The team hustled in silence, their breath heavy and their senses heightened. Bullets ricocheted off the walls nearby, the intensity of the battle growing with every second. As they climbed, Mitchell scanned their surroundings, keeping an eye out for any signs of the enemy.

Reaching the top of the staircase, he paused, gesturing for the team to stack up by the door leading into the control room. He held up three fingers, signaling the countdown.

"Three… two… one…"

Mitchell kicked open the door, and the team stormed inside.

As the door burst open, Mitchell and his team moved with precise, rehearsed fluidity, each Marine knowing their role in clearing the room.

"Osean Marines! Osean Marines! Is someone here?!" the Marine directly behind Mitchell yelled, his voice booming as he stormed in first, the beam of his tactical flashlight cutting through the darkness. His weapon was at the ready, angled slightly downward, ensuring he wouldn't sweep his muzzle over any friendlies.

Mitchell was the second to enter, immediately stepping to the right to cover the blind corner. His HK-416 moved in sync with his body, eyes sharp as he scanned for any signs of movement. His breaths were slow, steady, keeping his nerves calm in the thick tension of the moment.

Another Marine darted in next, peeling left and sweeping his sector with the muzzle of his rifle, his eyes constantly shifting between the darkened corners and potential threats.

The fourth Marine entered, taking position near the entrance, providing overwatch with his rifle trained on the far side of the room.

"Clear right!" Mitchell called, his voice low but confident.

"Clear left!" echoed the Marine at his side, scanning every shadow, every possible hiding spot, keeping his movements deliberate.

The team advanced further into the command room, their steps deliberate, moving as one cohesive unit. One Marine crouched down to check beneath a row of consoles while another approached a large bank of screens, making sure nothing was hidden behind the equipment.

With the main area secure, Mitchell pointed toward a door on the far side of the command room, locking eyes with two of his Marines.

"Go check that door." His voice was steady, yet urgent. The two Marines moved immediately, rifles raised, advancing toward the closed door with the same precision they used to clear the room. One Marine stacked against the frame while the other moved to the handle, preparing for a breach.

Meanwhile, Mitchell and the Erusian Soldier made their way toward the main control panels. The systems had been completely shut down, the room dark and lifeless, a result of the relentless attacks from the UAVs and enemy fighters. Flashes of distant explosions could still be seen outside, reminding them of the chaos beyond the walls.

Mitchell crouched beside the terminal, searching for any way to reboot the system manually. The Erusian, breathing heavily, muttered under his breath in frustration as he fumbled with the unfamiliar technology.

"Come on, come on… there's got to be something," Mitchell whispered, rapidly scanning the control board.

The Erusian soldier, having grown more familiar with the base's equipment over time, found a power switch tucked behind a damaged panel. He yanked the switch and the faint hum of electricity filled the room. Lights flickered on, and the monitors slowly came to life, casting a pale glow over the room.

"That's it, good work." Mitchell nodded to the soldier.

But the battle wasn't over yet—the system had rebooted, but it needed to reinitialize the base's defenses, and there was no telling how much damage had been done. The screens flickered with warnings and alerts, the sheer volume of system failures flashing across the display was staggering.

Mitchell turned to the Erusian soldier, his voice urgent yet controlled. "See if you can get the Gate defenses back online. We need to buy our friends down there some time until the reinforcements from Italica arrive. And see if you can open the Dome to the Gate."

The Erusian gave a quick nod and began working feverishly at the terminal, the sound of rapid typing filling the tense air.

Before Mitchell could refocus, one of the Marines he had sent to check the locked door called out, "Sir! You need to see this!" His tone held urgency, but there was something darker-fear.

Mitchell's stomach tightened as he glanced at the Marine. "What is it now?" he muttered, giving the Erusian soldier a tap on the shoulder before moving to join his Marines.

As he crossed the room and entered the small chamber beyond the door, the sight that greeted him made his blood run cold.

His stomach turned.

Bodies.

The men who should have been manning the consoles-those who had been defending the base from within-were now dead. They lay piled on top of one another, their faces twisted in agony, their eyes wide with the frozen horror of whatever had claimed them.

Their bodies, contorted in unnatural angles, told a story of suffering.

A thick, nauseating stench of death hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of burnt circuitry. The room itself was claustrophobic, amplifying the horror of the scene. Blood splattered across the walls and the faint flicker of broken monitors cast eerie shadows on the lifeless forms.

Mitchell's heart pounded as the reality of the situation hit him like a freight train. His mind, already reeling from the gruesome sight of the dead men, was now racing to comprehend what was happening.

"What the hell...?!" he muttered again, stepping closer. The Marines beside him were tense, weapons raised and ready, scanning the room for threats.

The Marine on his right leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "These cuts... it's like they were thrown into a blender." His words sent a chill down Mitchell's spine.

Suddenly, the eerie silence was shattered by a blood-curdling war cry from one of the dark corners of the room.

"Contact!" Mitchell snapped, his flashlight darting toward the source of the sound just in time to catch a brown blur streaking past them with unnatural speed.

"What the-?!"

The blur shot toward the Erusian soldier, and Mitchell instinctively swung his rifle in the man's direction. But before he could react, the Erusian was clutching his throat, blood pouring from a fresh, deep gash.

"Oh shit! OPEN FIRE!" Mitchell bellowed, his voice booming over the chaos as his instincts kicked in. The other Marines immediately unloaded their rifles, the command room suddenly filled with the deafening sound of gunfire as they tried to track the erratic movement of whatever was attacking them.

Their flashlights barely kept up as another figure, moving impossibly fast, darted between consoles and chairs, using the cover to evade their shots. It was fast, too fast. Bullets ricocheted off metal walls and equipment as the Marines struggled to find their mark.

Mitchell cursed under his breath, his heart racing. He had seen a lot in battle, but nothing like this. The creature was practically a blur, humanoid in shape but moving with an agility and speed that was almost inhuman. Its skin—a Mix of dark green and Black—seemed to blend into the shadows, making it even harder to track.

The Erusian soldier collapsed to the floor, choking on his own blood as his life drained from him. Mitchell barely had time to process it before he saw the creature again, this time lunging toward him with a shining blade outstretched.

Mitchell barely had time to think, let alone react, as he squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of 5.56 rounds into the chest of the creature. The force of the bullets knocked it back with a pained cry as it collapsed to the ground, writhing and clutching the wounds. For a split second, he thought it was over.

"No! Mira!" a female voice rang out from the darkness, sharp and anguished. Mitchell's eyes darted around, trying to locate the source of the voice, but the darkness obscured everything. His confusion deepened-what was going on? These weren't mindless beasts. They communicated. They mourned.

Suddenly, two sickening sounds cut through the room: slashes followed by gurgling. Mitchell whipped around in horror to see his two young Marines lying on the floor, their throats slashed open, eyes wide in shock. Blood pooled around their lifeless bodies, glistening under the dim lights.

"Shit... no!" he growled, grief momentarily flashing through his mind, but there was no time to process it.

Another warcry erupted, this time from behind him. Instinctively, he tensed and spun around just in time to barely dodge the gleaming blade aimed directly at his head.

The assailant—a shadowy figure moving with terrifying speed—was on him. Though Mitchell managed to evade the full strike, the tip of the blade grazed his neck, sending a hot sting of pain through his body.

Before he could catch his breath, the creature lunged again, faster this time. Mitchell, acting purely on instinct, raised his rifle to block the incoming blade. The impact reverberated through his arms, but he managed to hold the weapon in place, preventing the blade from cleaving through him.

However, the creature was relentless. It followed up with a vicious kick to his gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling backward. He crashed onto the cold floor, his rifle still in hand but the creature now on top of him, straddling him as it pressed down with the blade.

The creature's face was twisted with rage, its eyes gleaming with a terrifying intensity as it pushed with all its might, trying to plunge the blade into Mitchell's face. Mitchell's strength was fading, his muscles screaming in pain as he used both hands to hold the rifle horizontally, blocking the creature's arm. But the pressure was relentless-the blade inched closer, the cold steel reflecting his wide-eyed panic.

"Fuck... FUCK!" Mitchell cursed, his voice strained and desperate as the blade came closer and closer, inching toward his face.

He was running out of time. The creature, though thin and fragile-looking up close, had immense strength, far greater than its appearance suggested. Mitchell's arms trembled, every muscle in his body straining to hold the blade at bay. He could feel his strength ebbing, the weight of the creature overwhelming him.

"Svetoshumovaya Granata!" came a voice from the main entrance where Mitchell and his now fallen Marines and Erusian comrade had entered.

Before he could fully process what was happening, he heard something clang against the concrete floor. A split second later, a loud bang echoed through the room, and the flash temporarily blinded him. The creature on top of him-now crying out in agony-clutched its ears, clearly in pain. Only then did Mitchell notice the distinctive bunny ears twitching in agony.

But there was no time to consider this detail; he needed to act. Fast.

"Davai, davai,davai!" the same voice yelled from outside, urgency clear in their tone. The language was familiar to Mitchell, but in the heat of the moment, he couldn't quite place it.

With a last-ditch effort, Mitchell pushed up hard with his rifle, knocking the knife out of the bunny girl's grasp. Seizing the opportunity, he quickly pulled his M-9 bayonet, grabbed the girl by her collar, and turned the tables, flipping her beneath him. Now it was his blade pressed against her throat.

"Move, and you'll be a head shorter," he growled, his voice filled with cold determination.

"Nazemlyu, blyat! Davai!" another voice shouted. Mitchell's head snapped around, and he saw soldiers, clad in EMR camo, storming into the room, weapons trained on him and the girl beneath him. AK-15s and AK-12s gleamed in their hands, their eyes locked on the scene.

Mitchell froze—Yuktobanian soldiers. His mind raced. What were they doing here? And how had they come through the Gate?

Before he could even begin to piece it all together, the sound of boots clattering against the concrete echoed around him. From the group, a figure stepped forward—presumably their leader. His AK-15 was held in a low-ready position, eyes focused, but not hostile.

"Kapitan Mitchell?" the man asked, his thick Yuktobanian accent rolling through the room.

Mitchell, still catching his breath, nodded. "Yeah," he replied, panting heavily, his grip on the bayonet still firm against the Bunny girl's throat.

The Yuktobanian officer's gaze softened slightly as he saw the situation for what it was. He lowered his rifle and turned to his men, barking orders in their native tongue.

"Relieve the man and secure her!" he commanded, gesturing toward the dazed Bunny girl on the ground. She was still reeling from the effects of the flashbang, disoriented and unable to resist.

Two soldiers immediately moved in, pulling the girl from beneath Mitchell's grip and restraining her with swift, efficient movements. Mitchell stood up slowly, watching them work, his mind still spinning with unanswered questions.

The Yuktobanian leader strode confidently toward Mitchell, extending his hand.

"Komandir Dmitry Volkov, 37th Yuktobanian VDV, Paratrooper regiment. I assume you are Kapitan Mitchell from the Osean Marines?" Volkov's voice was calm but commanding. It was only then that Mitchell noticed the distinct blue-striped shirt beneath Volkov's EMR camo combat top—a telltale sign of the VDV.

Mitchell, still catching his breath, grasped Volkov's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"Yes… Captain John Mitchell, Osean Marine Raiders," he replied, dusting himself off and stretching out his arm, trying to regain his composure.

Mitchell couldn't help but ask, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Excuse me, Commander, but how the hell did you get through the Gate? And how on earth did you manage to move President Palmer to let you through?"

Volkov gave a slight grin, nodding slightly as if expecting the question. "We are here on behalf of Prime Minister Boris Zhukov. After we received the news of one of our citizens perishing during the chaos, the uproar back home was immense. The people of Yuktobania demanded a response. So, Zhukov made the call. He sent us—a regiment strong—through the Gate with a dozen BTRs, BMPTs, and a couple of T-14s. We linked up with the defenders of Fort Harling and helped repel the invasion."

Mitchell listened intently, processing the rapid turn of events. Volkov continued, his voice steady and firm, "As of now, my men are conducting search and rescue operations around the fort, but the situation remains tense. We've secured key points, but there's still a lot of ground to cover."

Mitchell nodded slowly, still absorbing the sheer scale of the operation. "T-14s…" he muttered to himself, realizing the firepower the Yuktobanians had brought with them. This wasn't just a mission for show—they were here to fight and win.

"Then I have to thank you, Commander," Mitchell said, giving Volkov a firm tap on his shoulder, a gesture of mutual respect.

Volkov shook his head slightly, a somber expression crossing his face. "Niet… don't thank me," he replied, his voice softer now, his eyes turning toward the fallen Erusian soldier being gently placed into a body bag by teo of the Yuktobanian VDVs. "Thank him," Volkov continued, nodding toward the body. "He opened the Dome just in time for us to enter and bring reinforcements."

Mitchell's gaze followed Volkov's gesture, a wave of quiet respect passing over him. The Erusian soldier had made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure their defense.

Mitchell swallowed, his throat tightening. "He… saved us all," he muttered, nodding at the body, feeling the weight of loss but also the debt owed to the Erusian who had given his life for their cause. The reality of this battle—the cost of it—was hitting him harder now.


Fort Harling, Airfield


Outlaw, the Apache detachment stationed at the base, had just completed their final pre-flight checks. The rotors began to spin, whipping up dust and debris around the airfield. A total of six AH-64 Apaches were about to lift off, split into three groups of two. Each pilot knew their mission: provide immediate air support for the embattled ground forces. The order came directly from Colonel McKinsey, as the base's ATC tower had been destroyed in the chaos when UAVs, once used for reconnaissance and surveillance, crashed into it like kamikaze drones.

With the ATC down, communication was running through backup channels. The wreckage of the tower was a grim sight, flames still licking at the remains, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding hangars and barracks, which had also been bombed and obliterated. The base had taken a brutal beating—enemy bombs and UAVs seemed to be striking everywhere, sowing destruction and panic among the soldiers scrambling for cover.

The MLAD and DEAD turrets, stationed across the base, had initially sprung to life, spitting tungsten rounds and laser beams into the sky, tearing through anything that dared approach. But just as suddenly as they had engaged, they went silent, their weapons inexplicably shutting down. No one on the ground could explain why the defense systems had stopped firing. A mechanical failure? A hack? Sabotage? The thought of being defenseless sent a ripple of dread through the troops.

As soon as the turrets ceased their protective fire, enemy planes swooped down, taking full advantage of the vulnerability. Bombs rained down on hangars, planes, and soldiers alike, ripping through steel and flesh with equal disregard. The base, once a bastion of strength, now looked like a war zone as fires spread and debris flew.

Then came the UAVs.

The very drones they had used for ISR and base defense had been turned against them. Weaponized UAVs flew overhead, dropping bombs and strafing the ground with machine gun fire. Soldiers who once relied on those eyes in the sky were now running for cover, as the same UAVs unleashed chaos and destruction upon them.

As the Apaches of Outlaw began to lift off, their mission was clear: reclaim the skies and push back the relentless assault before Fort Harling was reduced to ashes. Each pilot knew that the survival of the base now rested, in part, on their shoulders. The moment they were airborne, they would have to face an enemy that had already dealt devastating blows—but they were ready for a fight.

"This is Outlaw 1-1, pre-flight checks complete and ready to take off," the female Apache pilot's voice came through the radio, calm and composed, a cold resolve in her tone. The mission was clear, and she was ready.

"Outlaw, this is McKinsey. You have permission to take off and support the Northern Gate of the base," McKinsey's voice crackled back through the comms, his usual authoritative tone even more urgent given the dire situation.

"Wilco. Outlaw 1-1 will engage with 30 mike mike and missiles, providing CAS for the Northern Gate," she confirmed, already lining up her targets mentally. Her hands were steady on the controls as the rotors spun faster, the Apache ready to leap into action.

"1-1, this is 2-1, we'll also engage with the 30 mike mike and 70 mike mike rockets," came the voice of the second lead pilot. His tone was sharp, focused, as he and his wingman prepared to cover the infantry below.

"This is 2-1, 2-2 and I will engage as tank hunters with all Hellfires," the third Apache squadron lead called, a confident edge in his voice. The Hellfire missiles would be crucial in taking out the heavy armor pushing toward the base.

"Here 3-1, we'll mop up anything that stays alive," the fourth voice chimed in, a little grimmer, knowing their role was to finish what the others started, ensuring no enemy forces remained to threaten the gate.

"This is 3-2, copy that 3-1," came the final voice, locking into the plan.

As the six Apaches lifted off one by one, the formation quickly split into their designated roles, each team prepared to rain down hell on the enemy forces threatening to overrun Fort Harling's defenses. The rotors thumped louder as they ascended, and the pilots could already see the chaos below. The Northern Gate had become a warzone, and it was now their turn to tip the scales back in the defenders' favor.

As the Apaches of Outlaw approached the northern half of Fort Harling, the scene below was nothing short of devastation. The once-proud radar towers had collapsed, twisted remnants of steel pointing jaggedly towards the sky like grotesque sculptures. Transmission towers lay in tangled heaps, their structures buckled under the relentless assault. The battlefield was littered with the smoking wrecks of both Abrams and Leclerc tanks, the hulking giants of the Osean and Erusian defense forces now reduced to charred, lifeless shells.

Scattered across the field were the bodies of soldiers, fallen in the line of duty. Amid the ruins, a small, beleaguered group of Osean and Erusian soldiers had hunkered down at the Northern Gate, desperately clinging to their last line of defense. They were positioned behind sandbags, Hesco barriers, and the shattered remains of the concrete wall that once encircled the base. The advancing US forces, though relentless, were now beginning to retreat over the distant Romaria Mountain range, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

The sight stirred something fierce in the Apache pilots, their resolve hardening as they flew over the devastation.

"Outlaw, this is Basilisk 0-2, do you have eyes on us?" Nantz's voice crackled through the radio, filled with a mix of exhaustion and determination. His unit had been holding the gate for what felt like an eternity, and they were barely holding on.

"Confirming visual to Basilisk 0-2," Outlaw 1-1 responded coolly, her gaze locked on the scene below, her fingers tightening around the controls. "Give us targets."

Nantz, hunkered down behind a Hesco barrier, peered through his scope, scanning the distance for any sign of the remaining US forces.

"Copy that, Outlaw," Nantz called back, his voice firm. "We've got enemy infantry in retreat, just beyond the gate, and some APCs still holding the ridgeline. Hit 'em hard before they regroup."

Outlaw 1-1's targeting systems locked onto the coordinates Nantz had relayed. "Roger. Engaging now," she called out as she swung her Apache into position.

"Outlaw 2-1 engaging APCs with Hellfires," came another voice through the radio, the second group of Apaches already aligning for their strike.

The Apaches swooped in low over the battered northern gate, their 30mm chain guns spinning up with a thunderous roar. Hellfire missiles streaked through the air, screaming toward their targets on the ridgeline. The US APCs had barely any time to react before the missiles struck, sending fiery explosions rippling across the mountainside. The shockwave echoed back toward the base, a final punctuation to the chaos of the battle.

Below, Nantz and the remaining soldiers could see the tide turning as the Apaches rained fire down on the retreating US forces. With the relentless attack from above, the remaining US troops had no choice but to continue their withdrawal, the helicopters' presence ensuring that they wouldn't be coming back anytime soon.

"Gunner, AP, Tank!" Harris shouted as his eyes locked onto the faint silhouette of a US Abrams tank, its barrel poking through the dense smoke screen it had deployed earlier to evade the laser locks from the Apaches above.

"Identified!" Tarry replied quickly, adjusting the sights and locking onto the Abrams, his focus razor-sharp.

"Fire!" Harris ordered without hesitation.

"On the way," Tarry confirmed, pulling the trigger. With a deafening crack, the railgun discharged, sending the tungsten projectile hurtling toward the Abrams at a staggering speed of Mach 8. The projectile tore through the heavy armor of the US tank like it was paper, leaving a gaping hole where its turret once was.

"Target destroyed. Cease fire." Harris barked, already scanning for the next threat.

"Up!" Andreas shouted from the back as he slammed another shell into the breach, his movements smooth and practiced from years of experience.

Harris allowed himself a brief, satisfied nod. The decision to stick with a manual loader, despite the growing trend of auto-loaders in modern tanks, had been a gamble. But McOnnie had listened, and Harris couldn't have been more grateful. Andreas' speed and precision in reloading had proven invaluable in the chaos of battle.

"Outlaw, Outlaw, this is Iron Horse-1. Do you guys see anything from up there? Smoke screens are blocking our vision, and thermals can't get through," Harris called over the radio, frustration edging into his voice as the battlefield below became shrouded in confusion.

"Iron Horse-1, this is Outlaw 2-1. I've got eyes on enemy armor, but we've got a problem—we don't have enough Hellfires on board to take out every single one of them," the Apache pilot replied, his voice steady yet filled with the reality of their limited firepower as he circled above Harris' tank.

"Roger, 2-1, lase the targets, and we'll engage as well. But be advised, we've got about a dozen shells left at best." Harris gritted his teeth, knowing that even their powerful railgun couldn't handle an endless wave of armor.

"Driver, push through the smoke screen!" he ordered, determined to press forward.

Before they could move, another voice cut in, clear and commanding: "Iron Horse-1, fall back to the base's perimeter." The new voice belonged to AWACS Longcaster. "The order comes from the big man himself. You'll need those shells if these guys try anything else," Major Friedland continued, making it clear that conserving ammunition was now the priority.

Harris nodded grimly, realizing the wisdom behind the order. "Understood, Longcaster. We're rolling back." He switched back to his internal comms. "Driver, turn around. We're RTB."

Lucas, the driver, didn't hesitate, pulling the tank into a sharp turn, the treads grinding against the torn-up ground as they maneuvered back toward the base perimeter. Harris glanced out of the hatch, watching as the smoke swirled around them, knowing that if there would be a next wave of battle, it could end up being even more brutal.

"All stations, this is Longcaster." The AWACS operator's voice rang out over the comms, steady and resolute, cutting through the static and battlefield noise. "The skies are clear, and enemy ground units are falling back. We have successfully repelled the enemy assault, but not without paying a heavy cost."

There was a brief pause, a moment of reflection for those listening, as the toll of the battle weighed on everyone. The silence spoke louder than any words could.

"Let's make sure that our comrades have not perished for nothing." Longcaster's voice hardened, filled with determination. "We will bring the fight to them. We will not stop. We will end this."

The soldiers on the ground and in the air felt a renewed sense of purpose. Despite the destruction, despite the losses, Longcaster's words reignited their will to fight. The battle wasn't over—not by a long shot.


-All-out War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Alnus Hill


Japanese Engineers worked tirelessly to keep the old F-4 Phantoms, gifted by the Department of Defense, in fighting shape. Their constant vigilance ensured that if the situation demanded it, they could scramble at a moment's notice. But none of them expected the day when US fighters, battered and bruised, would come landing on their airfield, uninvited.

Among the returning aircraft were a total of four F-16s, seven F-15s, and two F-22 Raptors—a fraction of the over forty planes that had been sent out for the major assault. The assault itself had been brutal, with waves of US fighters launching strikes against the Osean/Erusian Base. Many had been lost in the ensuing chaos when hhe Base's defenses had started firing, destroying a great chunk of the initial air assault force. Then the compromised UAVs had silenced the dangerour Railgun and Laser defensive systems, giving the US Fighters and Bombers the air they needed. Then that F-15 appeared and the skies of Falmart became a proving ground for legends.

The Japanese had distanced themselves from the US offensive. Lieutenant General Hazama had made it crystal clear that Japan wanted no part in the US's thirst for war and conquest. Alnus Hill was no staging ground for this bloodthirsty endeavor.

Instead, the US had chosen Sadera as their main staging area, where an airfield had been constructed just outside the city's imposing walls. Rondel, the famed magic city, served as the secondary staging area. Known for its prestigious magical academies, Rondel was also home to numerous temples dedicated to the gods that had a tangible influence on the world. These gods, through their Apostles—or Demi-Gods—held real power, shaping events and destinies across the land.

It was from Rondel's newly constructed airfield that the US had launched their F-22 squadron for their ill-fated assault. But what they hadn't anticipated was encountering Three Strikes, the legendary ace whose reputation now spanned even into other worlds. That squadron, like many before, had been decimated by the infamous pilot, leaving only wreckage and whispers of his prowess in the skies.

Now, with their remaining aircraft limping back to Alnus, the US forces were a shadow of what they once were. The morale of the US pilots had dwindled the moment the first F-22 was downed by Three Strikes. His assault had been relentless, his skill unmatched—swooping in like a shark circling its prey, sizing them up before striking with deadly precision.

Each strike was calculated, each maneuver performed with a chilling level of expertise. He seemed to dance among the chaos, turning the sky into his hunting ground. The US pilots, once confident in their F-22 Raptors and advanced technology, were reduced to scrambling for survival. They had been trained for countless scenarios, but nothing could have prepared them for a foe like this.

As the remaining planes touched down at Alnus, the weight of their defeat hung heavy in the air. The once-unshakable belief in their superiority had been shattered, replaced with fear and uncertainty. They had faced an enemy beyond their comprehension—a force that seemed more like a myth than a man.

The US pilots exited their planes in a daze, the weight of their defeat hitting them like a tidal wave. Some collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by the crushing realization that half of their assault force had been decimated within moments—first by the base's relentless defenses, and then, shockingly, by one single pilot.

A few stumbled forward, unable to process the scale of their losses, while others completely lost their composure, anger boiling over as they tore off their helmets and hurled them against the ground, the force of the impact shattering the visors. Their frustration and disbelief filled the air, a stark contrast to the silence that now hung over the airfield.

The fearsome F-22 Raptors, which had once been seen as invincible, now felt like nothing more than fragile steel coffins. The myth of the Three Strikes that AWACS was talking about over open channel had become all too real, and the surviving pilots couldn't escape the haunting truth—they had been outmatched and outgunned by a legend who seemed to defy the very limits of combat.

There was no rallying cry, no words of encouragement, only the crushing realization that the skies they once commanded had been reclaimed by a single man, and that man had torn through them like a storm.

The US pilots, now back on familiar ground, recounted their harrowing experiences in interviews, each trying to make sense of the chaos they had faced in the skies above Fort Harling.

"It was pure chaos out there," one pilot began, his voice still shaky from the ordeal. "My wingman, who I was just laughing with not even half an hour ago, got blown apart by something… Their base defenses… they aren't from this world. Planes were just exploding out of nowhere. Others got their wings sliced off, like a laser had cut through them."

He paused, his eyes distant, as if replaying the events in his mind. "Fortunately, we managed to capture some enemy UAVs by hacking into their systems. But the UAVs they deployed… they looked like our RQ-170 Sentinels, but these things were way more agile, loaded with weaponry, and completely stealthy."

"Then you crashed the UAVs into their targets?" one of the interviewers asked, leaning forward.

"Yeah," the pilot nodded. "We crashed them into radar towers and other key targets. For a while, it seemed like things were going well. Their defenses went silent… But then…" He trailed off, his face tightening as he remembered. "Then, this massive explosion rocked everything, both on the ground and in the air. It was a thermobaric warhead, no doubt, and it wiped out our ground forces near their walls. And that's when it came."

The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "What came?"

"A… F-15 with canards," the pilot said quietly, as if uttering the words would bring the nightmare back. "But not just any F-15. This one had thrust vectoring, and it started decimating us. In the air, on the ground—it didn't matter. It tore through our forces. Our comms were filled with pilots screaming for help as their planes were picked apart by that… thing. I don't even think the plane was manned. The maneuvers it was pulling—no human could have survived the G-forces, but it kept coming, picking us off one by one."

The interviewer leaned in, skeptical but intrigued. "And what about the F-22s? Surely the Dicemen would have been able to handle it."

A hollow laugh escaped the pilot. "We thought the same thing. The F-22s were in stealth mode. We all thought that would be the end of it. But… to our shock and horror, they were detected."

"Detected? But that's impossible," the interviewer shot back. "The F-22s were flying in stealth mode. No radar could pick them up at that range."

The pilot shook his head, his expression grim. "They were. Their AWACS was on open comms, warning this pilot in his experimental F-15. And then… one by one… he picked them off. From the seven F-22s that engaged, only two made it back."

The interviewer leaned back, stunned. "Wait a second. You said the F-15 had canards? You mean like the one NASA used for experiments? The NASA 837?"

"Yes, exactly! But this guy… this Three Strikes… he had thrust vectoring, making him even more agile than the F-22s. He was unstoppable." The pilot's voice trailed off again, a haunted look in his eyes. "I've never seen anything like it. I don't think anyone has."

The room fell silent as the weight of the pilot's story hung in the air, the reality of what they had faced sinking in. "Three Strikes wasn't just a pilot. He was a force of nature." The Pilot repeated in a low voice, the same thing the enemy AWACS said.


A/N:

I think i've never had a fighting scene stretch over this many chapters and well over 30 k words. I'm really proud of myself lmao. And yeah sorry if this Chapter had a little to much Dialogue but this is like the Epilogue to the All-out-War Arc. Now comes the next one. Minor clashes between US and Strangereal forces until they're pushed back through the Gate. And the Yuks joined the fray!! Now we'll see what the Soviet/Russian Military would have looked like if they hadn't had Corruption fuck up their Military like we're seeing it at Ukraine and how we've seen it back in Chechnya. Anyways, have a great one guys.

Reviews:

I want to Apologies that I hadn't replied to the reviews in the last Chapter but I wanted to keep it Poetical with Longcasters speech lmao

-OGeNoXO—I actually didn't think anyone would catch on to it xD Glad you've noticed it lmao

-palik—Brotha! You're jumping to far ahead xD. Hang on a second will ya, stop spoiling them readers alrigh

-Wing Zero 032—The man! The legend! He is back!! i thought you where dead mate xD. Anyways, I completely understand taht life can be a Bitch sometimes, I am not spared from it trust me bro and I am glad you've read them all. You my friend are a true supporter and I am glad to have you take the time of your day to write these reviews! Thanks brotha.

They lost 5 actually from a total of seven. Don't ask me why I picked seven it was the first number that came to my mind lmao. But yeah, the loss of 5 or 6 dosen't matter essentially since it's a punch to the face for the US troops.

Yeah no... The Strangereal World has more Aces than some countries in our world have planes. And With Trigger kickin in the door to the Air Battle for Falmart more Pilots will be send by both sides and shits gonna escalate and the Belkan Sorcery/ Space Magic will play a huge roll in this "Minor" Conflict.

And I don't want to jump to far ahead with this reply regarding the Rosa-Belka dilemma since it will play a major roll in our Main Protagonists life.

And regarding the now destroyed XFA-22 I made up... yeah... I got one or two "Hate" messages about not Giving Trigger the Wyvern or the Morgan... with "Hate" I mean they bitched about it until they read the Kamikaze Chapter lmao... they where silenced really fucking quick.

-Guest-Comona—You probably just wrote the most accurate summary of this story lmao